The Prodigy

Charles Avery studied with me at the now razed 369 Gallery in Edinbugh. He was 18. I met him because he had drawn a portrait of a girl I was bedding, who was renting a bedsit in the attic of his father's house. The girl was German, a fashion student, spoke very little English and was breathtakingly beautiful. I was invited to teach by the town's godfather of art Andrew Brown - a Warholesque character who attracted the most eccentric and excellent people from around the globe to his 3-storey palace of iniquity and who held legendary parties brimming with champagne and caviar smuggled from St Petersburg. Anyway, Charlie came to me to learn how to paint and I taught him all I knew, which he grasped in weeks and with nauseating ease, then I told him to go away and just draw as his talent was remarkable and he would grow simply by persistence. In truth he was better than anyone out there who may have resorted to teaching; he wanted to go to art school and I advised him not to (for that very reason). I think he went to Goldsmiths or St Martins anyway (for a while). He was a prodigy. A natural genius. And I am deeply happy to see he has improved and not devolved to producing self-indulgent crud.

The indomitable Jeff Battersby

Please look at this website - jeffbattersby.blogspot.com - here are 31 outstanding paintings by a former student of mine who lived here in Bangkok for a while. This is a painter to watch, new to the craft but bringing with him the advantage of life's experiences, a deftness of stroke, strong composition and refined sense of hue.

Oil on paper, study 4

Oil on paper, study 3

Oil on paper, study 2

Oil on paper, study 1

Spring and hot tea.

I painted this when I was 22 years old. It was early spring and the sun was warm though I still recall the tips of my fingers were chilled by the evaporating turpentine as they clasped my #12 filbert. The canvas was 5' by 4' and I completed it in about 4 hours, chasing the light and aching for the reward of a pot of hot tea. I sold it a month later at a group exhibit on Long Island. Great memories. There was still an element of the experimental in every piece, never quite sure of the outcome, always excited by the end result but perpetually frustrated by the nuances I had failed to capture. Every painting was an opportunity to improve, discover that new twist of color or stumble on how subtle pressures could perfect even my hundredth-thousand brushstroke.

Rosie

Rosie has a pleasing methodical approach to her work, which she executes with intensive, unwavering focus. She has all the makings of an artist, she simply has to devote the time and the recognition that there are no boundaries to her imagination. Once realized, her hand and eye will follow and the range of her potential will unravel exponentially.

Maria

This was painted by one of my students, Columbian beauty and ethereal being Maria Samper. Sadly she has just parted these tropical climes for the Pacific Northwest but I am hopeful she will continue to be inspired by her inner machinations, full of vibrant symbolism and a profound sense of her cultural identity. Viaje con seguridad mi alma emparentada!

A crushing blow

My grandfather used to keep thoroughbreds and had a very good anatomical understanding of horses. In 1940 he was commissioned by Walter Farley to illustrate the first Black Stallion novel (published in 1941), which he did entirely from his memory and imagination, wonderful illustrations full of animation and heart that went on to fuel countless young people in their obsession for horses. He showed me his original illustrations which I studied for hours, marveling at the fluidity of his brush and ink and wishing I had half his talent. A few years later I painted this at the Hampton Classic horseshow on Long Island, and finally felt I understood his verve albeit never quite able to match the magic in his brush. What few people knew is that Keith's right hand was crushed and burned by a vacuum moulding machine when he worked as a designer for children's halloween masks at Topstone Industries in Connecticuit during the 50's. He and my grandmother were living in a basement apartment at the time and the night before the accident he dreamed that something was scratching at the open window above, as he reached to close it something hideous grabbed his hand and chewed at it, he awoke screaming! His hand was rebuilt through numerous operations but never really acquired total functionality. He would laugh at how surgeons had crossed his nerves and that he could feel sensations in his thumb if you pinched his pinky. This always confirmed for me that the art spirit is born in the heart and mind, not in our fingers.

Amnesia

To paint water you must be able to see abstractly. Turn off the literal tendencies of your mind. See it as a mosaic of shapes and patterns that cleverly knit together. Even reflected objects are not recognisably mirrored in anything but the calmest water surface because the tiniest disturbance will distort and play with the forms. Water is excellent to paint because it forces us to really look at our subject - all too often when we paint an object we look at it then turn to our canvas and paint our preconceived idea of that object. Case in point - when we look at a very familiar object like an apple we will then turn away and paint the image of "apple" that is imprinted on our mind since childhood. How many of us really see the object as it is. We have to abandon all preconceptions and view our surroundings as though we have never seen them before, as though we have just arrived from outer space or woken from a coma with amnesia. When you begin to paint, look at everything as though you are seeing it for the first time then you will capture it's likeness. Live everyday like this and you will be perpetually in awe at the phenomena's that surround you and which you have long taken for granted.

A new path.

When photography became popular for advertisements in the 1950's many illustrators were robbed of the work they had enjoyed for decades. These were tough times for American commercial artists. Keith turned to portraiture, and being naturally adept he made a good living. He was also very charming and witty - in that true Jimmy Stewart oldschool American way - it's rare to meet people of that caliber any more, we've become homogenized and diluted by TV, fast food and cheap goods. But Keith grew up on the dirt highways of the American West, his father was a half-Iroquois itinerant photographer who documented Indians and settler-life but made bread & butter from photographing weddings and events and the newly successful across the plains. The family would take a train to a town and rent a horse and wagon for a fortnight as they shuttled from homestead to homestead fulfilling photographic commissions. He told me one story where his father had forgotten to remove the plate from the camera after photographing a rancher's herd of cattle, then, going on to photograph the rancher's family. The resulting print showed cattle and family all huddled together with livestock peering over the shoulders of the people, however the rancher loved it and ordered a dozen prints. Keith and his brother barely saw the inside of a classroom but watched America go from dirt roads to space travel over the course of his life. He was in awe over this. Later in life as his eyesight began to fail his painting became increasingly impressionistic and finally almost abstract. When I asked how he felt about this he replied "Good, I rely less on the sight of my eyes and more on the vision of my heart".

Reynard

This is an illustration done by my grandfather - Keith Ward - for a children's book entitled Reynard the Fox by Harry J. Owens. Published in 1945 some claim the illustrations were inspiration for Disney's Robin Hood, I'm inclined to agree. He was one of the most versatile artists, a true rennaissance man, and my teacher and Sifu. His versatility and range denied him public fame because he couldn't be pigeon-holed like other illustrators of his era, but he was a very modest man and would not have cared for too much adulation. His love was his art. He told me once that if he lived for a million years he doubted he would ever stop learning. All I learned as an artist I essentially learned from him. Art school was a waste, I can admit that now. What I didn't acquire from his instruction directly I absorbed through osmosis. What I know subsequently came from the application of his wisdom and years of experimentation and hard work. If you want to learn how to paint find the best illustrator out there and beg them to let you sit in the corner as they work, gently cajole them to throw you the odd tidbit as it comes to mind, to vocalize thoughts as they arise...this is how you'll learn. Illustrators are the best technicians, you will learn all you need to know about painting from the tiniest vocalized morsels emanating from amidst the extraordinarily noisy workings of their brilliant minds.