Travel Notes At The Easel

Capturing the Essence of the World with Watercolors

2011-11-09T06:21:00.000-08:00

Design is the essence of how I see the world. All nature sparkles with jewels of color and, as a plein air painter, I capture sparkling lights with pigment. I am a natural oil painter. I like the opaque quality of oil paints so I can change a composition with many layers of paint.

Mrs. Foster’s Garden V. 6.5” x 6.5,” $30.

Sometimes, though, I experiment with watercolor paint. In oils and watercolor, the same pigments are used. The difference is that water makes the pigments thinner and transparent. So, I am less comfortable with watercolor. I make mistakes. That is why my challenge is to master watercolors.

On my travels, I am learning to use watercolors which are less cumbersome. I can use a small palette box of pigments which opens up to allow room on its inner lid to mix the colors into water which I pour from a small jar. I scrub color into a soft sable brush and apply it on a block of watercolor paper. Both fit into a small purse. I try to do watercolors without an easel, which is heavy to carry.

Rain Forest (Honolulu). 7” x 10,” $30.

My dilemma is to do under drawing in pencil or pen when I balance the pad of paper on my lap or hold it in mid-air as I view my subject. I use watercolor blocks of Cold Pressed, 140-pound watercolor paper. I also struggle with watercolors to lay in the sunlight and shadows. I am a tonal painter, dealing with values of darks and lights. Bright-colored watercolors are hard to tone down. Watercolorists don’t expect to copy colors in nature; the idea is to make them brighter and richer.

Once I watched a Japanese Sumi-e painter apply thick and thin lines of black ink. Her hand moved fast. One of my teachers often talked about line becoming form and shape. I like my watercolor to run into negative spaces, leaving the positive forms- like trees -as blank white forms. These look like stained-glass windows, a subject with which I have some emotional attachment.

Oranges Falling (Villa Landriana). 5”x6,” $60.

Working with line and color was mastered by Matisse. He talked about line as a separate element, so that line and color work together and apart, but add up to a whole painting.
I am always learning new ways to paint with watercolor. When I talk with other artists, I ask, “What you know about watercolors?"

For my trip this year to Cyprus, Beirut, Damascus, and cities in Turkey, my graduate art professor recommended I carry Prismalo and Carfan D’Ache, two brands of super, highly saturated watercolor pencils, in pigments of Terre Verte, Yellow Ochre, two blues with temperature change, two or three reds, and a dark raw umber. I have traveled to Santa Fe and Honolulu with my palette box of 24 watercolors.

On my next trip, to gardens in India, I will continue to explore the beauty of color in watercolor. This time, though, I will take more equipment, including an easel, so I can draw more exact shapes of domes and gardens. I am hoping for more happy surprises in my quest for beauty in form and color.

Visiting Villas in Pompeii

2011-10-10T12:24:00.000-07:00

Casa di Poeta Tragico (Pompeii), 6” x 8”, $575

The Tragic Poet: I paint many villas at Pompeii. One morning I go to Casa di Poeta Tragico (House of the Tragic Poet). I have already sketched a view of its family shrine located in a small peristyle garden (garden surrounded by covered walkways). Huge columns catch beams of sunlight. This casa is popular and is crowded by a steady stream of tour groups. Especially famous is a floor mosaic of a dog at the front entrance, and beneath the dog in Latin reads: “Beware of the Dog.” I discover a back entrance which is opened into the small peristyle garden. Visitors flow through the garden. They pass me hiding in a corner cubbyhole near the ancient kitchen and toilets. The sun is raking across the huge columns, so I am happy with the obscured view. In my hiding place, I can barely see colors of pigment to load on my brushes. But each pigment has its assignment place on my palette so I scoop up by rote rather than sight. Only later, when I review my work in my hotel room, do I happily discover that this blindly painted canvas turns out to be one of my best.

Casa di Apollo (Pompeii), 6” x 8”, $550

Apollo: I ask a guard to take me next to Casa di Apollo. There the guard latches the iron gate behind me as I wander inside the cool retreat. Several trees offer plenty of shade as I tiptoe in search of Apollo whose image I find at the far corner of the garden in a small temple. I climb steps onto a low porch and walk inside where I discover badly damaged frescoes. I have trouble seeing the figures, but I assume they tell stories of Apollo’s feats of bravery. The handsome sun god wears a crown of laurel and carries a lyre in one hand and a bow in the other. More important to me, he is god of Arcadia, the Greek garden of paradise.

I make charcoal sketches of the exterior of the temple. Small columns surround the porch so that the temple has an intimacy which seems to come alive. The sun glances on the columns and spreads across the low green hedges and onto a high Roman wall behind the temple. After drawing from several angles, I select the best site from under a shade tree and draw in the temple and garden on a small canvas. I also draw in the shapes of sunlight and shadows. I have been there two hours and the light has changed. The Apollo shrine is cast in deep shadow. I feel a chill from the soft breezes: Apollo must be astir. But I must complete the painting, so carefully I darken some of the colors on the temple.
I complete this painting by 6 p.m. I pack the canvas in my carrying case and crumple the paper palette soaked with wet paint which I will throw into a street trash can. I leave the lovely little garden with no trace of my presence and arrive at the gate as the guard arrives. He locks the gate behind us.

Casa di Sallustio (Pompeii), 6” x 8”, $575

Sallustio: Orange light and deep blue shadows cover Pompeii. I am tired, but I duck into the nearby Villa Sallustio (Sallust) where I am charmed by the rounded shapes of hedges against the deep shadows on the peristyle. The hedges throw long round shadows like horseshoes. I believe I have only 40 minutes left of light, so I set up my easel and quickly concentrate on a painting of the intimate garden hugging up against the cavernous building.

I can’t judge the success of my work on location. Only later, when I line up my work of that day, am I able to see the shapes of hedges, light raking over the ruins, and the deep shadows on each painting I have done today. They are tiny cave paintings -dark, encrusted marble, cement and brick – so many textures which I can only suggest in quick plein air painting. I emphasize chiaroscuro (dark-to-light contrast) which differs from French Impressionists. (Pissarro and Monet made use of temperature changes – warm yellows and oranges contrasted with cool blues and violets to create a sense of sun-filled landscapes. They added white to most of their colors.) I describe these ruins in earth colors of umbers, greens, and blues in contrast to mid-ranges of yellow ochre, burnt Sienna, greens, and reds.
I use no white so my lightest pigment is Chrome Yellow, a rich warm pigment.

Anfiteatro (Pompeii), 6” x 8”, $525

Anfiteatro and Necropoli: Sounds of mumblings tour guides and kids whining to their parents may mimic ancient Pompeii when crowds cheered in unison as the gladiators competed in life-and-death bouts at the Anfiteatro (amphitheater). I visit the inside arena and grandstands which are remarkably preserved. I walk through the covered corridors for shade from the intense sun out in the arena. I am looking for a view to paint, but I find nothing that satisfies me. I believe the real beauty of this drum-shaped building is outside where arched windows form dark notes into an otherwise bleached stone exterior. A long ramp slithers like a snake outside the Anfiteatro up to the top tier; I recognize this distinguishing feature which appears in ancient frescoes. Today, tired families limp up the incline – just to see what is inside. Sightseeing can be hard work and I prefer to sit under a lovely group of umbrella pines which line the avenue outside the big round building. Long shadows from umbrella pines play like musical notes on the theater and sandy road. My cool spot on a ledge encircling the Palestra Grande (athletic field) across from the amphitheatre is pleasant as I spread paint onto a small canvas.

Neocropoli di Porta Nocera, 6” x 8”, $575

After I place my wet painting in a carrying case and throw away the used paper palette, I still have an hour left to paint. So I wander to the right of the amphitheatre to a steep hill blocked by wire fences. From atop the hill I can see below Necropoli di Porta Nocera (cemetery) and a path winding through large mausoleums and pines. So, I lift my painting equipment through a small opening, and kneel and squeeze through. As I climb down the rocky ledge, I look out for security guards who might find my antics lawless.

Down in the Necropoli, I admire the lovely shrines aged in earthen colors. The shrines line up like small houses with doors or iron gates and red-tiled roofs. I walk along the path looking for a view which may never have been painted before. The late afternoon sun changes direction of shadows. Colors seem to disappear by the minute, so I work quickly and in 30 minutes, I have completed my work. This is, indeed, a painting of a first impression.

The sun falls below the horizon. I am tired, dusty, and ready for dinner. But to get back to my hotel, I have to climb back up the hill, through the fence, and past the Anfiteatro in order to reach the exit at Porta Marina.

Learning To Draw Like An Angel (Michelangelo)

2011-08-26T11:39:00.000-07:00

After long wishing and planning to study art in the center of the Italian Renaissance, I am keeping my wish alive. I arrive at the Florence Stazione (train station) and walk for three blocks to the Florence Academy of Art. At last, I find the bell cord, the lock clicks, and the door opens into a small entryway where bicycles line up. Through an archway, I can see a garden as I enter the art studio to the left. Standing at his desk is Daniel Graves, an American painter and the director of the academy. He welcomes me with a hug. Strangely, I already feel at home in my new city.

The Florence Academy Of Art

I don’t know what to expect at the academy. Following the 19th-century French Academy which developed neo-classicism, Daniel sets an agenda for new students like me. Immediately I am assigned to draw an exact copy of a finely defined pencil drawing of a man wearing a hood. He very much resembles the Florentine poet Dante.

Classic Bust III, Pencil, 10 x 8, $600.

I draw exact dimensions and values of white through scales of gray to black with a HB (hard black) drawing pencil. Each stroke must be crisp by keeping my pencil sharpened with a mat knife, pushing from the tip of the lead, back along the shaft and up into the wood. I shave away until I have a long lead with a pinpoint-thin tip so I can make sharp, distinct marks of lead.

Classic Bust I, Charcoal, 18 x 15, $700

I never press the pencil into the paper to make a darker mark. Instead, I stroke one line next to another on a smooth white paper. Each mark falls crisply in place. The more I stroke, the darker the definition of a shadow becomes. On the other hand, when I have gone too dark, I erase and begin again with a freshly sharpened pencil. I love to draw and am so engrossed that hours pass without my noticing the time. I lay a string as a plumb line vertically to line up the head. I use the plumb line, as well, to establish the tip of the shoulder in relation to the chin line. And this measuring of angles and spaces continues throughout the drawing. By the time the drawing is completed, I have sharpened my pencil 100 times.

Classic Bust II, Pencil, 8x6, $500.

Main Drawing Room

Finally, I graduate to the main drawing room where classical plaster casts stand on pedestals against black velvet drapes. The room is painted black and black curtains cover side windows. The daylight streams through north skylights onto the statues. No unnecessary reflected light interferes with our tasks of drawing exact replicas of the statues.

Classic Bust III, Pencil, 10 x 8, $600.

I stand back eight feet from a statue, alongside six other draftsmen who stare at their individual statues. The room is quiet, although some students are playing their tape recorders with ear plugs. I listen to silence as I mount on my easel next to my statue an 18”x24” sheet of heavy charcoal paper. I stare at a lovely Grecian female in classic pose and wonder if I will ever be able to replicate her beauty of lines and shadows.

Female Nude (Classic Pose), Charcoal, 25 x 16, SOLD.

Working With Charcoal

That is when I begin to use charcoal in ways I had never known. For one thing, I am instructed to buy Fusam NITRAM, a vine charcoal made in France of the highest consistency. It comes in hard and soft. Fine charcoal which is difficult to find in the United States can make the lightest delicate gray marks with feather touch. It also can be sharpened with a mat knife from tip to shaft.

With the finely sharpened charcoal I stand back to get a sense of how wide and tall and how dark and light my drawing should be to duplicate the original. I hold my plumb line in order to eyeball a point on the statue. Then I move the line horizontally so I can mark the same spot on the paper. I stare at that point as I carefully walk forward to the paper and touch the spot with my charcoal.

Running Pose, Charcoal, 24 x 18, $700.

I continue to eyeball the plumb line horizontally and to establish the vertical angles and alignment of body parts to give the figure a natural and classic stance that is not stilted. The hardest part of replicating a statue is to place the shapes and strength of shadows. I begin to recognize geometric shapes which crop up in any composition or design.

To help me see values without reflections of incidental light, I use a black mirror (vanity mirrors are usually backed with silver) to establish the exact values of half lights and shadows. Correct lighting indicates that the figure may turn toward and away from the light source and into the shadows. It is like dancing, writing poetry, and singing in symphonic variations. I hold the black mirror at an angle where I can see the statue juxtaposed next to my drawing in progress which I compare to the plaster cast. The mirror cuts out glare and I then adjust the art to match the true values in nature.

Classic Nude Drawing, Pencil, 9 ¾ x 6, $600

In all, the drawings are precise and time-consuming. As a result, I am learning to see infinite detail of light, shadow, line, and pose. I draw with great care. This eyeballing, sharpening of charcoal and walk goes on every morning. My drawing and touch on the paper improves during the three months I live in Florence. Quickly, I correct my major flaw of drawing objects and people larger than they are in proportion to other objects.

When I am not drawing, I wander into museums and churches to converse with Michelangelo, Ghirlandaio, Leonardo da Vinci, Fra Angelico, Masaccio, and Pontormo. These great Florentine draftsmen guide my left drawing hand.

Painting The Artist's Garden

2011-08-05T08:23:00.000-07:00


Gathering Grapes (Woodruff Place), 7" x 9", $525.

I have painted lovely ancient and Renaissance gardens in Italy," Rosanna says, "because I am drawn to the subjects of fountains, statues, hedges, and trees. My interest in formal gardens were instilled in me while growing up in Woodruff Place's woody parkways filled with statues and fountains. The graces of Woodruff Place are similar to ones I have painted in Italy.My own garden dates back three generations with its Venetian statues of the seasons, urns filled with bright pink geraniums, high hedges, and a grove of trees. The garden is hidden, but you are invited to enter the gates to this special place.

Twitter Birds (Woodruff Place), 6 1/2" x 10", $550.

I also delight in other gardens in Indianapolis: I discover wonderful garden compositions at the Indianapolis Museum of Art. Your own garden also can inspire me to spend hours capturing your place of paradise. Summer inspires me to paint in my shaded garden. I sit on a campstool and paint at my easel after discovering wonderful compositions. Mine is the admiring eye.

Garden on the Green (Indianapolis Museum of Art),30" x 40", $2,800 Framed.

Return To Paradise

2011-07-01T06:42:00.000-07:00

I awaken in the morning on my first day in Honolulu to songs of birds and the deep-throated coos of doves. I am thinking, “I am in Paradise.” Soon I am walking around Magic Island. The air is fresh. Bathers loll on the beach. Gentle waves wash past the reef and lap up on the white sand where all the local Hawaiians congregate on any summer day. Life is easy and laughter is in the air. I feel happy and free.

I am revisiting my old island home after being away 20 years, so long ago. I wonder why I ever left. Why couldn’t I have been content in this lovely Pacific culture? I feel some pain as I think back to the time I had so many pressures, so many reasons. I had just graduated from The University of Hawaii with my Masters of Fine Arts degree and I didn’t know what to do next, with no money, no job, and disappointed in love. I was insecure in every way.

Since I left, Hawaii has changed with more high-rise apartments, more people. But the sun, trade winds, and my good health make me feel that I have not changed so much. I suddenly feel I am Back Home in the Islands. During a month-long stay over Christmas 2010, I revisit my old painting haunts along Nuuanu Stream in the mountains, at Haleiwa on the north shore, at Haunama Bay, the Honolulu Zoo, Kahala, and along Waikiki Beach.

I find the lush foliage and flowers are just as lush. I can’t find the old path I found by following a lop-eared rabbit into the Nuuanu Stream, but I find an old friend who leads me to the Queen’s Pool to paint with my watercolors. These are quickie works, as I eagerly reinvent my own images of the new Hawaii.

I would like to share with you some new watercolors -- my personal mementos of a Return to Paradise.

KING VULTURE

King Buzzard, 4"x6", unframed watercolor, $30.

I find this outrageously colorful bird posing on his perch at Honolulu Zoo. The King Vulture spreads his wings and poses for me for about 10 minutes. He is indeed a lovely though lethal bird to his prey. Speaking of prey, I paint another vulture eating something, which turns out to be a small mouse. That is rather gross. I would paint more exotic birds in their cages at the Honolulu Zoo if they didn’t move around so much and if I were not so tired and sweaty. I have no easel and have to balance my watercolor pad on the guard railing. I have trouble maneuvering the pad, paint brush, paint box, and water. I work very fast from frustration and fatigue and my bird watercolors are very quick. I keep trying to capture my impressions. (4”x6”, unframed watercolor, $30)

GLANCING FROM MAGIC ISLAND

Glancing From Magic Island, 4"x6", unframed watercolor, $30.

On my morning walk, I see this young man in peaceful reverie in Honolulu’s favorite park where joggers go early morning before the sun grows hot. Now the breeze cools the air. Suddenly I stop when I see a young man sitting on a bench looking out at the ocean. He does not notice I am staring at him from my camp stool. He seems to be waiting for someone as he shifts his position. He answers his cell phone. I try to remember one position I have already put him in, perhaps a pensive one. Perhaps I am the one staring out at the ocean which frames him in thought. I am reminded of a famous German Romantic artist, Karl Friedrich, who painted a man in a black coat standing on a cliff and staring out at the great beyond. (4”x6”, unframed watercolor, $30)

TEMPLE SHACK

Temple Shack, 4"x6", unframed watercolor, $30

I find a shady place to paint which happens to be beneath a massive blooming and sweetly scented Jasmine tree. I am in heaven as I sit in its shade, smell the fragrances, and look upon this small building with red walls – perhaps a shed – which stands at the corner of a Korean temple. Red is always dramatic. And I lose all sense of time. Before I know, it is 4:30, the park is closing, and I must leave. (4”x6’, unframed watercolor, $30)

LIGHTNESS OF LIGHT

Lightness Of Light, 4"x6", unframed watercolor, $30

I look out at the light beach landscape and suddenly it is accented with dark shadows relieved by light accents from the sun- like an opening to the sky or light green grass. I am attracted to a Japanese mother and child. I like the “lightness of light.” How wonderfully different: white on white, rather than dark greens and browns of the tropical forest. I am sitting on a terrace at Kahala Resort Hotel drinking coffee. So I paint and drink coffee for two hours. (4”x6”, unframed watercolor, $30)

Painting At A Mogul Palace In The Cotswolds, England

2010-10-31T19:21:00.000-07:00

Sezincote Manor: Like An Indian Palace

During a plein air painting sojourn to the Cotswolds, the famous sheep-herding corner of England, I find Sezincote Manor, styled like an Indian palace, reflecting the early periods before English rule in India (called the Raj). Such a garden design was used in Moorish, Persian, and Indian gardens to show that God is in the center of the garden and His influence extends to the four corners of the world
.
With running water, flower beds, and shade from fruit trees, such gardens must have been welcome relief from the heat of the desert. These gardens are an oasis.

Sezincote is located near Morton-in-Marsh, a small typically English village with a town square. From there, I hire Jill, a taxi driver who drives a Mercedes. After we finally arrive at this breathtakingly beautiful manor, Jill leaves, and I am left to discover this remote manor where I hope to do a plein air painting – despite the rain.

Hindu statues appear in grottos, as railings on a foot bridge, and as fountains and resting places. I am at a loss in this strange garden to explain what I am witnessing.

Sezincote Bridge: Sacred Cows

Like A Throne For Cleopatra: Under The Bridge

After wandering, I walk up to the manor, just as a tall handsome man opens the door. He is barefooted and comes out to introduce himself as Edward Peake. I introduce myself as the artist who requested by e-mail earlier in the year to paint in his garden. He smiles and agreeably tells me to feel at home. He explains that he has invited friends for lunch, but that I am free to roam and paint wherever I choose.

“I’ll come around to see your work later,” Peake says. I continue to walk around the garden and up a stairway into an orangerie (a glassed-in terrace for storing fruit trees in the winter). That is when I discover the Garden of Paradise, a fountain radiating out with four walkways.

Eureka! This is truly my painting, I exclaim. This is my perfect view. It is next to the fountain, looking along a pool lined with small, slim evergreens. In the composition I can see the steps leading up to two large bronze statues of elephants. And behind the elephants is the high slope belonging to the family grazing land for sheep and cattle. At the top of the slop is a single large, dark green tree. There at the fountain, I set up my easel and draw in my design. I am so intent on my work that I don’t see a hound dog amble by and sit nearby. He seems to have become my host.

Time passes and the rains are gone as I draw with charcoal the long pool with clipped evergreens lining the walkway. Side shadows from the trees fall across the walks and grass. At the end of the pool, I carefully draw steps up to the two elephants. I then indicate the high hill with more trees. Then I squeeze out my oil paints on my paper palette and begin to paint. As the day passes and some clouds appear, the light changes and I have to adjust the green grass and shadows as they turn darker in value.

Elephants At The Gate

I am intent on my painting when Peake reappears. “Would you like a cup of tea?” he asks. He brings the tea in a lovely white china cup decorated on the rim in gold and blue. I am a bit surprised by his hospitality, as he remains to chat. My impression is that he is about age 50 and elegant in his speech and movement. He seems like a man who has traveled a great deal and is used to living with nice things. He also puts me at ease as I continue to paint as we talk. Then I hear his interesting story.

“My mother Susanna owns the estate but she has set it up in a trust so I can live here for my lifetime,” he says. “My sister runs the large farm and I care for the house. We have cattle, but the fear of all English cattle owners is the hoof and mouth disease.”

He seems to read the hidden questions in my mind. “This garden, as you can see, is like a Garden of Paradise of India.” I think of an exhibit at the Indianapolis Museum of Art of Shah Jahan, the last great Indian mogul. I was a museum docent at the time and loved the Indian miniature paintings of the Mogul’s court and gardens. Included in the museum show was a painting of a battle in which the warriors rode charging elephants.

What is so interesting about Sezincote is that it was designed in 1810 in the Mogul architectural style, with little English influence. Peake explains that it is nearly pure Mogul with a central dome (which later influenced the Brighton Pavilion), minarets, peacock-tail windows, and the orangerie.
Gardens of Paradise originated in Persia and were adapted in most Muslim cultures. They reflect the concept of the oasis, an enclosure of shade trees, fragrant flowers, flowing water, and pavilions – restful retreats from the desert heat.

Since I have painted in Pompeii, I tell him I am interested in seeing how gardens became retreats in Ancient Roman homes. I believe the Greeks and Romans were inspired by Middle Eastern gardens – perhaps coveted after learning of them from Alexander the Great’s conquest to the frontier of India. He never made it into India but many gardens and enclosed nature parks were raided by his army. Great gardens around great palaces denote power. And while the British were in India, they adapted the Mogul architecture as a symbol of power.

“This is such a lovely house and gardens,” I comment as I sip my tea.

“This garden, as you can see, is like a Garden of Paradise of India,” he continues. “The essence of a Persian garden are the four paths pointing north, south, east and west with the central fountain. Water is essential in the walled garden which stands alone like an oasis from the dry desert.”
So I am eager to hear how this house was built.

“The house was built when the English still loved Indian culture – before the Raj. The English were in India as part of the East India Trading Company and were plantation owners. Perhaps when Charles Cockerell, with the help of his brother, returned from the East India Company in the early 1800s, the hint of power came into their designs for Sezincote.

The house changed hands over the years to three other families. By 1944, about the time the British left India, the house had to be restored. While Sezincote reflects some of the elegance of a Mogul palace, it was too rich for some diehard British to digest its pure Indian form of architecture. It lacks the mixture with neo-classic architecture dating from ancient Rome – with pillars and pediments more popular among architects in England at the time.

“Many neighbors in this rolling Cotswold hill community threatened to have Sezincote torn down. About that time, in 1944, my grandfather bought the farm and had the house restored.” As his mother’s gift to the house, she purchased the two baby-sized elephants in bronze which stand at the top of the stairs leading down to the Garden of Paradise.

“I love the elephants at the top of the stairs,” I say.

“But I dispute her purchase and gift to the garden. They do not belong to a Garden of Paradise,” Peake says. “They are symbols which have nothing to do with paradise gardens.”

“They seem to be threatening the paradise but don’t dare enter,” I say. They are like an elephant walk – when elephant herds return to their watering hole each year. I remember a film “Elephant Walk” about angry elephants finally tearing through a plantation house built on path to their ancient watering hole.”

“Your house is the loveliest estate I’ve seen in England,” I say. I hope I have captured the essence of this garden’s style, space and spirit in paint. Apparently Sezincote has inspired poets, as well. Quoting from “Summoned by Bells” by John Betjeman, I realize how gentle, yet powerful Sezincote is:

“…the onion domes, Chajjahs and Chattris made of amber stone
‘Home of the Oaks,’ exotic Sezincote.”

Rousham Manor in the Cotswolds of England: Rosanna Hardin Hall's "Travel Adventures At The Easel"

2010-08-19T18:43:00.000-07:00

Steve, a cheerful and reliable taxi driver in the Cotswolds in England, drives me to Rousham Manor where I have permission to do my plein air paintings. English gardens and early fall weather – cold, gray and damp - prove to be a large challenge. Courageously, I visit them with the greatest sense of adventure. Rousham is located in the remote countryside. We switch back and forth along narrow country roads and, even with Steve’s handy directional map, we get lost – several times.

We finally find Rousham Manor and, as we enter the farm, I see beautiful longhorn cattle which I have seen on Texas range land. so common long ago in the Old West of the United States. We certainly are out in the English countryside, though. At the Rousham Manor, we are greeted by Julian, a gardener, who is perched high on a ladder where he is clipping a two-story-high hedge. He comes down from the ladder to chat and soon he and Steve are running around the yard after cockerels, young roosters.

Rousham Manor Dovecote

“Any chance I could have two cockerels?” Steve asks. “The thing is, I have a buddy on whom I want to play a practical joke. I’ll sneak into his backyard tonight and leave them. Then in early morning, they will wake him with their cock-a-doodle-do.” And they laugh at his planned prank. Steve drives away, promising to return to pick me up at 6 p.m.

Left alone, I lug my painting equipment toward the manor which stands stately and silent. It is a light-colored, solid stone house with regularly placed windows looking out toward a bowling green – a long wide stretch of yellow English grass where a polo match could take place. At the far end is a large statue of a lion attacking a horse. Huge boxwood hedges run alongside the bowling green and seem as high as the house of four stories. They are so much higher than my Pruitt hedges in my Victorian yard in Woodruff Place.

After exploring the bowling greens, I duck through an opening in the wall of hedge and wander along a garden path toward several rooms of flowers, fruits, and topiary plants. In the rose garden, I stroll down the brick paths admiring the flowers. But more spectacularly is the round structure in the center of the rose garden. I don’t know how I know what to call it; but the term “dovecote” pops into my mind. All I know about doves is that they lay eggs, carry messages, make good eating – and they coo a lot. Every time I hear a Mourning Dove coo, I feel nostalgic for some wonderful day in the country.

I walk back past topiaries of miniature apple trees with red fruit swinging from limbs – very colorful and looking deliciously succulent. I arrive back at the bowling green and walk down the greens toward the statue. Nothing feels like a flowering, cozy cottage garden, so popular in the Cotswolds. This is a remotely intellectual garden which has been carved out of a large farm. And I don’t yet know the extent of the gardens until I walk to the left from the greens where I discover a damp, shaded path. I walk down the dark path through the woods when I come upon a statue of Mercury, mythological message god. The figure is darkened by the dense tree cover and a patina of age. I feel uncomfortable about setting up my easel and camp stool on the wet, sloping bank. I am about to walk on when I see what is a truly lovely English phenomenon – a black swan with a bright orange-red beak gliding down the rushing stream.

Then I see a white swan. So I follow them along the stream and wonder where they originated. Later I learn that all swans belong to the Queen but are allowed to use streams which flow into the Thames. Then, once a year, the Queen’s swan guards put on black hats and hold a roundup of swans on the Thames. At “Swans Up,” the swans are tagged by the Queen’s men – perhaps reestablishing the Queen’s right of possession.

I continue along the sloping path and come to a structure with columns and insets designed to display more statues. But those statues are not there, so I continue on until I come to a temple in a large field. A five-sided pool is filled with water lilies.

Pan, mythological god of gardens.

As I walk, I hold up my 3"x4"cardboard viewer to get some ideas for good compositions to paint. I am anxious about finding a good composition for a plein air painting. I am taking too much time strolling through yellow grass, up overgrown slopes and under low-hanging trees when I should set up my easel and paint. I feel pressured. At the same time, I don’t want to miss anything at Rousham Manor; I want to see the entire garden. So, I walk up from the pool on a steep hill where I see one of my favorite mythological figures – Pan, mythological god of gardens. He holds his musical pipes as if he is about to call in all of the woodland spirits. He stands too high on a pedestal and I can’t find a good view or place to paint Pan.

Out in open gardens, the sun is beating bright and I long for a shady spot on level ground to set my easel. I have brought a sandwich to munch, but I am more concerned about fulfilling my mission of capturing the essence of this garden. I must make a decision. So I retrace my steps and make quick sketches. This is a difficult garden; its essence defies me. I want to paint something which personifies this huge farm-like garden. But, where?

Then it dawns on me this English garden is cut from rolling farmland and while it is picturesque, it is not visually laid out so that one view leads to another as I move along the paths. The big areas don’t seem to offer more than big views of yellow grass. Only sprinkling of magnificent statues appear momentarily.

"Mercury and the Swans" (Rousham Manor)

I am about to give up on Rousham when suddenly I remember Mercury looking out over the stream where swans glide by on this lazy autumn afternoon. With hope and a promise to myself, I pick up my painting satchels and head down the dark descending path to Mercury’s stand. I take out charcoal and white chalk and do one-minute thumbnail sketches to define dark, grey and white areas. This is going to be a painting based on light and shade and is called chiaroscuro. I try many angles. If I stand behind Mercury, I can get a view of the stream and swans, as well. I pick one of the quick charcoal sketches to enlarge into an oil painting composition. The black Mercury stands against the light background where the stream and trees are still drenched in sunlight – a perfect composition, I think.
But where will I stand my easel, place my palette and brushes, and proceed, as I stand in wet leaves. But I will do anything for a good painting. So, I stand up my easel, balanced on the side of the hill and begin to do an under drawing on canvas of the statue. The statue is difficult to draw and the landscape beyond feels distant and so disconnected.

After an hour of work completed, Joe Hawkins, chief gardener at Shugborough Hall, approaches. We begin chatting about gardens and he shares his passion for Asian gardens.

“Chinese and Japanese gardens are especially interesting because they are designed in terms of time passing rather than perspective,” Joe says. “The Chinese set up a garden so that every step or two allows one to see a different scene. The Chinese seek a sonorous change and variation.”

“And I think this is different from Rousham,” I say.

“That is because Rousham is called a landscaped garden,” Joe explains. “It is laid out like a ground plan with no interest in accommodating the strolling viewer. We viewers are expected to enter into the garden and see it as a plan, rather than as an experience on the human scale. This garden is shaped for God to see from above.”

Joe continues on his garden journey. I pack up my painting gear and lug it back to the rose garden with the dovecote. I quickly sketch a long row of roses and large mums – all of varying shades of red, pink, and white. I paint just as quickly – like an Impressionist painter, almost abstractly – in hopes of completing the painting before Steve arrives. Flower painting is a throwback to my earlier period in Santa Fe, NM, where I was influenced indirectly by Georgia O’Keeffe to paint large flowers on decorative folding screens.

"Room of Bloom" (Rousham Manor)

I complete the painting; quickly pack up, wave goodbye to the doves and head for the front courtyard where Steve and Julian are loading two cockerels in boxes in Steve’s back seat. With cockerels cooing at my back, we whiz past the cattle, race along narrow country roads at dusk and return an hour later to Cirencester - 85 Pounds ($170) shorter. But Steve is worth every wild minute of our adventure together.This has been an expensive plein air painting trip through the heartland of the Cotswolds, but I am proud of having conquered the essence of Rousham Manor in Oxfordshire, England, on a chilly British autumn day.

For the rest of September, I repeat this adventure into English country gardens. Now I have 22 original and very special paintings to show in Villa dell’Artista, my art gallery. Some of my English paintings also are on exhibit at the Morris-Butler House during September. See them in my website under English Gallery.

Afghan Paradise Garden in Santa Fe, NM

2010-07-27T15:09:00.000-07:00

Shalizi, Afghan Garden

THE SHALIZI GARDEN

SANTA FE, NM
JUNE 2010
Shortened 7-22-10

In the dry desert of Santa New Mexico, I discover an Afghan Garden of Paradise.

On a hot summer morning, I approach a high adobe wall. Russian olive trees and rose bushes topple over the top edges of the wall. I walk up to a strong fortress-like double gate where I am greeted by some mysterious large dogs barking furiously inside the heavy door. Then the gate latch creaks, one side of the gate swings open, and out walks Baro Shalizi. He pleasantly greets me and invites me in and introduces me to his guard dogs.

Inside, the 90 degree air turns 10 degrees cooler with overhanging trees and water falling into a pool. The garden appears endless as I walk past the most fragrant Rose of Isphahan. Along the path, herbs spill out their essence. Suddenly, I see an even larger 11,000 gallon pool surrounded by tall grasses, cattails and long-stemmed iris. Sounds of splashing white water enter two waterfalls. Koi swim lazily past a wooden snake, a ceramic Chita and a mermaid.

Baro’s brother, Zalmai Shalizi, enters the garden. He is the expert on hydraulic systems, making this efficient flow of water in the desert possible. He has constructed waterlines throughout 2,000 plants. The secret is to recycle water circulating from pond to a giant sprinkler system. He explains: “I put water in the pool, the koi fish use it, and then when I need to change their water, I siphon the pool water out through hoses that connect sprinklers among all the flowers,” explains Zalmai.

Photo detail of mermaid.

I can’t believe my good luck to have found an Afghan garden in the middle of the Southwest desert. Thanks to Anne Hillerman and Don Strel, long-time friends from the days I lived in Santa Fe. They have just published a lovely picture book, Gardens of Santa Fe ( http://www.annehillerman.com/). I was immediately captivated by Don Strel’s photographs of the garden and I ask Anne if she can introduce me to Baro Shalizi. Graciously, he invites me to his garden. And Zalmai tells me the garden secrets taught to him by Abdussattar Shalizi, his father.

“Our gardens in Kabul and southern Afghanistan are filled with fragrant flowers and herbs,” he continues. “I have returned many times to reclaim and improve those properties. I call them Gardens of Paradise.”

Watercolor, Shalizi Mermaid, 4" x 6".

Zalmai is so interesting that I forget my mission for painting. The success of this garden is his expertise on hydraulics, the high wall, and the architecture of the garden. But Baro and their mother love flowers which they collect from friends and germinate in their sunroom and living room. I am greeted warmly as Zalmai and I sit under a shading Russian olive tree and talk. Then I realize my mission her is to paint. The morning shade disappears as the sun reaches high in the sky. I finally tell Zalmai that I want to do watercolors and he leaves me to find my favorite views.

Soon I sit on my camp stool before a waterfall, open up a folding metal palette filled with tubes of watercolors and dip out pool water into a glass jar. I am exhausted by the heat but I cannot stop. So, I set a pad of watercolor paper on my folding easel and quickly draw with pencil the outlines of the waterfall and nearby plants. Then I brush up blues, reds, greens and yellow, swishing the color thinly with the pool water. I work fast in order to beat off heat exhaustion. I work so fast that I hardly recognize the subject when I look at my painting. Then I realize that color and water are not giving me the defined shapes I am used to painting in Italian classical gardens.

Watercolor, Shalizi Waterfall, 6" x 4".

Oh, well, I try to capture something of this beautiful garden, anyway. But the sun is too intense and my skin is burning. So, I ask Zalmai if I might return the next morning to do more paintings.

The following morning, I find the walled-in garden with jewels of nature locked into a desert oasis. Again I enter behind these adobe walls, and look for a shady tree, but the best views are beside the large pool. So, this time I have a folding red umbrella which I tape on top of my easel. Still, the heat wafts up from stepping stones as I persist and do three more small watercolors of the clay Chita, the mermaid, and the other waterfall.

Again, I have trouble capturing such a complex scene onto small watercolor paper. My time is brief, but at last, I have my own visual memories of an Afghan garden. I feel this is the beginning, a new challenge. I want to go to faraway Middle Eastern gardens to paint.

“Do you think I would ever be able to go to your area of the world and paint in gardens,” I ask Zalmai. “Would I be in great danger?”

“Oh no,” he replies, “as long as you know someone there. My brother lives there and he will look after you. You just have to be with people who will keep you safe. No one will bother you.”

How wonderful, I think. And then the plan crystallizes when his mother Prita K. Shalizi appears. Author Anne Hillerman earlier tells me what a remarkable and intelligent women she is. Her charm and beauty wraps around her Santa Fe garden. Prita, a hardy 85 years old, has just published Transitions: Silk Road of Central Asia (Shalizi@aol.com) about her trip along the ancient trade route linking the Caspian Sea to China. Along the route through Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan, she revels in the importance of transporting silk, spices, floral essences, and social customs by camel and horse through the mountainous region. In the 3rd century BC, Alexander the Great of Greece marched his armies across Central Asia. Later, Genghis Kahn, a Chinese conqueror, put guards along the road.

Oh, Samarkand! How my imagination fills with visions of snow-capped mountains, green valleys, and gardens teeming with nomadic merchants dressed in rich brocade robes. I want to go there, too, one day. So, I beg Prita to sell me a copy of Transitions, a rare adventure. Sadly, the road is no longer teeming with rich merchants leading camels packed with exotic merchandise. Still, I want to follow in Prita’s steps.

Already, her garden leads me to envision ancient Babylonian, Assyrian, and Persian gardens, all built as visions of earthly Paradise. I have my paints and brushes and I am ready to go, see, and paint. The Shalizi garden begins a different Travel Tales from the Easel.

Secret Garden at the Jewish Community Center

2007-04-16T13:43:00.000-07:00

Opening Reception: Thursday, April 19, 5:30-7:30 p.m.
Jewish Community Center 6701 Hoover Road
Exhibit runs April 19th-May 31st

Spring arrives at the JCC with Rosanna Hardin Hall's canvases of magnificent gardens. A plein air oil painter, the artist takes her easel to formal gardens near and far. Some of her favorite subject include the gardens of ancient Rome, Florence and Venice, as well as scenes of her native Indianapolis.

The soft greens and colorful palette of her gardens make the settings as inviting in her paintings as they are in life.

Villa Julia Felice, Pompeii - Part II

2007-03-08T15:29:00.000-08:00

Everywhere, I sense grandeur. Roofs are missing and foundation bricks, cement and layers of sand are all that are left of walls. The marble has disappeared from most columns. Regardless, the fragile villas and gardens are stately, regal and picturesque, leaving me to imagine how people once lived there.

My focus moves from canvas to the albergo, as I drag brushes of paint onto my carefully composed painting of the wild, unmanicured lawn filled with yellowed weeds and parched grass. Aged yellow ochre brick walls and burnt sienna tiled-roof are framed from behind by majestic cypress trees in shades of terre verte di Verona and cobalt blue sky.

I lose a sense of time as I listen to the singing birds and buzzing bees. Rounded hedges cast their blue and violet moving shadows. Though I feel peaceful and silent, I sense the stirring spirits of the ancient Romans and their gods in the soft breeze. The experience is real but feels like a dream.

As my painting takes on a semblance of reality, I wonder about the proprietress Giulia Felice who lived there before Mt. Vesuvius erupted in 79 A.D. In my inner eye I picture her graciously gliding across the portico greeting her guests. She wears a flowing silk, lavender gown. Amethyst, gold earrings dangle from her earlobes. Her dark hair is draped by combs back from her pear-shaped face. She moves out into the lawn where jasmine cast spells in her wake.
How did she entertain her guests? Did they eat fish from her pond and drink sweet wine from her vineyard? Did her guests laugh at bawdy stories of gladiators as they lay on soft cushions covering the wide marble benches in the triclinium? Did they enjoy the cool evening lit with torches as they marveled at the full moon? Were they serenaded with soft calming lyre music after a full day in the scorching sun? Had they witnessed the latest gladiator games at the amphitheater nearby, just beyond the orchard?

Now visiting her domain as a painter from Indianapolis, I am her only visitor.

Villa Julia Felice, Pompeii

2007-02-19T13:45:00.000-08:00

I unlock the gate to Albergo Giulia Felice. Inside, I hesitate because of the deep shadows and uneven ground. When my eyes adjust and I regain my footing, I gasp at the sight of a magical cavern.

Colorful wall frescoes survive in chipped pieces in the albergo (hotel). Since the late 1700s, excavation reveals the beautifully-planned albergo which reaches on a long axis the size of a palace. Reception rooms, triclinium (dining room) and sleeping rooms open onto the portico which is supported by white marbled, four-sided columns still displaying their decorative long fluting. In front of the portico lies a long, shapely marble pond once filled with fish, fresh for feasting. Beyond the pond stands a trellis and beyond that, an orchard of fruit trees.

I marvel at my good luck. The superintendent at Pompeii, Italy, has granted me a permit to paint in some of the famous, yet fragile, classical Roman villas in ruins. Many are hidden from the public and that is why I am at Albergo Giulia Felice, all by myself. It took months to gain permission for this moment at the scavi (ruins).

(To be continued)

Secrets of a Contessa

2007-01-25T09:58:00.000-08:00

I first saw Tudy Sammartini on the Zattere water’s edge in Venice wearing a large black floppy hat and long flowing white tunic which moved like angel wings as she waved to me. Then she took a puff from her cigarette, momentarily exhaled and barked in a deep masculine, "buon giorno." Let’s go.”

Then the Venetian contessa unlocked the gates to the hidden beauty of secret gardens. Along the way, from garden to garden, she became my friend.

Secret gardens in Venice hide a rich history of wealth that cannot be seen from canals and public walkways. I imagined they hold secrets of couples speaking in low murmurs as they strolled under vine-covered walkways, among fountains and small statues. Jasmine sweetened the air. Their secret liaisons were hidden behind high walls.
During many visits to Venice, I walked past the walls with huge wooden doors, and wondered how I could enter and paint what remains of the gardens? I knew they were not open to walk-in traffic. Perhaps I would have to borrow keys or trouble someone to meet me and unlock gates. Or, perhaps I would simply ring a bell and knock on the door. I was a stranger and my chances of entry were slim.

“Buon giorno, Sra. Sammartini,” I replied with a smile and all the American charm I could muster in broken Italian. I readied for wherever my guide led - along canals, over bridges, hopping on vaparetto boats. I ran to keep up with that statuesque Venetian. My white silk jacket flapped over my jeans. I squeaked along in white walking shoes. We charged along the narrow street bordering Trovasso canal and crossed Campo San Margarita. Sra. Sammartini stopped at a heavy green door. A caretaker welcomed us into Villa Luchesse, one of the oldest and most picturesque gardens.

Low boxwood hedges surrounded squares of roses extending the full depth of the garden. A royal palm tree shot up as tall as the villa’s four floors and surrounding the garden were fruit trees, cypress and pines. And just over the brick wall, I could see the bell tower of a Renaissance church. The quiet of the garden relaxed me at once, glad to avoid noises of pedestrian street traffic.

“Is this what you wanted to paint,” she asked and her eyes danced with wonderment.

“It is paradise,” I replied.

From the beginning Sra. Sammartini spoke English with a Venetian accent. She seemed to utter half truths. She never completed a sentence or thought. She didn’t wear her teeth, so the words sounded slurred. She coughed often and my guess is the cigarettes were ruining her speech. She confided that she was having a reoccurance of cancer. That made me sad.

I don’t know what makes a friendship. Do friends share secrets and pretend nothing? Good friends are reliable, have fun together, smile and respect one another’s feelings. With all these thoughts, I grew to like Contessa Tudy Sammartini. I would have paid her twice the money she earned as my guide. Yet our friendship was short and difficult to share and I am not sure we were not having a simple cross-cultural encounter.

Tudy arrived in my life five years earlier when I bought her book at the Academia Museum. In “Secret Gardens of Venice,” she illustrated and wrote of the charm of outdoor rooms where friends, literary aficionados and lovers since the 16th century could meet for intimate discussions with out public scrutiny. I wished one day to be invited into just one of those gardens. Two years later, I returned to Venice and spent the evening at a friend’s flat. During the evening, Mario told me he was a neighbor of the author of “Secret Gardens of Venice.”

“She is just upstairs,” he said. “I’ll get her on the phone for you.” That was 10 p.m. She was busy at a dinner party but said that whenever I return to Venice to paint, she would be glad to get me into some of the gardens in her book.

Three years later, I sent her my request by fax. Finally, she announced that she had 19 gardens lined up for me to choose from. “That will keep you busy,” she concluded.

After two weeks of following my guide through gardens, all owned by her friends, Tudy announced one day that she thought it would be nice for me to have a meal with her friends who had opened up their gardens to me.

“And you will pay for it,” she added. I gulped.

“But I won’t understand what they are saying,” I complained, breathlessly.

“Don’t worry. I will be sitting next to you and can tell you what is being said.”

Try as I could to rely on my Italian lessons, I understood nothing.

“What are they talking about,” I finally asked.

“Oh, they are talking about their cats.”

“Please ask them what it is like to wake up in an old, historic house that has been in the family for generations,” I asked Tudy.

“Oh, I know what they will say. You wake up worried about what repairs have to be made that day.”

“But they love their gardens and their roses,” I continued. “Do they rush out to their gardens to see what new flowers have bloomed overnight? Do they think about their gardens in the early morning?”

She relayed my question to Anna Barnabo who owns Palazzo Barnabo Malipiero on the Grand Canal. Anna beamed. Yes, she nodded. She goes in the early morning to her cortile (courtyard) to see her roses.

I painted at Palazzo Barnabo for three days, and felt I was in a magical place surrounded by hundreds of pink and white roses. I was vaguely aware of boats passing like humming birds as I painted from morning to late afternoon. Once Anna came to the cortile to turn off the fountain and we spoke in Italian and English.

On the last night of my stay in Venice, Tudy invited me to dinner at her house. She cooked fresh fish and tasty vegetables capped of by a family dessert. She lives in what she calls her studio in a quiet corner of Venice, near the docks for freighters and ocean steamers. Her studio is all of a bedroom, library and kitchen. Her library is a priceless collection of rare manuscripts of Venice.

She recently completed a two-year renovation of a villa next door but has decided she would rather live in her studio.

Finally, I said goodbye to my Venetian guide and new friend. We smiled and hugged. Then I handed her 880 Euros ($1,144). I would have given her more. My visits with a Venetian contessa were priceless.

John Berendt in “The City of Falling Angels,” writes that Venetians are suspicious of newcomers who spend fortunes to buy their way into Venetian society. While I touched briefly into Venetian life, I cared more for painting their lovely hidden gardens than for Venetian society.

Welcome to my new blog!

2007-01-23T14:12:00.000-08:00

I'm going to start blogging notes and thoughts that I hope to compile into a book on my experiences in plein air painting around the world.

Please tune in for more information, but in the meantime, please visit my website at www.rosannahall.net.