Pandemic Portrait Series

Pandemic Portrait No. 2

9" x 12" charcoal on paper

Prints available in multiple sizes here.

 

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Starting something, gotta be starting something

Inspired by the wonderful artist Nicolas Uribe. as seen here on Instagram and here on his  newly launched series on Youtube, Our Painted Lives, I decided to tackle a portrait using his some of his techniques. The result will be an oil painting on paper.

Following along with his first of 3 steps for a portrait I began with pencil drawing, using Faber Castelli, on a page of my sketchbook - Canson Multimedia 7"x 10." The sketch could probably have used some more detail but I was impatient to get to the paint. 

The next step consists of first preparing the paper by adding layers of clear acrylic binder to the surface of the paper.  I added  layers on the drawing side, letting each layer dry for at least an hour before adding the next layer, and then one more layer on the reverse. This immediately added more depth to the drawing as the pencil pigment spread slightly.

Next step is to create an underpainting

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Oil Portrait Study " Peter" with Process

This final 5"x7" oil painting came to be after a lot of stops and starts, scrape downs and wipe offs, re-shapes and adjustments but I'm content with this result:

First steps were sketches in charcoal and some light washes :

Gradually building up layers:

I was pretty happy at this stage, since it was very loose and expressive:

 I revisited it the next day because I wanted more detail and also felt there wasn't enough volume to the head, the darks and highlights weren't quite right yet - I wiped down the forehead and neck/shoulders:

And then attempted to bring the shadows/highlights back in but it was still a mess:

I also felt the likeness was off - I was working from my own reference photo and knew it was off. I took this last pic of the painting into photoshop and compared it to my source and could see where the position of some of his features were off and the width of the face was wrong. Had to wipe elements away - that was scary but I knew instantly that it was the right thing to do:

As I re-worked the face, I could see it coming together - the head was more of a 3/4 turn (as it should be) whereas the first efforts had mistakenly flattened the face to the viewer:

And done:

"Peter Study"
5" x 7" Oil on wood panel

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Dreadnought - Dread Knot - Dreadlock

Dreadnought: a type of battleship armed with heavy-caliber guns in turrets: so called from the British battleship Dreadnought, launched in 1906, the first of its type.

Yep, that pretty much sums him up.

Dreadnought - Dread Knot  - Dreadlock 
9”x12” charcoal on paper
Prints available here.

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Another portrait progression

Where have I been, where have I been!! ??

Just been preparing for our summer getaway to Jamaica and the watercolor class I'll be teaching. Sadly, that has taken quite a bit of time way from actually painting. And painting more and more is equally important in preparing to teach. So it goes.

Well I have yet another portrait in progress. I seem to have about a dozen or so that I keep shuffling around in my studio, starting one, putting it aside and starting another. I'm quite good at getting the first few washes and colors down on paper, and then I begin to get anxious. Finishing is the hard part. But I'm determined to finish ALL of them in due time.

So without further adieu, here's the latest, shown in two steps -- I began with a pencil drawing this time, rather than using an ink sketch..........

The colors are a bit bizarre, hmmmm? And I've avoided working up the background which I really need to figure out. Negative space is equally important to the positive space, yet I've given it short shrift. I"m liking the face, however -- here's close up....

Ok, more to come very soon!

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Jube Redux

I know I haven't posted much these past two weeks, because I've been spending time working on some much larger paintings than the typical 4"x6" smaller portrait series. They take considerably more time to complete.

This is another portrait of our friend, Jube. I'd painted a portrait of Jube when I first started the blog back in September. It was a 4"x6" and was quite somber. I think this larger portrait, 12"x16", captures much more of the light and colorful energy that typically surrounds him.

At least on his good days......................

Jube No. 3
Ink and watercolor on paper
Prints available here.

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Iyah, the Roots Doktah

Roots Doctor
Ink and wtercolor on paper
Purchase a print here.

Shelley was feeling miserable. She had just arrived on the island the day before, after a two-week trek through Italy. She was tired and looking forward to just sitting on the beach for a week. She needed a vacation from her vacation.

And somewhere between Milan and Montego Bay, she'd wrenched her shoulder. I expect she'd hefted a too-heavy bag one too many times in the past 48 hours and winced with every movement of her hand. I fetched two bandanas from our cottage and tied them together, an impromptu ragamuffin-stylee sling. It eased some of the downward pull on her strained muscle. I bought her a gin and tonic at the Whistling Bird bar and she gingerly sat herself down at the nearest table.

And as things often mysteriously transpire in Jamaica, I soon spotted a small, spry elder dread trudging up the central path of the WB property, heading for the bar. He looked to be close to 70, with salt-and-pepper stringy dreads to his shoulders. He'd clearly taken time with his attire that morning, wearing freshly-pressed trousers, a clean white tee shirt topped by a bright tomato-red vest. A bowl-shaped caramel brown felt hat threatened to tumble off the crown of his head with each step. He carried a heavy backpack over one shoulder.

"Have you had the pleasure of meeting Iyah, our favorite roots doctor?" boomed Jim, as he followed Iyah up to the bar. Nope, we have not. But how fitting that a Roots Doktah should appear in Shelley's hour of need.

Iyah removed his hat briefly to wipe his brow and nodded in our direction. He asked Miss G for a glass of water and dropped his backpack to his feet.

"Got anything in that bag for a sore shoulder?", asked Shelley, grimacing. "I could sure use some kinda nice bush salve. Whatcha got in there Iyah?" Shelley had been traveling to Jamaica for nearly 20 years and was well acquainted with the wonders of the bush.

Iyah shook his head slowly, smiling. "But mi haff da ting fi heal yuh sed weh." He reached into his pack and pulled out a gallon-sized plastic jug, filled with the requisite murky brown roots tonic.

Oh no. Not the roots tonic. We'd all tried the roots tonic, that fermented mixture of a dozen different roots, barks and leaves that "purified the blood." And tasted like a compost heap.

"Mmmm, no disrespect, Iyah, but mi nuh really wan' the roots right now, seen?" said Shelley. "Mi no teenk dat can fix what ails mi." Iyah bristled visibly at her characterization of his elixir as simply "roots." He stepped closer with the heavy jug, lifting it up to her face. The jug's murky contents sloshed up and down the inside, leaving a filmy residue.

"Dis nah jess roots, miss," sniffed Iyah. Jim nodded approvingly from the bar. "Dis yah a mi own speshal tonic. Dis yah tonic a cure evry-TING."

Shelley gave him a cool nod. Nobody wanted to insult the elder but she knew the roots was not what she wanted right now, no matter how unique the recipe. She had no doubt of the curative powers of certain roots, but knew its limitations as well.

Iyah continued with his spiel. "Dis yah tonic a cure headache, it a cure cough, an it a purify deh blood." We nodded, we knew the reputation of the roots.

"An' it a cure CAN-SAH." What? Hmmm, that's a new one.

"An' it a cure deh AIDS dem!" Well. THAT certainly was a new addition to the miracle healing power of roots. Shelley glanced at me, raising her eyebrows.

"Cancer? And AIDS?", asked Shelley. Iyah nodded knowingly at us, fools that we were, apparently unable to appreciate the value of his wares.

"Well, that sure is some powerful tonic yuh got there, Iyah, but right now I'll just settle for the tonic that comes with mi gin, seen?"

Iyah shrugged, put his jug back in his pack, gave us a slight bow, and moved on up the beach. There was no doubt another sufferer in an hour of need.

Bush Doctor
Ink and watercolor on paper.
Print available here.

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Something was not right

The first time I met him, he was with his mother and older brother. She introduced herself as Empress Shaniqua, and presented her two young sons to me as Prince Elijah and Prince Iwon. I had to respect the attempt to present herself with great dignity, given that her clothing was sunbleached and threadbare, the princes wore no shoes, and they all lived in a small board house on a remote mountain top, without indoor plumbing.

Well, it WAS her palace and she WAS the resident Empress. And I guess every mother would call her sons "prince." It just seemed as if Empress Shaniqua took it one step further, and insisted that we all address her and the little boys with their formal titles.

When I returned a year later, the Empress was no longer in residence. Seems she was a city girl from Town who eventually came to the realization that rasta life inna country yard was not really her cup of tea, royal title or not. She took one prince, and left the younger one with the Ras.

And she cleaned out the savings account before hopping on the last minibus for Kingston.

So the Ras was left with this little Prince, who clearly had a problem.

My first thought was that the little boy had perhaps suffered some form of birth defect. But I didn't remember him looking like this the last time I'd met him. I don't think it's politically correct to say "mentally retarded" these days, but I must honestly admit that's exactly what I was thinking as I watched him move about the yard. He looked up at us with half open, heavy-lidded eyes; his jaw was slack and he tended to drool.

The Ras clearly had his hands full. As we spoke, he slowly began to talk about the Empress and what they discovered about their youngest prince. He had become progressively worse over the past year, his physical symptoms slowly worsening to the point that a formal doctor had finally been consulted. Actually, I think it took several different doctors before they pinned it down.

The diagnosis: Myesthenia Gravis

Myasthenia gravis, according to what I've read, is a chronic autoimmune disease characterized by varying degrees of weakness of the voluntary muscles of the body. It is typical for such muscles as those that control eye and eyelid movement, facial expression, chewing, talking, and swallowing to be adversely affected.The disease is most debilitating if the muscles that control breathing, the neck and limb movements are affected.

When we next visit the Ras and the little prince, I hope we'll have some information about new treatments for the disease.

And I'll remember not to judge a book by its cover, royal title or not.

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Driving While Rasta

I'd have said this guy was the life of the party, but that honor typically went to my husband. Instead, he was more the ever-present sidekick, the perfect foil. Laid back without being lazy, he was the first to find the humor in any situation, no matter how grim.

He was usually peering at me over some miniscule sunglasses perched on the tip of his nose, more of a nod to style than to the glaring sunlight. He'd top off his mile-long dreads with a jauntily-placed and thickly-knit woolen tam, regardless of the heat, A voice deeper than a basement, he'd patiently repeat himself for me, slowly, when the patois became too thick. Then punctuate his sentence with a slow "aaaaal-riiiight?" and a big grin.

Older, but not necessarily wiser, he struck more as an affable absent-minded professor, ragamuffin style. Hopping in the car on a moment's notice, road-trip ready, he was a self-professed expert on the runnings of 'town. He'd navigate from the backseat when we crossed the Kingston city limits.

"Go soh, go soh!", he'd shout, as we approached an intersection.

"Yah soh? or deh soh?", my husband would shout from the driver's seat, glancing over his shoulder, and uncertain as to whether to make a left or a right.

"Soh, soh, ovah soh", said The Professor.

This particular use of patois was not exceptionally helpful when driving.

"Yah soh" and "deh soh" loosely translate into "here" and "there" respectively. And the simple us of "soh" essentially leaves it up to the imagination. We came to a grinding halt as they argued about yah so vs. deh soh until The Professor finally used his finger to point to the proper choice of roadway. Peter fumed and The Professor laughed.

It's been years since I've seen The Professor. I'd had no idea his peaceful easy facade was propped up by a deep addiction. But looking at him here, without the props of style, I should have known there was more to The Professor than met my eyes.

Driving While Rasta
Ink and watercolor on paper

Purchase a print of this painting here.

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Yuh kinda quiet, eenh?

No, he wasn't quiet. Geritol spoke faster than any human I'd ever met.

He spoke at such a rapid speed it seemed his lips barely touched one another, the words bursting forth so fast that his own mouth could barely contain them.

We were taking my first of many bredren road trips, the rhythms of which I'd eventually come to understand and enjoy. But the very first time was like taking a test that I hadn't studied for, like landing on another planet without radio contact to Mission Control.

Houston, I've got a problem.

Peter decided he'd take me to Town. That sounds sweet, romantic even. Except that in Jamaica, when one goes to "town" it is universally understood to mean Kingston. Not exactly April in Paris. Still, I was excited about the prospect. I hadn't been anywhere in Jamaica except the seaside resort town of Negril. Well, that and the brief tour along the south coast that landed me in a rural hospital, so I was ready to get out and see more of the countryside.

First lesson: Never drive an empty unit (i.e. car)  to town

I thought it was just going to be the two of us, but as we headed out of Negril, we made several stops to pick up more passengers. According to the bredren code of ethics, one must always squeeze as many bredren as possible into The Unit. One never knows when a Unit will be available for the next mission, so share the experience. By the time we headed out of Negril, we were five in the rental car: Peter and myself in front, and Rough, Bigga Ford, and Jeremiah, aka Geritol, in the back seat.

Lesson Two: Don't ask what the plan is

I was the kinda control freak who liked to hit the road with a precise destination in mind, a map in the glove compartment, and perhaps some snacks on board. The only info I could glean from Peter was that we were heading toTown, and that I should "jess chill, relax, jess enjoy the drive."

Within minutes, the bredren had begun to talk loudly in the most rapid-fire, inscrutable language I'd ever heard. And Geritol was the fastest and the loudest, punctuating his comments with deep bellowing laughter. Minutes stretched into an hour, and I hadn't a clue what anyone was talking about.

I suddenly began to rethink my decision to agree to take this trip.

The patois was so thick, so indecipherable, they might as well have been speaking Greek. And even in Greek, I'd could at least have understood the occasional "souvlaki" or "ouzo", but this, well this was impossible. Even more frustrating, they were seemingly having the time of their lives. One would fire off an apparently pithy comment and the rest would bust out laughing; I never got the joke. I began to wonder if I WAS the joke. Paranoia set in.

Here I was, on the road to who-knew-where exactly? And to do what? Nobody would say exactly. Not that I would have understood even if they had told me. I started to get incredibly homesick, and felt horribly alone.

Peter must have sensed it because he finally tapped my shoulder and said, in English, "Yuh kinda quiet, eeeh? Yuh alright?"

"I can't understand a DAMN thing anyone is saying," I fumed. "Can't you guys just talk in English?"

Well that just made them all laugh even harder. And they lapsed right back into the patois. But Peter made sure I got food and drinks, pointed out sights to me (in English) and made certain to occasionally ask "yuh alright, Veek-toddya?"

So I made that journey as an observer, rather than an active participant. And I saw more on that 12-hour road trip than most visitors see in a week.

Lesson Three: For all control freaks, "jess sit back an' enjoy the ride"

Yuh Kinda Quiet, Eenh?
Ink and watercolor oen paper

Purchase a print of this painting here.

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Some like it ROUGH

Or shall I call him Courtney? In hindsight, that name seems downright ridiculous. He will always be "Rough."

I can't recall if I met Rough during that tumultuous Accidental Weekend but odds are that he was drifting in and out of that experience, well below my radar, somewhere in the background.

Rough eventually became a constant fixture on my Jamaican landscape.

Rough could sleep on a two-by-four propped up on two piles of bricks. And if he tumbled off during the night, he'd drop asleep again before the dust settled. Man need fi sleep, so 'im jess sleep.

He once rode as the passenger on the back of a Ninja, as Peter drove them like one lightnin' ball from Westmoreland to Kingston, with speeds reaching above 120 mph. Big deal, you say? Mebbe so, but Rough would ride upon the back of that bike, lean his head gingerly against Peter's back and quickly fall fast asleep. Man need fi sleep, so 'im jess sleep, even at over 100 miles per hour.

But I remember that Rough liked his ladies soft. The bredren would chide him, tell him to clean himself up if he wanted to find a nice 'ooman. They'd scoff, "yuh frownsey, mon, yuh greeen an yuh need fi go bade" and hurl soap at him. But he didn't seem to lack for the ladies' attentions, particularly the full-figured women. Rough liked his ladies "mampey-sized". He couldn't have been much more than 5 foot 5 himself,  small in stature, but he loved those ladies who tipped the scales at well over 250 pounds.

I remember driving through Mobay with Rough in the back seat, the windows rolled down, of course, and listening to his commentary on the various ladies we passed. He suddenly leaped up and leaned half-way out the window, shouting "Heeeey, MY-Size!" to an enormous woman who was slowly strolling along the shoulder of the road. They grinned at one another and she waved at him as we sped off.

He eventually made it to the States. The paperwork was a bit shady, in typical Rough fashion, but it got him here. He had a baby mother and young daughter in Canada and hoped to work his way northward and settle down. Ahh, we thought, but he was still Rough. How would America treat him, and how would his rough ways serve him so far away from home?

Sadly, not too well.

Rough was stabbed to death in a San Francisco coffee shop.

There will always be someone else who is tougher than tough, rougher than rough.

Some Like It Rough
Ink and watercolor on paper
Print available here.

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A Bongles By Any Other Name....

To look at this sweet-faced rasta, the name "Bongles" doesn't immediately come to mind. Particularly since the word "bongles" is not in my vocabulary.

Ok, in patois maybe "bongles" is a substitute for "bundles." Still. I'm just sayin. Bundles? Bundles of WHAT?

Oh. Ok. Maybe I shouldn't ask.

I read once that a Jamaican's Original Name, the name 'pon de berf SUR-fi-ticket (birth certificate) is a tiny treasure that is locked up after the day it is given, as if in a precious box, rarely to be seen again. Maybe not until the next rite of passage such as a graduation or a marriage.

Or even death.

On those special occasions, the box is opened and the name is gingerly extracted for a few hours and then quickly put away again. For the rest of your days, all manner of names are worn, either like a pair of comfortable shoes that last and last and last. Or like a closetful of cloaks, which change with the weather.

I know a

Bigga Ford -- something to do with a vehicle, seriously.

Tikka Chest -- has a thick, stout torso.

Trote -- has a large goiter upon his throat.

Bumpy -- yes, has a large, continually-growing bump on his forehead.

Reggie (original name "Cleveland") -- for a kinship with the role of Eddie Murphy in 48 Hours.

Scatta Shot -- a tendency to bounce quickly from place to place, not necessarily with any intention to do so.

Junior -- I must know two dozen "Juniors".

Scallion -- he's quite skinny.

Revvy -- something to do with a decidedly NON-pastor like existence.

Rough -- he could sleep on a 6-foot 2 x 4, set upon two piles of bricks and be quite comfortable. And if he dropped to the ground, he'd keep on sleeping.

Blacka -- skin dark like the night.

You get the idea. You are who you are.

I could go on and on. Even to include one of my mother-in-law's yard pupppies. Can't recall what, if any, name it was given at birth, but after it was stolen by a neighbor and Miss Una had to pay a ransom of one Jamaican dollar and fifty cents to get her back, well, you know the rest.

Th dog is forever known as "Dollah Fifty".

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