If you've been following my ramblings for a while you may recall that I belong to a club called the NYC Urban Sketchers. It's the local branch of an international group of artists of all levels, from professionals to total beginners. We get together to sketch at various locations around town, making beautiful friendships and inspiring each other along the way.

In the "before" times (gee, seems so long ago!) the NYC Urban Sketchers gathered in person once or twice a week. Now we continue to meet regularly, except virtually, at a socially safe distance. There's a sketching prompt at each meeting, and by necessity most of us work from photos. However, my own personal preference is to work from observation. So I usually paint an interior scene, or set up a still life. And try to follow the prompt as best I can.

Recently, at our online holiday party, the prompt was to sketch a festive holiday cocktail. Hmmm. That was a tall order, since I seldom have anything resembling an alcoholic drink, let alone such a fancy one. But as it happens I had just unearthed a box from deep within the forgotten recesses of my closet, filled with six adorable shot glasses from the '50s. Each glass featured a pair of flamenco dancers, each in slightly different costumes and poses. And, as my friend with a poetic flair pointed out, they are all dancing together — yet separately. Each pair in their own little glass bubble. A metaphor for our times.

I tried doing something a little different in this painting. I used hot press paper instead of my usual cold press. Hot press paper is a little less forgiving, and it's harder to go back and correct anything I may have messed up. This approach forces me to make bold, executive decisions with each brushstroke, and then just leave it alone. For better or worse. It may result in a few nicks and bruises, but overall the quality of the paint stays fresh and lively. Such a hard lesson for me to learn! My perfectionist nature shrinks back in horror at the very thought of letting something go if it's not quite right. But in watercolor, as in so many things, the perfect is the enemy of the good. Just gotta be brave, that's all.

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Sometimes paintings are so easy that they practically paint themselves. It's as if I were merely a conduit for some mysterious entity in the universe that knows exactly what to do and how to do it. For me those paintings are the most satisfying. They're the ones where suddenly I'm able to surrender my deepest longing for an ideal perfection. A perfection that exists only in my illusions.

For me, letting go of this fantasy is a rare occurrence. Usually my watercolor practice is more of a mundane affair. I find myself struggling with the complications of technique in a medium that I still find  baffling. But as I practice and experiment there are moments without as much sweating and swearing. When I'm brave enough to accept the little imperfections gracefully and allow myself to just go with the flow. Watercolor is a medium where the most beautiful effects happen when you place your brushstrokes down confidently and then just leave well enough alone. I'll get there. Eventually. It's my New Year's goal.

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Have you been enjoying this holiday season? Indulged in any celebratory treats and libations, even if you've been partying at home alone? I certainly hope so!

During the holidays I've continued doing what I love: painting! Watching online tutorials and trying to improve my watercolor skills. Just like musicians, dancers, and other artists, painters get better with good old-fashioned study and practice. In future posts I'll show you what I've been working on. Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, I wish we could share some holiday cheer together, right here and now in my studio. But instead I'll share my latest teacup painting, complete with coffee, cookies and cream. A little treat for my friends. With many thanks for all your encouragement and support during the past year. ❤

Good bye, 2020! May 2021 will be a kinder, sweeter and healthier year for us all.

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My mother loves flowers, and years ago she got a beautiful china dinnerware set with a lovely floral pattern. This week I've been practicing teacups and saucers, which is a subject I've been meaning to get to for a while. I've been putting it off because all the delicate little flowers and leaves can be fiddly to paint. Frankly I was intimidated. The dilemma was to keep the watercolor fresh while still indicating the details. But then I remembered that every painting pretty much presents this very same problem. So I decided to give it a go. After all, what's the worst that could happen, a lousy painting? Screw it, just do it!

And you thought that painting was a peaceful, relaxing pastime, didn't you? Well, for some of us it involves taking a risk. Both to paint and then to share our work — triumphs, blunders, and all. To expose our vulnerable parts to the world. But most of all to ourselves.

Dear friends and followers, you help sustain me with the courage to keep going! Thanks for visiting.

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My sister asked me two excellent questions today that made me stop and think. The first one was: How do you get the water in your paintings to look like water?

Hmmm. I've never given this question a whole lot of thought. At least in any specific, scientifically-minded way. After all, I'm an artist, not a scientist. Truth is, I really just paint water like I paint anything else. That is, I merely observe whatever shapes and colors are right there in front of me. And I try to render them as faithfully as my pigments and skill level allow.

For example, as I painted Mums in a Bud Vase (below) I could see that the flowers had lots of crispy edges and the colors were clear and intense. The stems beneath them had softer edges and the colors were muted in comparison. This was because the glass vase formed a translucent layer in front of the stems and enveloped them in haze. An additional soupy layer was created when the stems dipped down into the water. So the stems appeared even softer and fainter there.

But wait, why do the stems seem to bend as they enter the water? Well, if I remember my physics correctly, light is a wave of energy that travels through many materials, including air and space. It can also pass through glass and water. But glass and water are denser than air, so the waves slow down as they pass through them. Slowing down makes the light waves change direction. Straight objects look as if they bend as they hit the water. Or they can seem to break and move over slightly. Or something like that. As I said, I'm not a scientist.

Okay, so I carefully painted the flowers and stems according to what I actually observed. I also included the line where the water starts in the vase. In the context of flowers and vases I think the viewer can easily tell that there's water involved!

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I'm a painter, and never intended to write a food blog. But since fruits and vegetables are so beautiful to look at I often wind up using them in my still life paintings. Right now the grocery stores around here are stocked with mandarin oranges and hachiya persimmons, two gorgeous fruits that originated in Asia. Every autumn I look out for them because they make such wonderful subjects to paint.

Mandarin oranges are deliciously sweet and come in several varieties. A quick internet search revealed that these particular mandarins are called satsumas. Fortunately for me satsuma oranges are shipped with stems and leaves still attached. This protects the oranges and makes them more fun to paint. ☺️

I purposely tried to keep the edges as wet and soft as I could. My aim was to use sharper edges only where absolutely necessary. So you could tell that I was painting oranges and leaves, and not just puddles of pretty colors. This soft method takes advantage of the flowing, watery nature of the watercolor medium. And is a continual source of learning and experimentation for an artist who started out as an oil painter.

Persimmons also come in varieties. The two most commonly sold in New York City are fuyus and hachiyas. Fuyus are the flat round ones, sweet and ripe while still firm. I painted the other type, hachiya persimmons. Hachiyas have pointed ends like acorns, and need to get good and soft before you can eat them. Otherwise they're quite astringent and can make your mouth pucker, blech!

My persimmons had reached the ripe, delicious stage. I put the lovely orange-red fruits in a silver bowl, and placed them on a patterned fabric to create an interesting reflection.  But I didn't want that beautiful, busy fabric to take over the whole painting. So I muted the patterns by keeping their edges soft. And I upped the contrast, details, and color intensity in the fruit. That's how my luscious persimmons hold your attention and remain as the center of interest.

Thanks for visiting!

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Carnations are beautiful but they're a tough egg to crack. They've got nooks and crannies, little ruffled edges, and petals that go every which way and back again. And yet the light travels across them in an observable pattern, just like any other object you might choose to paint. The trick is to observe the pattern, and then stick to it come hell or high water. No matter how many bewildering little details get in the way. You gotta generalize all those details and still make it read as a carnation. Easy, peasy, right? Ha!

Every week I bring flowers home for my dear mamá, and this week I decided on a simple, sweet bouquet of deep pink carnations. I took a few flowers for myself, and placed them in a bud vase for a small watercolor. One watercolor painting led to another as I practiced my carnation technique. I tried different configurations of flowers and  backgrounds to see how they would look. A fun and interesting  exercise that I'll probably do more of in future.

In the meantime here are two carnation paintings ready for prime time. Thanks for visiting!

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My goodness it's been an exciting week! Between the national election and family obligations I've had the attention span of an anxious gnat. And I'm ready for two weeks of being thoroughly spoiled. Nevertheless I managed to complete a small, quick watercolor this very morning. Saved by the bell.

I bought some honeycrisps at this week's farmers market. My favorite apples, crisp and sweet. I picked out these two apples to paint because they looked so beautiful with their leaves still attached.

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My mother loves bright, beautiful multi-colored bouquets of flowers. And who doesn't? Lately I've been bringing flowers home to her quite frequently. Just that little drop of nature seems to lift our spirits while so many of our usual activities are on hold. Besides, she enjoys painting flowers. It runs in the family.

Recently I bought a gigantic bunch of blossoms that crowded even our biggest, baddest vase. I thinned it out by removing the tiny white baby's breath that florists use to pad out their arrangements. Maybe I'm alone in this, but I've never thought that baby's breath did much for bouquets anyway. So I put the little flowers into their own mini bud vase and casually set them in front of a blue screen. And there they magically transformed into a twinkly, star-like vision that became the inspiration for a painting.

Only thing is, how could I possibly paint a nice blue watercolor wash around all those teeny tiny little white flowers without going mad? Then I remembered that some watercolorists use liquid masking fluid (also called friskit) for just such a purpose. They brush the frisket onto paper, and wherever it lands it resists the watercolor paint. And abracadabra, it reserves the white of the paper. So cool.

However, I once used friskit with disastrous results, probably because it was way past it's sell-by date. Instead of rubbing off nicely when I was finished, it turned a nasty gray and stuck to the paper. Not only that, but it ruined the brush too. Ugh, I wasn't looking forward to a repeat performance. Nevertheless I persevered. This time with a brand new bottle of Schmincke liquid friskit that came highly recommended. And it worked like a charm. Thank goodness.

In the the language of flowers baby's breath is a symbol of everlasting love, pureness, and innocence. No wonder they're often found in wedding bouquets. Here's my homage to their celestial beauty. You can click on the image to see it larger, to purchase, or to contact me about the painting. Thanks for visiting!

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There was a tussle in the studio this week. Between me and my painting of a lovely red cyclamen plant. No matter what I did the painting just wouldn't come out right. Even after I made pencil studies of the tricky parts and then tried again. And again. It was a good fight but finally I'd had enough. Win some lose some. So why am I telling you this? Because if you're following my blog there's a good chance you're interested in the life of a painter. And let me tell you, there are humbling moments to spare. But they're nothing to get excited or discouraged about. No, I just do my best and move on to the next, and try to learn from the experience. Each and every painting is another step toward mastery. Even if it's a turkey.

But that left me without a new painting to post. Fortunately I found three sketches in my Pandemic Summer of 2020 Stash that had somehow never made it onto the blog. And why was that? Because I was trying to grow as an artist and had been exploring new techniques. And my experiments didn't turn out exactly as I had hoped for and imagined. But really, what does it matter? So what if they've got a few flaws, they're still mementos of an extraordinary summer of my life. My life that just whizzes by.

As you might expect during an epidemic, I didn't wander far from home for these sketches. The first two were within a few blocks of my NYC apartment. The third was on a hot, sunny afternoon in Central Park's Conservancy Garden. I didn't get to paint outdoors as much as I do most summers, but I didn't spend the entire season indoors either. Here's the proof.

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