‘I knew it was you - I recognise the hat.’ People have a habit of approaching me with this comment when I'm out painting. My reaction is mixed. Yes, it’s nice to be recognised, but it seems I’m more recognisable for my hat than for my paintings. Nobody has ever come up to me and said, ‘I knew it was you - I recognise the brushwork.' Or even - ‘I recognise the face.’ No, it’s always The Hat. And that is always how they say it - ‘Hat’, with emphasis and a capital H. ~ And it is quite an emphatic hat - however much I cram it down, it has a habit of slowly rising up, adding inches to my height, and giving me the appearance of having a somewhat conical head. But when you're out painting on a cold winter's day, appearances come way down the list. All that matters is to wrap up warm, and this hat is capable of keeping out the stiffest Norfolk wind. ~ Someone I've known for about ten years recently remarked, ‘You’ve been wearing that hat ever since I’ve known you’, which isn't quite true, as I do have other hats for other occasions, and in the milder weather I don't wear a hat at all. But it did make me wonder whether my friend, like everyone else, only recognises me when I'm wearing this particular one... ~ Out of curiosity, I went back through my archive photos to find the oldest record of me working in this hat. And I got a shock. I found this one which shows a much younger me lugging my painting gear up a sand hill on the east coast. It’s the same hat, identifiable not only by its stripes but by its quirky conical habit, and judging by the photo I must have had it for at least 30 years. They don't knit them to last like that any more. ~ ‘I didn’t see you there - you don’t have your hat on,’ said someone the other day. Now that really is worrying. It suggests that not only am I more recognisable by my hat than by my artwork, but unless I’m actually wearing said hat, I’m completely invisible….. Wishing everyone all the best for the New Year - and if you are venturing out to paint plein air in this cold weather, wrap up warm, and don't forget your hat...
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We’re officially into Autumn, but over the last month we’ve had some good weather mixed among the bad. Out with my charcoals and ‘small paints’ I saw these figures with sleeves rolled up and relaxing in the September sun. Having made my observations, I did a simple, pared down charcoal drawing. I needed to work quickly, because people have an annoying habit of getting up and walking away, and with this in mind I eschewed the idea of drawing likenesses, instead I concentrated on general proportions, and what bird watchers call ‘the jiz’, the way they sit, stand or relax. Then I dived in with the watercolour. People often ask me about the order in which the colours are painted - in this case I keyed in the figures first, then dropped the background around them - I wanted especially to keep the light and warm tones and the bright yellow, which all needed to be directly on white paper in order to retain the ‘lights and brights’. Also, I was aware that my 'sitters' could get up and walk away at any moment, so I needed to capture them before this happened. When the background was washed in around the figures, the latter were still a tad damp, so I needed to take care with the brush in order to preserve hard edges where needed and prevent colours bleeding - hence the touches of white space here and there around the figures. Had I been tackling a subject that wasn’t liable to get up and walk away, I would have been able to wait for the first washes to dry fully, before sloshing in their surroundings. In fact, in the few minutes that it took for the figures to dry, the couple to the left had already walked off, but the foreground group was still there, enjoying the sun. I keyed in the shadows and contours on the figures with a superimposed (wet on dry) wash. The same brush of colour was used across the group, the shadows being painted in a brisk series of flicks and dabs, just as your pen might flow through the writing of a sentence. You might be surprised at the use of charcoal with watercolour. There is something about these two very different mediums that I enjoy putting together. The secret is to use the watercolour with a swift and light hand, in order to prevent the charcoal mixing in and sullying the colours. ~ Three effects of using charcoal and watercolour. Top: two bands of watercolour laid either side of a charcoal line. The charcoal retains its full tone. Middle: the watercolour is swept briskly across the charcoal line. The charcoal has lifted and lightened a little, and a few grains settle into the wash, but the colour stays clean. Bottom: the watercolour is worked into the charcoal, both lifting the line and sullying the colour. ~ 'Chilling Out' was painted on 1/8th imperial canson mi teintes paper.
It's the height of summer, the gardens are in full bloom, but if you still have a space in the border, or have a flower vase you want to fill, a trip to Fakenham market on a Thursday morning will find several stalls dedicated to plants and flowers. This watercolour was painted on Saunders Waterford quarter imperial 'not' paper. I was drawn to the subject by the hazy quality of the light and the way the display of flowers seemed to tumble and flow almost like a waterfall, from the table down to the pavement. Once upon a time Fakenham had a thriving cattle market and printing industry. But in the 1960s both railway stations closed, the cattle and the print works disappeared, and Fakenham became a sleepy backwater, bypassed by the rest of the world. But on Thursdays, Fakenham comes alive once more - the centre of town is choc-a-bloc with bright canopied stalls, selling everything from cheese, fish and vegetables to baskets, bric-a-brac and ironmongery. The tea wagon starts brewing, the smell of hot dogs fills the air, and tables fill up with people eating al fresco. On one street corner or another, buskers, displaying their talents on guitars, violins or accordions, attract a small, passing audience and welcome the tossing of coins into a hat. Occasionally, amid the crowd, an artist might be seen, beavering away, with sketchbook in hand. As people pass by there's no time for detailed study. I stand for some time, observing the scene, and among the crowds there will be certain characters that stand out. The three sketches that illustrate this month's blog show the universal appeal of taking home an attractive bouquet... Unlike the buskers, I don't seek an audience when I'm out on site. But the only problem with working in busy places is that I'm more likely to attract attention. Much as I try to hide away in a quiet corner, people still manage to seek me out and look over my shoulder as I work. I don't mind, as long as they don't break my concentration by trying to engage me in conversation. When I'm painting I find that the frequent splat of a paintbrush tends to make them step back and give me a bit of space. But when all I have is a sketchbook, my favoured piece of ammunition is missing... I can hardly poke them with the sharp end of a pencil if they get too close, so I tend to respond with an occasional distracted grunt, as they tell me how their grandfather exhibited at the Royal Academy, and how they had a go once, but couldn't draw a straight line. There is usually a pause, as they watch me work, during which I somehow manage to show that I can't draw a straight line either. They then step away, saying, 'It's a gift, isn't it?' Occasionally this remark is delivered in such a way as to imply that not only do they lack such a gift, but evidently so do I... ~ The one time I do welcome an audience is when I give painting demos and talks. On such occasions, you are guaranteed not to be treated to a string of inattentive grunts or splatted with paint water. But amid the selection of greetings cards for sale, you will find that I have taken a tip from the buskers, and there will be a strategically placed upturned hat for receipt of coins! ~ Every picture tells a story, they say, and whenever I pitch an easel out in the open I invariably attract someone who wants to watch. Frequently, they tell me about how their grandfather exhibited with the RI, and how they had a go once, but couldn't find The Muse. I normally reply that The Muse is very evasive and demands a certain amount of artistic blood to be squeezed from stone before she deigns to appear! Sometimes I have an encounter that, though brief, stays with me forever. The first time I set up an easel at Wells-next-the-Sea was one such occasion. I had spent the morning pastelling in Staithe Street and, my subject finished, I did some lightning studies of figures as they strolled by. Presently, an old lady appeared, shuffling up the street, pushing a battered shopping trolley. I have an affection for shopping trolleys, as I have owned a succession of them. I've never actually used one for shopping, but for carrying my easel, painting boards and other gear, because the spot where the Muse has decided to sit and wait for me is often, inconveniently, half a mile from the car. While the old lady was still some way off, I began to sketch her - not with any view of doing a likeness, just to try and capture the way she moved, and how she paused from time to time to catch her breath, before shuffling on a bit further. Her coat, which must have fitted perfectly once, was now too big, so that she seemed to have shrunken into it like a wizened walnut within its shell. Her shoes were like boats, and looked in danger of tripping her up. As she drew closer, I stopped sketching and just held my breath, ready to dart forward and lend a helping hand if needed. Finally, she drew level with me and wished me a 'Good maarnin'.' We exchanged a few words, but between my struggling to latch onto her broad Norfolk, and she being somewhat deaf, we didn't get beyond a few amiable nods and smiles. We made our farewells and, my work finished, I took a couple of photos up and down the street as reference for later use in the studio. As the old lady turned away, my ear was at last sufficiently attuned to catch her parting comment. 'Don' yew go takin' a picture of me, tha' lens might break!' And off she went, pushing her wonky trolley up the street, the squeaking of its wheels still audible after she had disappeared into the crowd. Although I visited Wells many times thereafter, I never met her again, but she made such an impression on me that she has lived on in many a painting of street and market place. And here she is in this pastel of Staithe Street. This subject was worked on fine glass paper. With its multi-faceted texture it's good at bringing out the 'brights' in pastel. But its rough surface devours pastel sticks rapidly, and if you aren't careful it will also take the skin off your fingers! For that reason I very rarely use it, preferring papers such as Canson mi teintes or the softly flecked surface of Tiziano. 'Staithe Street, Wells' can be viewed in the Pastel Gallery under Landscape and Marine. |
Judith Key
Judith Key is a Norfolk based artist, working in watercolour and pastel. She has exhibited with the Society of Graphic Fine Artists and New English Art Club at the Mall Galleries, London. Her paintings are in collections worldwide. Categories
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