Plein Air Painting History 101: Philip Gilbert Hamerton, Lecture 2

Waxed paper negative, 1855, by Samuel Smith

One of the many questions I get from painting students has to do with photography. Is it a good idea to paint from photos? It depends on whether you consider the photo a destination or a point of departure. That is, are you merely copying it, or are you using it as a reference for a painting? There's a big difference between the two. Copy photographs, and you get better at - you guessed it - copying photos. Use photos as a reference, memory aid or an inspiration, and you get better as an artist. Why? Because you are improving your creative skill by synthesizing a new work from a variety of sources. Copying a photo doesn't create anything new. It makes a copy.

I'm continuing to read Philip Gilbert Hamerton's book, A Painter's Camp. (Here is my earlier post on him.) During one of his many painting trips to the Scottish Highlands, he began to experiment with photography as an aid to painting. Since his trips happened in the late 1850s, he was one of the very earliest painters to drag the equipment out into the field.

He used something called the "waxed-paper process," one of many photographic technologies that evolved but then died when George Eastman invented his modern process in 1884. Here's an article from 1858 that describes how to prepare waxed-paper for photography: http://albumen.conservation-us.org/library/c19/catech2.html.

Even at the time Hamerton published his book, in 1866, he was still uncertain about the value of photography to the painter:

Nobody has ever yet answered the often-suggested question how far photography may be useful to the landscape-painter; and whether, under certain limitations, he can wisely practise it himself. Nor can I answer this question yet, in any decisive way. I have hitherto only practised the waxed-paper process, and cannot speak authoritatively of the limitations of the wet collodion. Besides, I perceive that photographs taken for especial purposes, as memoranda, may be useful to a degree which as yet nobody has any idea of, for such photographs are not to be had in the market, where they would be unsalable, except to artists.

He compares photography to two different ways of painting:

Again, with reference to the study of nature, I dare not as yet advance definite opinions, because my object is so new, that the experience of my predecessors is of little assistance, except in merely technical matters. For instance, Turner's way of study, good for an imaginative painter, is not exact enough for a topographic one; just as in literature, the degree of accuracy in historical facts which suffices for the poet or the novelist is quite unsatisfactory to the historian. On the other hand, what is known as the pre-Raphaelite system, of doing all from nature, is obviously inapplicable to transient effects. Between these two some other system will have to be ultimately traced out, and I am making experiments to that end, which include the painting of a good many pictures, so that it is not likely I shall be able for some time to offer any definite conclusions on this subject either.

Finally, he decides:

Subsequent investigation has convinced me that no artist should ever copy a photograph at all, though most artists do, more or less. But as memoranda of isolated natural facts, photographs are invaluable. By seeking only for one fact in each photograph, you may get, in a large collection, a rich encyclopedia of facts of form. In this way the photograph is very useful to all students of nature; not otherwise. It can never replace good drawing, and is valueless for pictorial purposes, on account of its defective scale of light, and its false translation of colour into shade. [Remember that Hamerton only had black-and-white photography available to him.]

The Snapshot

Photography in Stonington, Maine

One temptation in traveling with one's paint kit is to take "painting snapshots" along the way.  We think that, because we paint for two hours before our subject, we absorb more of a sense of place than someone with a palm-size digital camera who captures thousands of snapshots on a single card.    But are we really paying attention to what's around us as we paint?

When I paint, I'm focused on technical matters - how light and warm this shape is compared to that shape and so on.  I do like to think that I'm hearing the buzz of crickets, smelling the fragrance of wild apples and really getting into Nature in an Emersonian way with a capital "N".  But how much of that, which is extraneous to the actual painting process, sticks?  Were I to undergo hypnosis afterward, would I be able to dredge up this multi-dimensional moment accurately?

Sometimes I wonder if I am only a camera using agonizingly slow film that captures just the visual phenomenon before me and nothing else. Maybe I'd be better off with a point-and-shoot camera and forgoing the technical agony.

This thought doesn't often come to me, but when it does, I try to take my time.  Not with the painting, but with the setting up and breaking down, with the hike in and the hike out.  I listen to the crickets, smell the wild apples, feel the sunlight on my skin.

Otherwise, the whole effort isn't spiritually worthwhile.

Light and Time of Day

What's the best time of day to go painting outdoors?  In some ways, your own diurnal rhythms should dictate that for you.  For example, I am at my most energetic in the mornings and can paint up a storm, but in the afternoons, even just lifting a brush can be a chore.  Other painters I know do their best work in the evening hours.

But we should also listen to the sun.  Because the sun is always in motion, the quality of sunlight varies constantly, and there are times when the quality of this light is better for painting than others.  Photographers like to talk about the "golden hour" - the hour right after dawn and the  hour right before sunset.  Objects illuminated by sun at these times seem to be richer in color.   Everything is awash with a golden light, and the world can look quite magical.

It's a great time to paint, if you are quick.  Blink, and it is gone.  For some reason, the sun always seems to move faster in the early morning and in the late evening.  (It has to do with refraction, and with light bending as it passes through the lower, thicker and denser part of the atmosphere.)  It doesn't take long after sunrise for the world to lose some of the magic and start looking dull.  In the evening, of course, the light just keeps getting better and better - until, that is, the sun drops below the horizon.

The sun seems to move the slowest in the middle hours of the day.  By then, the shadows are small and few, so there's not much contrast, and the color, being affected by the sun's cooler aspect at that time of day, is less rich.  As you know, strong contrast and rich color are two essential tools in the outdoor painter's toolbox, and without them, it is difficult to build a good painting.  We call this "flat lighting," when the sun is high and everything seems washed out.

There is a compromise, though.  You can get reasonably good contrast and color between the "golden hour" and the middle of the day.  After sunrise, I like to wait an hour or so until the sun has slowed down a bit and the shadows aren't changing so fast, and then I paint for two hours.  In the afternoon (if I can lift a brush), I try to get out maybe three hours before sunset.  I may paint all the way to sunset.  It's always a risk when I do though.  I make sure to get some good painting done before then and move to a much smaller canvas to capture the end of the day.

I remember a workshop I participated in several years ago.  Students and instructors were all staying in common lodging and dining together.  After dinner, just before sunset, one student, who'd had a bit too much to drink, became vocally enamoured of the gorgeous sunset and announced she simply had to paint it.  The moment she finally managed to get her French easel erect, the sun and all of its beautiful color vanished.  Some things just aren't meant to be painted but savored by the eye alone.

I created the above graphic to illustrate the concept.  Feel free to share it with attribution!

Copyright and the Internet

"Grand Canyon Blue" 24x12, oil

The other day, I was speaking at a seminar about how the Internet and social media can help artists promote themselves.  One artist said, "I've heard that Facebook owns the images once you post them."   Another said, "But when you post them, don't you still own the copyright?"

Facebook doesn't own your images.  According to the most current terms of agreement,

"You own all of the content and information you post on Facebook, and you can control how it is shared through your privacy and application settings. In addition:


For content that is covered by intellectual property rights, like photos and videos (IP content), you specifically give us the following permission, subject to your privacy and application settings: you grant us a non-exclusive, transferable, sub-licensable, royalty-free, worldwide license to use any IP content that you post on or in connection with Facebook (IP License). This IP License ends when you delete your IP content or your account unless your content has been shared with others, and they have not deleted it."

(Speaking of Facebook, I'd appreciate it if you'd go over and "like" my Facebookpage.)

Still, for any social media site or hosting service you use, you should read the terms of agreement before posting your images.  It may vary from service to service.

Unless you've expressly given it away, you do own the copyright to your images.  Even when you sell a painting, you retain the right to reproduce the image in formats like giclée prints and notecards - again, unless you've signed an agreement giving this right to someone else.

Of course, owning the copyright doesn't mean that an admirer won't download your image and use it for desktop wallpaper.  Or that a less sensitive admirer won't create a series of notecards with it.  Or worse yet, that the Chinese fine art industry won't sell "originals," made by slave-wage workers, to fancy hotel for decorating their rooms.

To make your images less attractive to theft, consider keeping your images scaled down to 1000 pixels on the longest side with a resolution of 72 dpi.  (You don't need more than 72 dpi for most display screens these days.)  If someone wants to see a larger version, you can always e-mail one or put it on a secure hosting service, such as Picasa.  I recommend against adding a watermark; they're distracting.  If it's important to you to mark your images in some way, consider adding an invisible watermark with a tool like Digimarc.  Digimarc also allows you to search the Web for illegal copies of your images.

Speaking of images, above is a large (24x12) oil painting I've been working on.  It's a thunderstorm in the Grand Canyon.  I resized it as 72 dpi with 1000 pixels on the longest side.  Below are two detail shots, same specifications.

Painting from Photographs: All Surface, No Substance

"Rock, Grass, Rock" 9x12, pastel - contact Michael

I take every opportunity I can to disabuse students of the notion that painting from photographs is a valuable skill. It's not. Creating a painting from a photograph is like staging a theatrical set and then trying to live in it. That impressive shelf full of books is just a trompe l'oeil; the telephone that's supposed to ring in Act II isn't wired to anything; and the roast chicken on the table is literally rubber. A painting made from a photograph is like that. At first glance, it may look right, but as you climb onto the stage and look at the props, you'll see that they're exactly that - just props.

The reason painting photographs doesn't work is that photographs contain a very limited amount of useful information. Your senses will quickly outpace the meagre amount presented. You'll end up inventing things or worse, ruining your eyes trying to decide if a particular pixel represents a flower - or just a flaw - in the photo. On the other hand, if you work from life, you can spend a lifetime looking and still not see everything. But best is this - if you have any question about your subject, the answer is out there.

So what, exactly, are the problems with photos? A lot: Values, color and perspective. Either the light areas will be blown out or the dark areas will be too murky to do you any good. You can't have it both ways, unless you're doing HDR (high dynamic range) photography. The color will be off, even if you're an expert with fine-tuning your white balance. Film (or computer screen LEDs) don't have the range or sensitivity of the human eye for color. And if you're not using the right lens, you'll almost invariably have distortion in perspective. It's not so bad for landscapes, but with architecture, the right lens can be the difference between convincing and laughable.

The only thing a photo is good for is for shape details. If you can't remember how many mullions a window has, the photograph will help you out. But if you need to know what kind of green the ocean was, you're better off looking at a color sketch you made in the field. Even a handwritten note on a pencil sketch saying "bluish-green, a little darker than the sky" is more useful than a photo - which is what the old-timers did before cameras were invented.

The above pastel was painted, of course, not from a photograph.

Digital Copies: The Lost Generation

"Burke Falls" - 9x12, oil/knife - contact Michael

Back in the bad old days - the days before computers - it was not unusual to see a photocopy of a photocopy of a photocopy. It was barely legible, with letters seen as through a fog. Now that we're in the "good new days," in which the two-millionth digital copy of a document looks just as good as the original, you'd think all this new technology was doing us artists a favor.

Not so fast. Yes, it's true that a digital image can be copied and disseminated ad infinitum without any deterioration. But the bad news is, that original image was flawed to start with.

There are many steps - and many possible missteps - between photographing a painting and getting the image ready for publication, whether in digital or print form. No matter how good a photographer you are, you'll never capture the painting perfectly. For starters, a painting is a three-dimensional product. Whether pastel or oil, it has a discernable surface texture that is impossible to capture effectively in a two-dimensional medium such as a photographic image.

But worse yet, because no camera or scanner is perfect, you will always end up adjusting the image on your computer monitor. You'll try very hard to get the saturation, contrast and color balance right. But every monitor is different. For example, I think my desktop monitor is usually spot on. My new laptop's screen, however, shows the same image cooler and bluer. My wife's monitor shows it with too little contrast. There are calibration kits you can buy that will help you adjust your monitor (and your printer, too), but even if I have calibrated mine, you may not have calibrated yours. And then there's the color gamut difference between Macs and PCs.

Finally, size does make a difference. A large painting reduced and seen on a typical desktop monitor will usually look more impressive than a small painting enlarged. And please, don't even start me on the topic of looking at artwork on the 3.5" screen of an iPhone!

So, every time you look at one of my paintings on-screen - or any other artist's - please keep in mind that the real thing is surely going to be different. And, hopefully, better.