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When you don’t need an answer, there’ll be days like this...Van Morrison
Its Easter already and summer draws to a close. All over our beloved land, people are getting the last of the sun-laden days as the light throws longer and deeper shadows. In a day or two the rain will cascade gently down, signalling the start of the dreaded Cape winter. So if you have the good fortune to live close to a beach, why wouldn’t you grab your painting gear and give it a go? Avoiding the crowds on Grotto beach, I sneak off to a secret cove nearby. I’m teaching myself to be a plein-air painter, not with much success. But if you go through the motions enough, something is bound to happen, right? I also have Project Cleo underway. That is, I’m training a six-month-old pup to be an artist’s dog. Following after Lulu, the mighty Africanis, who left us in 2023, Cleo has big shoes to fill.
Cleo as an artist’s dog should be: restfully guarding the easel.
It only takes an hour or two of manic activity for Cleo to settle into this role. She greets and plays with everyone, but hey, she’s a teenager. Disapproving looks are often cast my way as she heads off down the beach to taunt other dogs and steal children’s playthings. While painting at the secret cove, she casually went for a walk to Voelklip with complete strangers. Then she launched herself into the surf in a failed attempt to get at some gulls sitting on the rocks. I pictured myself waist-deep in the icy waters, dragging her out. Generally though, it’s a win for both of us as she gets to have a good romp while I do a bit of distracted daubing.
The gear I bring with me has to be as light and portable as possible : aluminium camera tripod, five tubes of paint, a small 6 x 8 inch canvas panel and a small bottle of linseed oil. All set up and ready to paint, I found that I was lighter than I wanted- I’d forgotten my brushes. There was a palette knife at the bottom of the bag, and I proceeded to lather on the paint as if I was mini Frank Auerbach. By accident I was now avoiding my usual vice of using the small brush way too early. Once back in the studio, I added a touch here and there, trying not to kill the spontaneity of the first marks. Now I have something to look at. In the life of an artist, there are very few giant leaps or great breakthroughs. It is a slow, varying, incremental journey, by no means guaranteed to succeed. Each painting poses a new set of questions. Van Morrison is onto something there – why not give up the need for an answer? Just get into the sunlight and enjoy the process. On days like this.
People often ask me what kind of work I do as a painter. I usually just say I’m a landscape painter. Everyone has some notion of what that is, and indeed I do paint landscapes. But I also paint things that are renderings of ideas, and these two things, being a painter of the thing seen, and being a painter of the thing imagined, are two poles of my artistic life. I veer between them. I spent the first half of the year working out various “idea” paintings – and now I need to have a good look at the great outdoors again.
I’m at the water’s edge, and huge winter clouds hang moodily over Walker Bay. It’s late afternoon and the light is beautiful. As the sun goes lower, all sorts of pink and yellow hues will permeate sky and ocean, presenting immense and daunting possibilities for the humble painter.
I’ve been looking at stuff in Hermanus for well over a decade. I go most evenings and do a quick drawing or a watercolour, the trusty Africanis hound by my side. We have our favourite spots on the beach or along the cliff path.
These are sketchbooky things, and truth be told, we are nothing like Mr Monet, who laboured incessantly in the wind and rain, “clad like the men of the coast, covered in sweaters, boots, and wrapped in a hooded slicker, his easel tied down with ropes and stones.”
No, we often just park out in the cosy cabin of my 2006 Nissan X Trail. I can see plenty of stuff from there, thank you very much.
But today I’m outside, on the fabulous Cliff Path, and I’m using oil paints, pretending to be a plein – air painter. (“en Plein air “- the French term denoting working outdoors. It just sounds arty .)
I set myself up and without too much scratching of the head, I get going. I have a piece of cardboard to paint on. That’s my way of overcoming the fear of the pristine canvas. Cardboard is actually a great surface to work on – ask Simon Stone. I meet a photographer called Leanne Stander and next thing she ‘s photographing the artist at work. Then a wandering Spanish bloke also has to take a pic. Why? Did he think he was seeing a great artist at work? Or did he perhaps think he had come across something rather quaint and antiquated, like a model T Ford ? Suddenly my quiet little Sunday afternoon oil-painting experiment is becoming a performance. Help! I’m under scrutiny!
Soon, however, it’s just me staring towards Gansbaai, trying to figure out those shades of aquamarine in the rapidly-changing light.
The cloud on the horizon gets steadily closer, and I pull out a little 15 x 30 cm canvas panel, putting down some dashes of colour as the rain drifts in. Suddenly I’m having a true plein-air moment: wet paint all over the show, rain dripping from the brim of my hat, gathering together my stuff and scuttling for cover. It’s quite exhilarating, this fresh air business. I think I’ll be giving it another go.
Travels with Pierneef 