A Painter’s Journey
David Yapp reflects on his path to plein air painting
Cutting through the chalk downland
of Salisbury plain, in the southern English county of Wiltshire, is the gently
flowing River Avon. The river runs south from its source in Pewsey Vale,
through the medieval city of Salisbury, to the sea at Christchurch. It was
along this river that I grew up on a small farm on the edge of a village not
many miles from the ancient monument of Stonehenge.
The Wiltshire landscape is one of
Neolithic burial sites, windswept hawthorn encrusted plains and chalk stream
valleys, strewn with villages dating back to pre-Norman times. And above all
this is the sweeping drama of the constantly changing sky.
The landscape
and towns of the county are rich in history and have fed the artistic hearts
and minds of many writers and artists. The penultimate scene of Thomas Hardy’s
novel, Tess of the D’Urbervilles, is set at Stonehenge, and his
fictitious city of Melchester, featured in Jude the Obscure, is based on
the city of Salisbury. Artists Sir John Constable and J. M. W. Turner found a
source for creative expression in the gothic splendor of Salisbury Cathedral
and in the rugged forms of Stonehenge.
Like the River Avon, my own creative
path has been a meandering one. Growing up on a farm, I spent much of my youth
exploring and observing nature along the banks of the Avon and throughout the
surrounding countryside. Paint and brush gave me a vehicle to portray the
beauty I saw around me.
My interest in observing nature
developed during my teens. A family friend who was studying zoology shared with
me his fascination of entomology (the study of insects). We searched the water
meadows, for exotic-looking beetles and metallic clad dragonflies. At night we
set up a light trap to see what nocturnal winged beings we could discover. I
started to paint some of these finds in watercolor, along with the flora they
inhabited.
In the following years, at the local
college, I made another connection to the animal kingdom. The biology
professor, Patrick James, was an eccentric and interesting chap who had majored
in zoology. He spent much of the lecture time talking about his fieldwork—time
spent diving, and dodging sharks in the Caribbean. I had planned on working
towards a zoology degree, but I soon realized that I was more interested in
observing nature than analyzing it scientifically. After seeing my plant and
animal drawings Mr. James suggested I look into pursuing wildlife illustration.
As a precursor to that I attended Salisbury
Art College. The foundation art course I took was an opportunity to explore a
range of disciplines, from drawing, painting and printmaking to illustration,
and then to decide which one to pursue. That first year was a challenge for me,
as for the first time I had to really get to grips with the rudiments of
drawing, painting and . . . seeing.
Following on from this course I
studied for a diploma in wildlife illustration in Carmarthen, Wales. This was
an opportunity to establish and sharpen the skills I had developed the previous
year. Many professional artists and illustrators came in to tutor us. They
passed on to us their great enthusiasm for their given disciplines. One such
person was the artist Gordon Stuart.
I did not fully appreciate at the
time how accomplished Gordon was as an artist, with work in the collection of
the National Portrait Gallery in London—he painted the last portrait of the
poet Dylan Thomas. Gordon encouraged me in my nascent abilities when I had
little confidence in them and said, “You will always paint.” He also wrote to
me a letter of encouragement to wish me well on my first solo art show.
That first solo
show was held at Oxford University in 1988. I owe much to my sister Maria, not
only for suggesting the idea but also for getting me connected to the
appropriate parties to make
it happen.
After completing my time at
college in Wales, it became apparent that I was
not really cut out to be a wildlife illustrator, but was more interested in
painting landscapes. One college professor said he saw me as someone who wants
to be down a country lane painting scenery—I think a “picture maker” was how he
called it. And so, eventually, after having pursued several
interim jobs, that is what I did.
The next five
years proved to be very rewarding, but also financially rather challenging as I
pursued my art. Initially, as I sought to pursue my art full-time, I felt like
I had just walked off the end of a plank into the deep. I literally prayed to
God for help, and He strengthened me in a way I had not known before. He also
brought people into my life that spoke words of direction and encouragement to
me.
One such person was Trevor Martin,
an assistant pastor at my local church, who was also a practicing graphic
designer. He took a look at my work—back in those days it was on slides, as we
had not entered the digital era. I remember how he would press the slide viewer
to his eye and declare “how delightful” as he viewed the artwork. For me this
was one of those glimmers of light and encouragement that we all need along the
road—especially when you are trying to find direction.
Trevor suggested that for the next
six months I just focus on doing pen and watercolor views of townscapes and
landscapes, and then at the end of it have an exhibition. This gave me not only
a goal, but also a focus.
I set myself up with a stool,
drawing board and watercolors, traveling by bicycle and train to paint the
local scenic towns and villages of Hampshire and Surrey. Much to my surprise, I
had many people approach me to ask if they could purchase my paintings, and I
was able to sell many on the spot! I continued pursuing this way of working, creating
artwork for exhibition and commission, for five years. It was a rewarding time
in which I met many interesting folks on my painting adventures.
Eventually, looking for a more
stable and predictable income, I decided to train in graphic design. Digital
design was a new world for me as I got to grips with design principles and
learned an array of software programs. The differing perceptions needed for
design were an interesting complement to the more organic nuances of painting.
It was when I moved to the Bay Area,
that my interest in oil painting was ignited. I started to read about the
California plein air painters, a majority of whom were oil painters. In
England, the soft light had lent itself to watercolors, but now in California,
I could see that the more intense Mediterranean light lent itself to
rendering the landscape in oils.
I am fortunate
to live in San Francisco, not far from the Golden Gate Bridge. This gives me
ready access to Marin County, it’s coastal Headlands and Mount Tamalpais. Further
afield is the often fog-laden Mendocino coast, and to the East, the Sierra
Nevada mountains. All great locations for plein air painting.
I tend to paint on canvas, as
opposed to panels, as I like the “give” that you get from the non-rigid
surface. I enjoy using heavy impasto and find that a palette knife is easiest
for thicker applications of paint. But I prefer the softer more subtle effect
that a natural bristle brush can bring, so I am experimenting, working with
both in tandem.
At the moment I am reading and
looking at landscape art from those who have already trod the path—John F.
Carlson, Richard Schmid and David Curtis, for example. I am also looking at a
diverse range of artists who are not associated with the plein air tradition,
such as Richard Diebenkorn, and many British artists, such as John Piper,
Samuel Palmer and Eric Ravilious.
I am blessed to
live a five-minute walk from the de Young Museum, here in San Francisco, so I
have had the opportunity to view the ongoing collection of art and the special
exhibitions. Recently on show was David Hockney’s, “A Bigger Exhibition,” a
collection of his huge canvases painted in Yorkshire. His paintings en plein
air are a leap away from what is often considered as plein air art, but are
nonetheless thought provoking and inspiring.
So I continue
to pursue my painting adventures, sometimes as in life, with a halting step. I
see that the beauty in a scene does not always come from a totality of
unhindered harmony. The juxtaposition of disparate forms—a shattered rock, a
sinuous storm-contorted tree, or a glacier creek—can converge into a harmonious
whole, or, may leave us with an unresolved tension. Similarly, life does not
provide us with a clear unobstructed path, but in navigating the obstacles we can
discover a greater meaning and beauty. As plein air painters, may we not only
paint a pleasing scene, but portray in our art this more complex beauty.
