5/4/2006 9:07:00 AM Acrylics according to Max Grover
Max Grover holds up his own work as an example for his acrylic painting students to follow. Grover instructs his students to fill 90 percent of the canvas. – Photo by Kathie Meyer
“It’s only paint; it’s not brain surgery. That’s the mantra for the class,” says Max Grover.
To me, acrylic paint is something I use to cover up boo boos when making assemblage art. I’ve never wanted to be a painter, but I’ve landed in Grover’s painting class for two reasons: I’m doing the “girlfriend thing” with DD Wigley, and I hope I’ll be a better arts writer if I have hands-on painting experience.
Acrylics
Acrylics are a type of paint made with synthetic resin pigment binder as opposed to natural oils like linseed used in oil paints. They’re good beginner material because they dry faster than oil and are water soluble ? “forgiving” qualities when mistakes are made ? however, you’ll also see acrylic used in world-class paintings such as Helen Frankenthaler’s abstracts, Peter Halley’s geometric pieces and Leon Golub’s politically charged “Mercenaries I.”
The first acrylics were produced in the 1920s and 1930s in Germany, but it wasn’t until the 1950s that they emerged as a painter’s medium; so if someone offers you a 19th-century acrylic painting for sale, be sure to call them a liar before you quickly end negotiations. Price-wise, the cadmium colors are the most expensive, and siennas ? made from Italian dirt ? the least.
First assignment
The class gathers around Max’s table. He begins by painting a large, red Converse hi-top shoe. You want to make sure all of your objects are nice and big and fill the paper, he instructs. “You should fill in 90 percent” of the canvas, he says.
As he paints, I look at my own Converse hi-tops on my feet. This prompts Max to tell the class that we can’t look at objects but must paint from our imagination.
We’re also told not to “fall in love with our painting” or complain about it “until there is paint all over it.” Our first assignment is a still life of a pitcher, fruit and spoon on a mat on a table.
We begin with two-ply mat board canvases covered with “gesso.” Gesso is a grounding material that prepares the surface for painting, like a primer. The boards we’ve been given also have a layer of acrylic house paint on top of the gesso.
As we work, some of us have to adjust the “value” of our still life objects. If everything is painted using dark or light colors exclusively, the objects disappear. “Usually, you see the lightest thing on the painting,” says Grover as he walks around the room to observe.
Max stops at my side. “Kathie, what percentage of your painting would you say your objects are?”
I think a bit, remembering we were told to go for 90 percent, and ask, “Does the table count?”
“OK, I’ll throw in the table,” says Max.
DD pipes up and says ominously, “Oh, I know where this is going.”
I decide not to push it and ask if the tile floor can count too.
“Seventy-five percent?” I ask hopefully.
Landing the plane
Although I fall short of the percentage aspect, I see no reason to change the painting. In fact, I’ve broken another rule because, in this euphoric moment of making my first painting since kindergarten, I have fallen in love with it. And then, after Max helps with the final details such as highlights, shading and “wash” application over the whole mat board canvas, I’m in love with it more.
A wash is something the untrained eye probably won’t notice at Gallery Walk; it’s just a thin layer of highly watered-down paint. You can use any color, but Max often uses raw sienna for his washes, as he demonstrates with mine. As I watch it being applied, the simple process magically gives my work a more natural, dimensional aspect, warms up the overall look, and gives it greater depth.
As Max works, he “cleans” his brush with water and blots it on toilet paper still on the roll. “You know, the best toilet paper for painting is in gas stations ? the cheap stuff. If you go in a gas station bathroom and there’s no paper, you should blame it on a painter,” he says. Later, his wife, Sherry, says she’s never actually seen Max steal t.p.
I’m not so in love with my second painting. Our assignment is to illustrate a poem. I’ve chosen a William Stafford piece and feel I’ve not done it justice. Again, Max bails me out by adding shading of orange and purple. My boring, brown tree stump comes to life.
Before I become too demoralized, Max offers analogous encouragement. “You need to work on bringing it home, landing the plane. How many paintings have you ever done?”
“Two,” I say.
“Well, do you think anyone would expect you to land a 747 after you’ve only piloted a plane twice?”
“I know I wouldn’t,” offers DD.
Twenty basic problems
On the second day of the two-day class, I paint a standard seagull picture to illustrate the title “Ferry Fairies,” as another of our assignments was to think of three painting titles. Most often, Grover thinks of a title first ? he’s particularly fond of alliterative, rhyming and word-play titles ? and backs into his painting that way.
Something about my bird doesn’t ring true. I ask if I can wander over to Belltower Art and look for a seagull card. As a nonfiction writer, I consider this “research,” but Max nixes my idea and offers that a seagull’s beak is “hooked.” I change it, but when I return from lunch I see a small drawing at my work table ? a subtle hint from the teacher that not only is a seagull’s beak hooked but also it is flat on top.
Nevertheless, I’ve powered through and completed this painting ? shadowing, highlights, wash and all ? on my own, and I get some satisfaction from that despite the malformed beak.
There are about 20 basic problems that arise in paintings, says Grover. The most basic ones beginners make relate to composition, value, cutting off corners and undersized objects.
When he was a fledgling artist, Grover lived in Portland, Ore., where he took painting classes from René Rickabaugh at the Portland Art Museum to work out his own artist issues.
“It was a challenge to develop my own style instead of painting like my heroes did. And I had a hard time thinking of things to paint [until] I started to see the possibility in the world,” he said.
Grover likes to paint imaginary businesses, so when he and Sherry travel they keep alert for funky business ideas. Daily, he carries around a small notebook to jot down ideas that get transferred to a master file in his home studio.
Another thing Max tells beginning painters is that you have to paint 200 bad paintings, so just get them out of the way as soon as possible.
“They don’t all come at once. There’s nothing magic about [painting number 201]; there’s just a bunch and you need to paint through them. You have to put some mileage on your paint,” he says.
Finishing up
At the end of each class session, Grover hangs our paintings on the wall for group discussion and asks each of us, “What did you learn today?”
My lesson is more psychological than applied. I’ve learned to power through a painting without bemoaning its perceived weaknesses. Sometimes accidents happen that turn into what seems to be ? and I’m probably stretching it here ? planned genius. For instance, the yellow wash on my seagull started out as an unintended smear. But I don’t say that when Grover praises it.
As a final move, Max puts our paintings in a frame to demonstrate how a mat with generous borders and a simple frame can give artwork an extra punch. He asks me, “So, Kathie, have I changed your mind about painting?”
“Well, maybe,” I say. “I’m thinking about cheap Christmas presents.”
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