Something else I think about a fair bit is what I (not having the proper words for it) call the amount of
hand in a painting. That is, in some paintings, you can see the artist's hand in 'em; there are brushstrokes and paint blended wet in wet, and they're more
painterly, it's called. These pictures look like someone painted them, and the process is a little more transparent; you can imagine the painter's brush moving from here to there, because there's a visible record of it right there on the picture. In others, well, who knows how the hell it was made? There's a picture, sure, but god knows how it got there. This latter can happen in a couple of ways, depending on how opaque the paint is. I'll explain a little more in a bit.
To illustrate somewhat clumsily, here are two of my pictures,
A Surprise Visit (still available for purchase, pimp pimp) and
Master of Spiritual Guidance (heretofore referred to as "Llama" or "the llama," because I never remember the actual names I put on the things):
You can see the painter's hand slapping opaque paint around in a madcap fashion.
No brushstrokes; is this a silkscreen print or what? (Actual question I received.)
In the first, you can sort of see the picture being made; in the second, I used a small paintbrush loaded up with more and thinner paint, which gives the clean lines. The first looks like someone painted it; the second looks like someone maybe figured out how to print on canvas with an inkjet printer. (Which you can do now; they sell 8.5 x 11 canvas sheets at Office Depot!) Roy Lichtenstein, the Pop Art guy who painted huge frames from comics, used opaque paint and rarely showed brushstrokes, for a famous example.
Here's a more drastic example. Here are details from first, a painting by David Park, and then one by Jan Van Eyck.
Park: hand for days
Van Eyck: inscrutableIn contrast to my silkscreen llama above, Van Eyck used, from what I understand, 80 million thin transparent glazes to build up the picture above with admittedly amazing technical precision. Good luck trying to find a brushstroke in that picture.
Now, for me, in 2005, when I look at a painting, I cringe when I see paint trying to be something else. Van Eyck gets a pass because he was doing the above centuries before the photograph even existed. I spent years in art departments at design firms and ad agencies, and I have a passable, if dated, knowlege of how commercial art production works. I use Photoshop for pretty much every picture I make.
So to me, if Mondrian was making these pictures now, I'd say he should put down the paintbrush, use Adobe Illustrator, and save countless time. Bang bang, coupla nice lines, colored box or two, off to the large-format printer, done. Doing a picture like this in oil paint, today, is to me kind of pointless. Sure, it's possible, and it's impressive that he could pull it off, but really, that's not what the materials are good at. You have a picture in mind, you should pick the appropriate medium and not try and shoehorn another medium to fit your idea.
Composition with Red, Yellow, and Blue by Piet MondrianI have the same reaction to the photorealist guys like Richard Estes and others who make super-detailed paintings that look just like photographs! Photography's already been invented, guys--make a C-print already. These kind of feel to me like an electric guitarist who uses an E-Bow to make the guitar sound like a violin. We already have violins, you know.
Going back to my pictures, by the above criteria, I kind of failed (and made myself a hypocrite) with the llama. It doesn't look like paint, it looks like a silkscreen. Now, generally, I just try and make a nice picture and don't kick myself too hard for not conforming to my own art likes and dislikes. I'm still figuring out how I want to do things, and this is not the least of my stumbles along the way.
Also, the llama picture sold the first time I showed it, and I still have Surprise Visit up in my hallway. Shows you how much I know.