The final day of the Distemper Painting Workshop focused on drapery painting and value.
Title photo for Drapery Presentation. Tyne Theatre & Opera House, 2024.
The goals for the day were maintaining a consistency of color and contrasting value. As previously explained, a contrast of value supports scenic illusion for the stage (large-scale paintings that are viewed from a distance). Drapery painting is the perfect example to discuss painting for a distance. Typically, the goal of this exercise is to use a thicker mixture of paint, focus on value and aim for a consistency of color.
For years, I have observed that many scenic artists take pains to carefully blend each fold in a drapery composition. Unfortunately, this ultimately destroys the painted illusion from a distance; the subject loses definition. Careful blending only works well when examining a painting from close-up, such as in Trompe l’œil murals in residential and commercial settings. The smallest details and smooth transitions that make Trompe l’œil a success are not visible on stage. Painted illusion for the stage necessitates a great contrast of both hue and value. Again, we want to make the audience eyes work; therefore, making the painted illusion appear more realist from afar. Scenic art is more akin to fresco painting on ceilings; they are also large-scale artworks intended to be viewed from a distance. Throughout my travels, I document the treatment of fabric on figures in ceiling murals. Most recently, I visited the Painted Hall in London. Here is an example of a drapery, showing a sharp division of value and alternation of warm and cool colors (see yesterday’s post for more detail color characteristics).
Detail from mural at the Painted Hall, London.
There is a distinct division of value; a sharp contrast between dark, medium, and light colors. This is what accentuate the folds of the fabric. To illustrate my point about the over-blending of drapery folds, I share two examples.
The scenic artist’s careful blending does not suggest a lack of skill, but a lack of understanding when painting for a distance. Drapery folds really need to be accentuated to remain visible from far away.
Here is how I decipher drapery painting; it is an approach that is based on my documenting thousands of extant backdrops over the years.
Again, it is the rule of three for value – dark, medium, and light. From a distance, the darkest value suggests the color, a mid-tone identifies the shape, and a highlight identifies the fabric type.
For my presentation, we looked at a variety of drapery examples where I identified the three values, again and again.
This is not meant to suggest that only three colors can be used, but it is the basic approach. In the end, some folds are accentuated with a final shadow wash, and some highlights get a “flash” (hot twinkle).
Highlights are extremely important in the end. If they are indecisive (“smudgy” and “worm-like”), it is difficult to determine either the type of fabric, or the weight of the folds.
Here are some photographs, capturing a few moments of the drapery painting project. A special shout to Mike Hume of Historic Theatre Photos for his willingness to document process.
Drapery Painting Projects at the Tyne Theatre & Opera House, August 1, 2024. Photograph by Mike Hume.Drapery Painting Projects at the Tyne Theatre & Opera House, August 1, 2024. Photograph by Mike Hume.Caroline Shelley adding shadows. Photograph by Mike Hume.Erin Heming adding highlights. Photograph by Mike Hume.Michael O’Reilly laying in drapery folds. Photograph by Mike Hume.Laura O’Connell of Birmingham Rep. laying in drapery folds. Photograph by Mike Hume.Completed project by Claire Thompson of Nottingham Playhouse.Claire Thompson holding up project to show transparent effect.Completed projects by Laura O’Connell of Birmingham Rep.Laura O’Connell and Paul Westcombe showing transparent nature of the project.
Painting waves help students become familiar with distemper paint (dry pigment paste and diluted hide glue) process. Seascapes they are very forgiving, and allow a student to focus on viscosity of the paint, blending of colors, and economy of brushstroke. This is also one of those projects where the first step (basing in the water) can be slapped on, or overworked, without later consequences.
Seascape projects. Distemper Paint Workshop at the Tyne Theatre & Opera House, 31 July 2024.
For the second day of distemper painting workshop, the students selected one of five compositions. I am a firm believer in allowing students to select a subject that speaks to them. I hate forcing any class to paint the same picture. My rationale is that learning should never be about competition. When we all paint the same scene, a “best” painter will immediately emerge, and often steal inspiration from those around them/her/him. Most importantly, art should remain an individual journey. I believe that we learn something new, about both the painting process and ourselves, at each step of the process. Distemper painting classes should fuel a students enthusiasm for future projects.
On the first day of the workshop, we analyzed examples of distemper seascape – both historic and contemporary. I explained that there are three basic steps to painting water.
The first step is alternating warm and cool colors for the base coat; it should never be a solid color. This should depict a significant contrast in color and value. The second step is identifying water movement (waves) with a shadow glaze, and the third step is defining each wave with highlights, lowlights, and shadows. I used three process shots to show what I meant from my process for painting the wave rows for the Tyne Theatre & Opera House.
Process images showing the paint of water rows for the Tyne Theatre & Opera House.
I explained that at the end of the day, the goal was not to simply copy the source, but to understand the shapes and movement in the source.
I typically recommend mixing the distemper paint for this step as thin as possible; stretching the colors so that it almost becomes an exercise in dye work.
Standard goal for the distemper seascape project.
This is often the perfect project to explore translucent effects. However, the transparency of the workshop fabric prohibited this aspect, and we went for creating a sea scrim.
Emily Hackett (left) and Claire Thompson (right), of Nottingham Playhouse, showing transparent nature of workshop fabric.Seascape project by Michael O’Reilly, fabric detail (left)
For both the seascape project and the drapery project, I provided a color source and a grayscale version (to help identify value). As I was taught (by Prof. Emeritus Lance Brockman at the University of Minnesota), it is more important to match the value in a composition, than color. This frees the student to focus on technique and not copywork. I also gave the students an option to solely use the grayscale version and create their own color palette.
Seascape drop detail. Original distemper art by Wendy Waszut-Barrett, 2023.
This option meant that everyone could chose their own path towards the finish line. Here were the three steps employed by the class the second day.
1. Alternate warm and cool colors for the base – keep a strong contrast so that it is easier to define the waves.
Scenic artist Paul Westcombe alternating warm and cool for a base. Note how the variations between wet and dry paint.
2. Identify waves – using a deep shadow wash, start to draw the shape of cresting water.
Emily Hackett, Claire Thompson, and Erin Fleming, of the Nottingham Playhouse, identifying waves with shadow washes.
3. Define the waves with highlights, lowlights, and deeper shadows – keep the movement organic without creating a pattern.
Megumi, scenic art instructor at the Royal Conservatoire Scotland, defining the waves with highlights, lowlights and shadows.
Although it is human nature to make order out of chaos – to organize elements– creating patterns that are equidistant destroys painted illusion on stage. When creating scenic art landscapes, vary color and placement; this is paramount in the process.
Here are a few photos from the workshop on July 31, 2024.
Seascape Projects. Distemper Painting Workshop at the Tyne Theatre & Opera House, 2024.Constanza Dessain adding highlights to the waves.Caroline Shelley applying shadow washes to define waves and water movement.My demo-space where I explained application techniques.Yvonne Dick finishing the base coat.Emily Hackett drying a final area.Stepping back to see how well the compositions reads from the audience!Some of the completed Projects at the end of Day 2!
On Monday, Oct. 2, 2023, I returned from Chicago with the set for La liberazione di Ruggiero dall’isola d’Alcina. Less than two weeks later, I loaded in the set of H. M. S. Pinafore for the Gilbert & Sullivan Very Light Opera Co. (Howard Conn Fine Arts Center in Minneapolis). Although the show had been designed for months, it had yet to go into production. My husband, Dr. Andrew Barrett, took on the role of stage carpenter to help me out.
The Gilbert & Sullivan Very Light Opera Company production of HMS Pinafore.
The set in the Howard Conn Fine Arts Center space.
In fact, I was unable to start painting the show until Monday, Oct. 9. This meant I had less than five days to paint the the show, knowing that the structural pieces and flooring would be painted after load-in. As with other recent productions, I used distemper paint (pigment paste mixed with diluted hide glue) for all of the soft goods. This painting process facilitated the compressed timeline, as I spent less time mixing color, washing brushes, and cleaning buckets; the list goes on. Also, with painting on a vertical frame, and not the floor, everything dries faster.
Dry pigment paste is combined with diluted hide glue during the distemper painting process.
View from the aisle, house right. Gilbert & Sullivan Very Light Opera Company’s production of H.M.S. Pinafore, 11 November,2023.
Painted details. behind the helm.
My painting schedule was as follows:
Monday, Oct. 9 – Load in all painting supplies to Hamline University, set up palettes, make glue, attach fabric to frame, and size.
Tuesday, Oct. 10 – Base paint ship pieces, draw out composition and finish.
Wednesday, Oct. 10 – Remove ship pieces from frame, attach cloud/water pieces and size.
Thursday, Oct. 11 – Paint cloud/water pieces and cannons.
Friday, Oct. 12 – Remove all painted pieces from frame and load out of Hamline University.
Saturday, Oct. 13 – Finish set construction.
Sunday, Oct. 14 – Load into space.
A partially-constructed set during load-in, Oct. 15, 2023.
Under work lights before the floor is painted.
Painting the floor during tech week. I ran tape to save time, and used the existing “black floor” as the crevices.This meant I was able to paint the floor all by myself in only an hour. The “key” to this process is to let the floor fully dry before pulling up the tape.
After painting the floor and railings.
Before the remaining ropes and seagulls are added for “character.”
My favorite seagull.
The final painted “bits” stage right- seagulls and belaying pins.
The final painted “bits” stage left- seagulls and belaying pins.
The speed at which I was able to paint also really relied upon the subject matter and my own skill set. I have always loved painting skies, water, wood, draperies, and foliage. Getting to paint three out of your five favorites, isn’t bad.
It also helped that I was the scene designer. It gives me a little wiggle room.
On-site “touch-up” with distemper paint also means every color is instantaneously available without having to store of unpack a “touch-up kit.”
My “warm” distemper palette for on-site touch-up.
The new thing that I tried during the painting process this time was positioning the seascape compositions sideways. Why? Because it fit better on the frame and made running the long horizon lines easier.
Painting water and sky scenes SIDEWAYS to fit on the paint frame at Hamline University. Notice how the distemper paint dries from dark to light.
Another view of the process.
Running the horizon line on a motorized paint frame without a lining stick
You do have to pay VERY close attention to what you are doing. However, I would choose this orientation again, as running the horizon line was substantially easier. No lining stick needed when you have a steady hand and motorized paint frame. This is also why painting vertical folds in draperies is also stream-lined on a motorized paint frame.
Waiting for canon flats and doors to dry.
Recycling portions of an existing stencil to save time.
Here are a few process shots from tech week and the final production.
The set with pre-show lighting.
The scenery under cool lights.
How the colors can shift. Distemper paint reflects color so much better than contemporary (pre-mixed) scenic paints.
The show runs for one more weekend! There are some absolutely lovely voices in this production. It is a very fun show directed by Gary Briggle, with musical direction by Dr. Randall Buikema.
The added bonus this time is that our son is playing accordion in the pit orchestra!
The Gilbert & Sullivan Very Light Opera Company Orchestra under the baton of Dr. Randall Buikema.
Show curtain for THE SORCERER, painted by Wendy Waszut-Barrett, 2023.Painted detail from THE SORCERER by Wendy Waszut-Barrett, 2023.Painted detail from THE SORCERER by Wendy Waszut-Barrett, 2023.Painted detail from THE SORCERER by Wendy Waszut-Barrett, 2023.Painted detail from THE SORCERER by Wendy Waszut-Barrett, 2023.Painted detail from THE SORCERER by Wendy Waszut-Barrett, 2023. Painted detail from THE SORCERER by Wendy Waszut-Barrett, 2023.Painted detail from THE SORCERER by Wendy Waszut-Barrett, 2023.Painted detail from THE SORCERER. Portrait of Mr. Gilbert by Wendy Waszut-Barrett, 2023. Painted detail from THE SORCERER. Portrait of Mr. Sullivan by Wendy Waszut-Barrett, 2023.
Detroit scenic artists, Robert Hopkin and his son William G. Hopkin, traveled west in 1881 to paint scenery for the Tabor Grand Opera House and the Grand Opera House in Colorado Springs. Representing the Chicago firm J. B. Sullivan & Bro., they created similar drop-curtains for each stage. My interest in Hopkin is two-fold: first and foremost, his connection to the Tabor Grand Opera House in Denver, and secondly, his mentorship of Thomas G. Moses in the 1870s.
Robert Hopkin pictured in an article published in the Detroit Free Press on September 23, 1906.
On Sept. 23, 1906, the “Detroit Free Press” published an article about the life and career of “Robert Hopkin, Painter” by John Hubert Greusel. He passed away only three years later. I am including this article in its entirety, as it provides great insight into the nineteenth-century generation of scenic artists who trained the generation of Thomas G. Moses.
“ROBERT HOPKIN, PAINTER
Robert Hopkin’s pipe kept going out. Every few minutes, he would go to the corner of his studio, tear a leaf out of a magazine, twist the paper and set it on fire at a gas-burner, and so get a fresh fire for his pipe. Many times during the afternoon he kept that up. It was chat, smoke, show pictures, hunt through albums, delve into portfolios.
The artist looks like a sailor; collar open at the neck, weather-beaten face, silvery gray hair close-cropped, straightforward, candid man, who has nothing to say of his ambitions.
I could scarcely believe Robert Hopkin to be the master of that wonderful chiaroscuro of the sea, visible in many paintings which, one after the other, he placed on the easel. He appeared to me more like one of those rough and ready sailormen that he paints with fidelity; and as he examined the relics in the corners, Bob reminded of Jack looking over souvenirs of voyages taken years ago. He showed me a wooden soup-box filled with odds and ends, and fished out photographs to men prominent in Detroit forty years ago; reads scraps of poetry; studied forgotten theatrical programs, and I know not what else.
He always kept smoking his briar pipe which just as persistently kept going out and had to be relighted, with the twisted papers.
SOUVENIRS OF HOPKIN’S HISTORY
Robert Hopkin still has the sure touch of his younger days, the breadth of the distinguished Dutch marine-painters. Many of his scenes on the Great Lakes resemble the work of famous sea-painters along the Zuyder Zee and are at the islands of Marken and Monnickendam.
Bob tells me that he grew up on the Detroit wharves, passed through an apprenticeship in mixing colors for decorators, drifted to scene painting, and finally made easel pictures. As he finished around in his boxes and albums for souvenirs of his early life, at last he brought up a faded photograph of the first drop-curtain of the Detroit Opera House. The theme was an allegorical landscape surrounded by Corinthian columns, supporting a flat arch – an arch that builders always said was impossible. But a fig cared Bob, the scenic artist, for these mechanical criticisms. He also showed me a drawing of the second curtains, bearing the familiar lines:
So fleet the works of men back to their earth again
Ancient and holy things fade like a dream
And Bob with a merry laugh told me that George Goodale used to be worried half to death to satisfy curious letter-writers, who wanted to know where the quotation came from. The dwellers along the English Channel, says Bob, held a fete each year to scrub a great white horse, carved in chalk cliffs; and Kingsley’s lines are found in the opening of the description.
SMELL OF THE SEA
Once in a while, Bob makes pictures that are not for sale, paints ‘em for himself. No one is to have ‘em! He is that much od an artist. He spoke of “The Kelp-Gathers,” one of his favorites. But he did not show it to me. He is peculiar that way. He may bring out his pictures or he may keep them stacked up. He did hunt out a green-covered book, “The Land of Lorne,” and gravely handed it to me. On the title page, I read, “To Robert Hopkin from his friend Mylne, March 3, 1879. Mylne was one of Bob’s earliest admirer’s Some day you may see a picture by Wenzel, three men talking, called “The Council of War.” One is Bob, the other is William Mylne, the artist, and the third is George W. Clark, lawyer, cronies, all dead now, except, Bob. Wenzel, a society cartoonist, and the best, put patent leather shoes on Bob. Bob smiled as I showed it to him. He himself always wears old carpet slippers in his studio at this time of year.
How many pictures has Robert Hopkin made? He does not know. He has never kept a studio register. His plain ways were shown when he brought out an album, photographs of his paintings. Under one, here and there, was written in lead pencil, Mr. Muir, Mr. Robinson, Mr. Chittenden, Mr. Clark. That is his style of bookkeeping.
BOB’S DELIGHT
“Have a pipe?” He brought out paper and tobacco for me. Have I ever read “White Wings, a Yachting Romance,” by William Black? Bob again visited that mysterious rear-room and returned with a copy of “The Princess of Thule.” I opened it at random and leaning back in the tall old horse-hair upholstered chair, began reading the first thing.”
“A dreary sky, a dreary fall of rain. Long low flats covered their own damp breath through which the miserable cattle loomed like shadows. Everywhere, lakes and pools, as thickly sown amidst the land as islands amid Pacific waters. Huts, wretched and chilly, scarcely discernible from the rock-strewn marshes surrounding them. To the east, the Minch, rolling dismal waters toward the far off headlands of Skye; to the west, the ocean, foaming at the lips, and stretching barren and desolate into the rain-charged clouds.”
I have no doubt that the sea and the storm and the wind came back to the venerable artist, as I read on and on. He had never followed the sea, he told me, but some of his ancestors were seafaring people around the isle of Bule and the boy was a frequent visitor at the home of his grandfather, a sea captain of Rothsay, who took little Bob on many of his short coasting trips. He has spent his Boyhood in Glasgow, has seen the ships around the world, and wished to go to sea. At 11, with his father, Bob came to Detroit and has been here for 60 years, barring cruises here and there. In the early days he was never away from the wharves; worked in the shipyard at the foot of Cass street, knew the sailors, riggers and owners. He did boat-painting but soon drifted to scene painting and color work for Tuttle & Patton, the late William Wright, Dean Godfrey & Co. In 1871, Bob went over to Chicago, was burned out, came back to Detroit, began easel-work and has followed it ever since for pure love.
Suddenly, turning the talk, he asked me if I had seen that moonlight, last night, coming down from the Flats? It was fine, the moon on the red buoys, and the light through the clouds. He might paint it, sometime. And then, in his quiet, unimportant way, he went on to tell me that he could carry these pictures in his mind for a long time. He thinks in pictures, the way other men think in figures or in vague flashes. Bob’s mind is like a picture-book.
That he is filled with the mystery and witchery if the sea was easily seen, and it was not long before he was saying that he didn’t wonder sailors were superstitious, often imagined they saw ghosts and goblins. The lonesome life at seas appeals to Bob’s imagination. It was plain that he had been under the spell, many of time.
COLOR
He spoke of clipper-built ships as the finest every built by man.
Last year, he took a trip to Scotland, went on a slow boat, he said, so that it would last longer. The Irish channel is rough all the time. But Bob is never seasick.
Ireland is righty named the Green Isle. The mists hang over it and keep the sun from burning up the grass. In Scotland, it’s the same. The figs are fine. The dark glen of Scotland famed in poetry, is also fine, to the artist’s eye. In Ireland there is so much color. Women in the back countries dress in bright tints. A long way off, the Irish girl’s red hood and cloak is visible. In America the only people that still have a touch of color in their daily loves are Syrians and the Italian immigrants. How pretty they are with their rings and their bright shawls. Civilization robs them soon of these gay colors.
Bob smokes and talks like that. There is no haste. It takes a long time.
Did I tell you that Bob, who is a plain main, dresses plainly and sticks to boots, like those worn in Detroit 40 years ago?
You learn, slowly, more things. Bob will never put a brush to canvas while anyone is near. He works alone. He has no secrets but he doesn’t want anyone around.
If he hears that you are going to say a word or two of his work, he begins to fidget, objects, backs away, shuts the door of his studio and draws in the latch-string.
And beyond all other things, he hates newspaper notices – despises them.
The most money he ever received for a painting was $2,300; – Cotton Exchange, New Orleans. The worst treatment he ever had was at the Centennial of 1876. Through a mistake Bob’s picture was hung in the Michigan building, instead of in the art gallery. That sickened Bob of exhibits. He hasn’t bothered himself to send anything to any of them for years. Some years ago he was asked to exhibit in the Royal Academy, England. “What’s the use? Too much trouble! What’s it all amount to anyway?” says Bob.
He has a memory for technique. If he ever sees a scrap of canvas; well, he’ll know it again, after years. The other day, a friend found something in a second-hand store and asked Bob to take a look. Bob did so and the friend bought, on Bobs recommendation. On cleaning the painting, the name Bob had predicted was found there. The picture was by a Canadian artist of renown, but his works are known to only a few collectors. Bob had seen only one, years before. He knew the style almost at a glance.
IMPRESSIONIST
As for art, he is an impressionist, not in any high technical or extreme sense, but in the simple meaning, to reproduce and impression; to see something, in your own way. Many years before impressionism became the vogue or before we knew one school from another, he went direct to nature’s heart for his school and his instruction and took for himself and his school all that was good without being an extremist in impressionism. His teacher was Mother Nature; his school, the seas. He paints as he breathes, that is to say, naturally as you wink you eyes. What more is there to be said?
He is likely to get up at 4 in the morning and go to the wharves. Sunset often finds him strolling about, looking at the river.
He does not paint in open air. He makes sketches, perhaps adding a dab of color, for a key. He scribbles notes of backgrounds, or color scheme. The actual spirit of the scene he keeps in his heart.
Mcedag [sp?], the great Hollander, who paints everything thought the window of his studio, which opens over the sea, has one, perhaps two moods. Hopkin has as many moods as the sea has lights and shadow. You see his ships in a heavy storm, in a fair wind, in a dead calm, in moonlight. He knows all the caprices of the sea, He paints them all.
One day, his paintings are going to come into their own.
INSIGHT
Newspaper waifs of verse appeal to Bob. One day, Charles L. Clark read Bob a newspaper poem on ocean’s wonderous caves. That was enough! Bob painted them. On another day Bob read a bit of newspaper poetry entitled “The Graveyard by the Sea.” It told of a strange thing that the sea does somewhere on an unchartered coast, buries the dead in the crawling sands, heaps up the sands, while the storm sings in requiem. Bob was amazingly caught by the conception. In his mind’s eye he already saw it all. In the Detroit Museum of Art you will find a painting called “The Graveyard by the Sea.”
The graveyard by the Sea-
Where ocean breezes sweep across the restless deep.
It stands, with headstones quaint, with sculpture rude.
Robert Hopkin is touched by the pathos of the sea, the forlorn lives of toilers.
Bob has always been amiable in business. What does he care? Hasn’t he enough for himself? To begin with, he lacks the self-conceit of artists and musicians. For publicity or art criticism he cares absolutely nothing. He prefers to let his paintings tell their own story. Who is the man, that called today? A writer do you say? And he is going to say something of me in the paper? This will never do. Is there not some way to stop him?
Bob will avoid all his cronies for a week after reading wat is told of him here, today. It will cause him a bad quarter of an hour.
BOB’S STUDIO
It’s not the conventional studio with bronze lamps, bright silks, divans, mirrors and statuary. Bob’s place is a loft where a painter works; and the corners are stacked with stuff.
His atelier is in the rear of this house, No. 247 First street. A brick barn, reached by a stairs, with two turns. A hall, a wooden door of undressed lumber, black with age. An old-fashioned latch-string. A room perhaps 10×12, divided from another room of equal size. A blackened skylight, under which is the easel, on which is a picture of a full-rigged ship at sea. Here’s where you find Robert Hopkin.
Bob keeps a tiny point of gas burning for a pipe-lighter. He uses it often, for his pipe has a way of going out unexpectedly.
A base-burner with a long pipe stands in plain view and on the pipe someone has drawn a skull and cross bones. IN the corner, are two stone jugs, tubes of color, pipes, tobacco, a large mirror and above is the motto, in old English text, “Cheerful Company Gladdens the Hour.”
WORLD A PICTURE BOOK
The world to him is a picture book of the sea. We are coming to it, little by little. He is a man that grows on you. You must wait for him to reveal himself. He goes with his paint box and brushes and paints his seas. He does it not for money or for glory and never bothers his head over formal prattle. Bob tried symphonies in greens, greys and blues, on gold background, long before Whistler was known to fame. Bob had painted in the various schools, but he is not an impressionist, or realist, or an schoolman, or any stylist. He is himself. He paints the sea in his own way. When he shuts the door of his studio, he might as well be out at sea. He is alone, with his thoughts. The ship is in the harbor ready to sail. There is a fair wind and the tide is strong. The sails are set and she starts on her voyage.
Where does he get his knowledge of light? Why is the sea a mystery to him – a mystery yet an open book. The seas is his friend and confidant, because he loves the sea. He makes the waves roll, Storm or sunshine, and always that wonderful atmosphere of the sea – the old man puts them in his canvas. As he paints it, the sea loves. The ships all but sail out of the water. His pictures are all of flesh and blood people, hard-handed men and women who have to struggle to earn their daily bread. It is not the statuesque Barbizon peasantry, but he larger unidealized and yet idealized race, as Hopkin sees the people of the sea.
Robert Hopkin, master marine painter, seems to have a hand too large to be restrained by convention; that hand is therefore guided over the canvas by a sort of intuitive constructive imagination, restrained but not lost in the knowledge of the practical sailor.
The serious old man is there beside you, smoking his briar pipe. He is the sailorman and the artist; his shirt collar is open at the neck, his big sunburned hands rest in his lap. He is come home from the sea to tell us another story. Look upon him well; study his weather-beaten face and kindly eyes; – for among the world’s great marine painters you may not soon see his like again.
“Come up and have a smoke again, some day,” he tells me as I shake hands at the studio door.
Yesterday
I resumed “Tales from a Scenic Artist and Scholar” after a short break. Although
I returned to the year 1921, an 1884 article prompted me to revisit a friend
and colleague of Thomas G. Moses – Henry C. Tryon. This is just one example of the
many rabbit holes I get sucked into while doing research. But I have no
deadline and can enjoy these sidetracks.
Moses
first worked with Tryon at Sosman & Landis in 1884, writing “Henry C. Tryon
came to the studio to work. He enthused
Young and I more than anyone ever had.
He was a pupil of Thos. Moran and James and William Hart and was very
clever, but awfully eccentric.” In 1884, Tryon left two scenic art positions;
one as scenic artist at the Tabor Grand Opera House in Denver, Colorado, and
the other as scenic artist for the Salt Lake Theatre in Utah. He returned to
Chicago, joining the Sosman & Landis staff for a year.
Now
I am in the midst of writing historical analyses, conditions reports,
replacement appraisals and collections care programs for the historic scenery
collections at the Tabor Opera House in Leadville, Colorado. Some of the
scenery is signed and dated, including jungle wings painted by Henry E. Burckey
in 1890. Burckey and Tryon partnered in the early 1880s and then both worked at
the Tabor Grand in Denver. Burckey was
still working at both the Tabor Opera House in Leadville and the Tabor Grand
Opera House in Denver in 1890. You can find more information about Burckey at www.drypigment.net (keyword search “Tabor
Opera House” or “Burckey”).
So,
I am killing two birds with one stone this week, but there are lots of moving parts.
While researching Burckey and Tryon for the Tabor project, I came across a series
of article written by Tryon in the 1880s. He describes the scene painting
profession, and I am compelled to share them as part of the “Tales of a Scenic
Artist and Scholar” storyline.
Visual reference for article: dry forms of pigment and hide glue used by nineteenth-century scenic artists.
Here
is the first one published in the “Chicago Tribune” on December 19, 1880:
SCENE PAINTING.
Some hints to the Public Regarding a Special Department
of the Painters’ Art Not Well Understood.
Chicago, Dec.8.-
Theatrical scenery is painted in “distemper,” dry color
being mixed with a vehicle consisting of glue and water, much the same as is
used with whiting for calcimining rooms. Stage scenery and drop-curtains are
never painted in oil colors. While the color is less brilliant than when mixed
with oils (the artist being compelled to get his brilliancy by skillful
arrangement of dull color), the glare of varnish and oil is avoided which would
destroy the realism of the scene. Scenery, then, being painted in watercolors,
the danger from fire is much less than popularly supposed; in fact, when it
does take fire it burns very slowly for a long time. The canvas is much less
combustible than before being painted. Scenes painted on both sides are almost
fireproof.
The qualities required of a first-class scenic-artist are of
a much higher order than is generally supposed, and the technical difficulties
to be overcome to produce any brilliant effect whatever for the stage
are so numerous that, with a thorough knowledge of drawing, color, and
composition, and the clearest possible idea on the part of the artist of what
he desires to do, he will fail utterly, without great practice, to convey to
the audience the effect that he may have already, in his brain, arranged in the
clearest and most tangible shape. The artist in oil colors can produce any
effect which his mind conceives. The scenic-artist must first overcome many
very difficult obstacles. One of the chief difficulties arises from the fact
that the colors dry out several shades lighter that they are when applied.
(Throw a little water on the floor and the difference in color will illustrate
this difficulty). The artist is compelled to paint with one color while
thinking of another. He must think with every brush mark how the colors will
“dry put.” The difficulty in doing this can be imagined when it is considered
that all exterior scenes are painted from a pallet making a constant change of
thousands of different tints. Then the effect of a night light is a serious
drawback. Whoever has observed the changes in the colors of fabrics from the
light of day to the artificial light of gas must have noticed how some colors
are heightened and others dimmed by being brought under the yellow gaslight.
The scene-painter working in the broad glare of day must
consider with every brush mark the effect of this gaslight on his color. A
brilliant effect by daylight may, under an artificial light, be entirely
destroyed, and also the reverse holds true; but must not be accident with the
scenic-artist.
Do the audience in the theatre ever realize the immense
difficulty of painting a scene while within three or at most four feet from the
canvas, to produce the proper effect at a distance of from fifty to 150 feet, the
artist being compelled to see his work in his mind’s eye this distance, when
his first opportunity to dee his entire work is after it has been
finished and on stage? The result of constant practice in this direction is,
that, as he acquires knowledge, and consequently power and decision, he
gradually choses larger brushes, until the skillful artist is enabled with the
roughest and apparently most hideous “swashes” of the calcimining brush to
produce effect as soft, tender, and full of appropriate meaning as is done by the most labored,
painstaking care on smaller surfaces by many landscape painters. In
scene-painting, as in all other art, it is only the novice who takes the life
out of his work by petty, contemptible smoothing down with small brushes. “Pictures
are made to be seen, not smelled,” said Reynolds. In decorative painting
mechanical finish is the important requisite, but in scene-painting it is no
more an excellence than is mechanical finish in any other art.
The popular impression is that because scenes are thus
painted with broad, bold, rough marks it is scarcely more than a grade or so
advanced beyond mere decorative painting; but think for a moment of the
knowledge of drawing, perspective, composition, and color required to enable
the artist to produce on these large surfaces a scene which to the audience
must be realism, when he can only see at any time a limited portion (say ten
feet square) of his work – on a “drop” say thirty feet by fifty – while working
within three feet of his canvas, and to be seen across a large theatre, The
fact is, that a scenic artist is able to paint a small picture with much
greater ease and readiness that he can with his theatrical work, because he has
the knowledge to paint the small subject without very great obstacles attending
his work on the large canvas.
Another thing to be considered in this connection: The
scenic-artist does not always – in fact, seldom- have the leisure to do work at
his best. He has neither the time nor opportunity to correct his work. When a
picture is finished in an artist’s studio the artist sees where a change here
and there will enhance the value of his work, and can perfect it. The
scene-painter must call his work “a go” and start on the next scene. “We press
your hat while you wait,” is the sentiment. The manager comes to the artist,
and says we want a street – Paris, 1600 – to-night. He must have it then,
though the heavens fall. “Time, tide, and managers wait for no man.” Many times
in the experiences of all scenic-painters are they obliged to work thirty-six
hours at a stretch,, their meals brought to them, and stopping for nothing
else, each of those hours working against time, with no sentiment other than to
get through, get out of the theatre and to the rest that exhausted nature
loudly demands. Still he must be criticized on this very work. The audience
doesn’t know anything about his having worked all day, and all night, and all
day.
The great scenic-artists of the world are great artists, and
so recognized in the world of art. Poor dead Minard Lewis was the very Prince of
scenic artists, and his genius was the wonder and admiration of every artist of
every department of art in New York. Yet the theatre-going public who for
thirty or forty years had admired and applauded his beautiful work did not know
or care to know his name.
The position of scenic-artist in a first-class theatre is
one of great responsibility, which is properly recognized “behind the curtain
line,” but the general public has no interest in the personality of the scenic
artist, supposing in a vague sort of way that the manager paints the
scenes. It is no unusual thing for scenery to be lavishly commended by the
press and public, the manager receiving the press and praise for his
“enterprise, taste and liberality,” while the artist whose brain and hand has
created it all is never mentioned or even thought of. Scene-painters, like all
other artists, have their ambitions, and are grateful for proper and honest
appreciation. Much injustice has been done to them (perhaps through
thoughtlessness) by the public press and this is strongly felt by every
scenic-artist. If the newspaper dramatic critics would take the same interest
in the scene-painters themselves that they do with other individual members of
the theatrical business and that they do with other artists, and would find out
under what adverse circumstances they generally labor, their sense of justice
would cause them to be more discrimination in their reports. If a theatre
during an extended period is uniformly negligent in the matter of scenic
accessories, it would be but simple justice for the public critics to inquire
whether it is due to the incompetency of the scenic-artist or to the economy of
the manager. The truth in this matter can always be easily discovered, and when
blame is laid, as it frequently is, it should not be done in loose and
indiscriminate manner which injures most the artist who is frequently not to
blame. If the dramatic critics would visit and become acquainted with the
scenic-artists they would be welcomed, and would perhaps gain in the interest
of dramatic art and progress some ideas from that unknown and unthought of
portion of the theatre 9the paint gallery) that would be a revelation to them.
The sooner the press and public recognize the scene-painters as artists and
deal with them individually as with other artists – commending or condemn them
on their own merits, – the better it will be for the elevation of scenic art.
This is a long and contemplative post, so my apologies in
advance. Quarantine is providing me with a little too much time to think, hence
why I am painting so much; it silences the internal dialogue.
In 1918, Thomas G. Moses wrote, “Pitt and Stella dropped in
on us from Trenton on my 62nd birthday on the 21st, and
we all enjoyed their surprise and their visit.” Pitt was Moses’ eldest son who
lived in New Jersey. Today, Moses may be considered three years away from retirement.
In 1918, he was mid-career with no retirement in sight. What were the physical
barriers of a scenic artist working in the early-twentieth century versus now?
There are a few things to consider about the careers of
scenic artists during the early twentieth century. The first is that they were
not working on the floor, most painted on a vertical frame, one that moved up
and down. Aged scenic artists didn’t have to crawl around on the floor to tack
down a drop, or bend over to paint some little detail. They did not spend a
lifetime having to suddenly drop to the floor or kneel for extended periods of
time.
Thomas G. Moses working at Less Lash Studios in New York, ca. 1910.
How long could scenic artists work during the
late-nineteenth and early twentieth century? Until death. If you don’t have to
kneel down, and the painting was at a comfortable height, why stop working? With
no social security net, stopping work at any point might not be an option. Take
away the physical obstacles and you could paint as long as your mind stayed
sharp.
It’s pretty simple if you deconstruct the early-twentieth
century painting process. What are the greatest obstacles that an older artist
may encounter in a shop if they are above the age of 60? Kneeling, crouching
and climbing. I am almost fifty-one years old and consider myself in pretty
good shape. I am overweight, but I have remained active my whole life and spent
hours working on the floor. Starting out as a dancer, the flexibility remains
with me – so far. That being said, I can no longer crawl around on my hands and
knees for extended periods of time anymore, without suffering the next day. I
had a big epiphany a few months ago when I was painting an ad drop on a
motorized paint frame at the University of Minnesota, Duluth. I was putting in
an ungodly amount of hours, all by myself, yet did not feel the strain. Although
I enjoyed what I was doing, the key for me was painting on a vertical paint
frame. At every step of the process, my painting was at the perfect
height. No over-reaching, no crouching
and no straining. Why would I need to ever retire if I could physically do the
work I love?
There is another thing to keep in mind about the early-twentieth
century American scenic studio that is really important– journeyman artists had
assistants. That is not the case with every journeyman artist now, especially
if you freelance and do not enjoy a permanent position. These young assistants,
“pot-boys” (for filling pots of paint), would tack up the drop on a vertical
frame, prime it and possibly base-coat many of the basic colors. If you were at
the top of your profession, you may only need to show up to paint the complex part
of scene, adding in flourishes to add dimension and sparkle. There are pros and
cons to our industry at every step it seems.
The industry really began to change in the 1920s – and then
completely shifted in the 1930s during the Great Depression. Scenic artists noted the shift in their
memoirs and in newspaper articles. Those who recalled the changing times at the
end of their life detailed the cause of change in scenic art. A few years back,
I read a series of letters between John Hanny and Dr. John Rothgeb from 1979.
They are now part of the Rothgeb collection at the University of Texas, Austin.
Hanny was hired at Sosman & Landis by Thomas G. Moses in 1906; he was 16
years old at the time and earning $6 a week. Although his salary increased
five-fold in six years, by 1920, he and four other artists left to form Chicago
Service Studios. That business only lasted six years. In 1926 Art Oberbeck of
ACME studios of Chicago bought the studio. Hanny’s scenic art career was
tumultuous at best beginning in the mid-1920s.
When asked by Dr. Rothgeb in 1979 to describe the era from
1900 to 1929, Hanny wrote the following:
“The depression of 1929 just about stopped the production of
stage scenery – at least in Chicago. Road shows, musicals, etc. if any were
being produced in New York and Hollywood. At this point all the studios
disappeared but the scene painter just couldn’t disappear and had to become
freelancers. There was no such thing as a steady job and the boys were hard put
to find a day’s pay. Most of the following 10 years were really tough and 1929
proved to be a big change in our business, in purpose, in design, paint and
other materials.” Hanny goes onto describe the emergence of a new theatrical
supplier: “These were not Scenic Studios but rather combinations of carpenter
and machine shops equipped to turn out booths, revolving turn tables,
electrical effects and so on. The art was done in any available loft or vacant
store space.”
This is when scenic art shifts from an art, to a craft; no
longer does painted illusion drive the industry, it almost becomes an after
thought of the production process. Yes, there are exceptions.
Hanny continues, “The biggest change to us painters was our
paints. Luminal Casein was pretty well established as a very practical and
useful medium so, it, and show card color was the norm. So – no more ‘dry’
colors – no more soup bowls or hot size, and of course no more paint frames.
Drops, if any were painted on the floor.” THIS is a turning point in American
scenic art. We abandon something that worked incredibly well for over a century.
Not everyone transitions to floor painting, and pockets remain with scenic
artists continuing to paint on vertical frames – just look at Hollywood. Scene
painting continues to thrive there more so than anywhere else in the United
States.
With the shift from painting on a vertical frame to the
floor for live theatre and industrial shows, standard techniques and tools also
changed. Hanny recalled, “The house painter’s sash brush came into use and many
of the former ‘tools’ such as snappers and center-poles and others were no
longer needed. The folding 2 ft. brass bound rule gave way to the yard stick.”
When this industry wide change occurred, Hanny was in his
forties and Moses was at the end of his career. I cannot imagine watching my
entire life’s work be condemned as “old fashioned” as much pictorial realism
went out of vogue. Think of the theatre world that Moses entered in 1873. He
was from the generation of scenic artists who chummed together on sketching
trips to gather resources. The generation who took art classes together at fine
art academies and garnered some of the top salaries in the theatre profession.
This was all ending, faster than any of them realized.
We talk about evolution in the theater industry;
technological innovations that herald change and produce ever-better products.
Sometimes the only way to forge ahead is to forget the past. If we don’t look back, we can’t lament what
is lost. Such was the case when the golden age of American scenic art came to
an end. 1880 to 1914 is what I consider the golden age of scenic art. Yes, I am
sure there are many who disagree with those dates. Much scenic art training simultaneously shifted
to academic institutions around this same time. This created a very different
atmosphere, a departure from scenic studios that began training sixteen-year-old
boys.
As with everything, a massive shift in any industry affects
the accepted standards. What we consider “beautiful” or even “acceptable” is
sometimes based on the lowest common denominator. As with many things,
“quality” work is relative to accepted industry standards and the times.
In 1912, Thomas G. Moses wrote, “January 15th the big
furnace at the studio fell over and started a fine fire – a loss of about
$2,000.00, a week’s delay in repairs and getting started.” That is the
equivalent of a $53,000 loss today, no small fire. However, with the fabric and other flammables
stored in the studio, the damage could have been far worse.
Moses’ record of the studio fire is an opportune moment to
contemplate some practical considerations of running a scene painting studio in
Chicago during 1912, such as making the binder for paint. In 1912, stage
scenery was painted with a combination of dry pigment (powdered color) and size
water (diluted animal hide glue/gelatin). The dry pigment was transformed
into a paste and then mixed with size on the scenic artists’ palettes before
applying the paint. The type of paint used by Moses and his
colleagues included only three ingredients: color, water and binder. All were
kept separate until just prior to application, an ideal way to store paint with
an indefinite shelf life. Today’s paint uses the same three ingredients, and
then some – other additives for shelf life, flexibility, etc.
Dry hide glue for sizeCooking the hide glue.
Handling any paint requires an understanding of both the product and usage. Manuals not only train artists, but also may sell a particular product. In 1916, scenic artist Frank Atkinson discussed the use of size in his publication, “Scene Painting and Bulletin Art” (1916, page 154). He wrote, “The medium for binding distemper is known as ‘size,’ or sizing. For making it, gelatin is preferred, although the best grade of White Cabinet Glue answers very well and is most commonly used. Drop four or five pounds into the cauldron, cover it with water, and fill the water vessel two-thirds full of water. Apply the heat, and when the glue is melted you will have extra strong size. One dipper full of strong size with four dippers of clear hot water will produce working size.” Atkinson worked for Sosman & Landis during the early twentieth century, so his description of the process is likely the same used at many paint studios at this time.
Depending on the strength of the size, there is a tendency for it to gel. Even the perfect ratio of water to strong size will gel if a paint studio gets cool, hence, keeping the studio warm with a big furnace. The other option was to keep the size warm, but this was a bit tricky since you don’t want the glue to scorch. Making and storing unused size is like a juggling act, where all of the balls need to keep moving in the air without one hitting the ground. The smell of rotting glue is when a juggling ball hits the ground. Now in the case of Sosman & Landis, averaging the production of 4 drops a day, the size barrel was never left full for long. The key to painting with size is rapid turnover, where size water is constantly being mixed and replenished for scenic artists’ palettes.
Over the years, I have done quite a few experiments with size water, studying the strength and storage; all the while understanding that size water should really be mixed daily. Just as dry pigment palettes are prepared in the morning, preparing size each day is quite easy and takes about the same amount of time.
The greatest complaint among older artists is the rancid smell of old size. It is an organic compound that will spoil, no surprise to anyone. But like old food, there is a point when you throw it out instead of still using it. There are many ways to prevent the size from rotting and smelling like a dead animal. I have successfully kept size for over a month without any noticeable odor, you just have to understanding this little science experiment that you are creating.
The container is the first issue. Plastic and metal are not good long-term storage containers. Glass or glazed pottery (porcelain) containers are the best options, as nothing will leach into the size. I learned this from a chemist who specializes in hide glue and technical gelatin.
The container should never be tightly sealed, as this starts a little science experiment. Loosely draping the top with size, or fabric, allows the size to “breathe” and prevents contaminants from building up in the storage container.
Finally, keeping size at a cool temperature will cause it to gel, but it also preserves it like many organic substances. Gelled size just needs to be warmed up again prior to use.
Discussing the dry pigment painting process and cooking of size is nothing new or unique to our industry. There were a variety of publications and articles describing the scene painting process. As the use of dry pigment was gradually replaced with pre-mixed products, paint manufacturers and distributers took it upon themselves to include directions in their product catalogues. Bob Foreman recently shared a section about paint in a 1964 Paramount Theatrical Supply catalogue (http://vintagetheatrecatalogs.blogspot.com/…/paramount-thea…). In the section on “Scenic Paint,” there was an article written by Mr. Wayne Bowman, College of William and Mary, Norfolk 8, Virginia. Bowman’s article was placed immediately below a brief description of Paramount’s scenic paints, dyes and the necessary cast-aluminum glue pot for evenly heating size. The catalogue offered “regular colors” and “prepared colors,” adding that “regular colors are more economical.”
Wayne wrote: “For general stage use, the most satisfactory painting is done with dry scenic colors mixed with size water. The scenic colors cannot normally be obtained locally, but through theatre supply houses, such as Paramount Theatrical Supplies.” I was reminded of a conversation that I had with Italian scenic artist, Umberto di Nino, this summer. He explained the clients who wanted the best quality scenery paid for it to be created with dry pigment, whereas those without the substantial budgets used pre-mixed paints. Dry pigment is a superior product. This says a lot, as there is a visible difference of dry pigment scenery under stage lights, especially LEDS. I was able to see the difference when attending a CITT session last month where various lighting instruments were compared on paint samples. There were both dry pigment and pre-mix paint samples. In every case, the dry pigment had a greater depth and vibrancy, regardless of the lighting instrument or lamp.
Wayne’s article in the 1964 article continued: “Size water is a mixture of water and glue. Ground glue is most commonly used. The glue must be melted by covering with water and heating in a double boiler. In most scene shops, a water bucket or lard can is used for the water, and the glue is placed in a somewhat smaller container. It is good practice to place a block of wood under the glue container, so that it will not scorch if the water should boil dry. As a general rule, size water consists of one part glue, by volume, to sixteen parts of water. Since glues vary in their properties, it is necessary to test size water in this manner: wet the thumb and forefinger in the size water, touch them and then separate them. They should feel slightly sticky. If not, add more glue.”
When theatrical supply companies stopped adding instructions about dry pigment, the use went down. When demand decreased, the product was removed from many theatrical supply catalogues. The same can be said for any specific painting product; if a client is unsure how to use it, the demand goes down and then the product is discontinued by the distributor. If the product is difficult to obtain and shipping prices are high, it is less likely that the client will risk purchasing the product.
I have to wonder if that is why the use of house paint for scene painting has continued to increase over the years. The false perception that it as more expense and dangerous, combined with either the difficulty in quickly obtaining the product and expense shipping rates. For smaller institutions, it is cheaper to use, and people are willing to sacrifice the latex or acrylic sheen for convenience.
Finally, many people have used paint from a hardware/lumber store; the same cannot be said for scene paint. Many people default to a product that they are most familiar with and is easily obtainable. When the majority of academic institutions switch to house paint, storing gallons of latex from the local lumber store instead of scenic paint, the theatrical paint manufacturers will have a problem. Those students carry their training out into the professional world. Unfortunately, this trend has already started; the use of inappropriate paints for stage scenery is gaining ground at many schools.
According to Virginia Lewis in her book “Russell Smith, Romantic Realist, “ in 1872, the artist Russell Smith painted a replica of an 1856 entr’acte drop curtain. The drop curtain was originally installed at the Academy of Music in Baltimore, Maryland. The painting for the curtain was described by “The Philadelphia Inquirer” on Dec. 16, 1894. The article noted that although the scene was titled “Como,” the actual scene was from sketches that Smith made at the head of Lake Lugano, in Northern Italy.” The article described, “A conventional design with huge frame, the center of the lower border included a Greek bust. The scene depicted a brilliant summertime view with Italian skies above the glitter and sheen of greenish blue waters.” Lewis notes that the curtain was painted on British imported linen and the drawings were inked in with logwood, commenting it resulted in “soft atmospheric effects which could not be gotten otherwise.” The article also noted that “the colors were made by him personally, as was his custom.”
A recipe for logwood ink appeared in the 1912 publication of “The Standard Reference Work for the Home, School and Library: “Logwood ink is made easily. Logwood may be boiled in soft water, or else extract of logwood may be used. When ink of a proper consistency has been obtained, add one part in ten of ammonia or alum dissolved in boiling water. This gives a violet ink.”
Logwood is a small redwood tree indigenous to Central America, Mexico and the West Indies. Introduced in Europe during the 16th century, it is still used today in a variety of industries. The dye is contained in the heartwood of the tree, cut into small blocks and then chips for use. Logwood was inexpensive at the time when Russell Smith was using it and provided a wide color range, spanning from violet and blue to deep brown and black. Logwood was not only used for inks, but also watercolor paints.
I immediately thought back to the ink lines still visible on Smith’s 1858 drop curtain. Although water damage washes away an artist’s painting, it often reveals the original drawing beneath, such is the case with the drop curtain at Thalian Hall.
Drawing revealed after water damage. Inked lines on the 1858 Russell Smith drop curtain at Thalian Hall in Wilmington, NC.
Drawing revealed after water damage. Inked lines on the 1858 Russell Smith drop curtain at Thalian Hall in Wilmington, NC.
Drawing revealed after water damamge. Inked lines on the 1858 Russell Smith drop curtain at Thalian Hall in Wilmington, NC.
A variety of logwood inks appeared in the 19th century after the design of the steel pen necessitated new ink; iron-gall inks corroded the steel nibs. Chrome-logwood inks were noncorrosive and flowed freely. Cr logwood inks were among the most popular in use, reaching the market in 1848. Unfortunately, chromium caused the ink to gelatinize in the bottle and other alternatives were repeatedly sought out.
There were also alum-logwood inks and copper-logwood inks. Logwood inks were cheap, but not a perfect solution to replace the traditional and expensive black inks. Some of the early violet inks also came from logwood, with the best versions appearing as an intense blue black. Once dry, logwood inks could be wetted without smearing or spreading; a perfect application in inking scenic art compositions that would be painted over. Van Gogh also used chrome-logwood ink for many of his paintings.
It is very possible that the Smith’s inked lines, now visible in the Thalian Hall drop curtain, were made with logwood ink.
Part 520: Palette & Chisel, October 1927 – Creating Stock Scenery
Thomas G. Moses was a member of the Palette and Chisel Club in Chicago and contributed a variety of articles to their monthly newsletter during the late 1920s. His series “Stage Scenery” began during September 1927, however, it was originally written during the spring of 1918.
Here is the third part of Moses’ “Stage Scenery” in the Palette & Chisel newsletter during October 1927:
“The material used to paint on is a fine grade Russian linen and a heavy grade of cotton cloth. Linen is used for all scenery on frames; the cotton is used for drops and borders, usually called “hangers.” The lumber is a fine grade of clear, white pine, without knots or sap. It has to be very clear and straight grained so it will stand upright without too much bracing.
Bottom sandwich batten for backdrops
Bottom sandwich batten for backdrops
After the canvas has been carefully prepared with a priming coat of whiting and glue is thoroughly dried, the artist draws his design with charcoal, which must be carefully done. In many cases the model must be laid off in squares and the same is carried up on the drop or set pieces. This enables the artist to produce the model exactly as part of the paint frame is below the bridge most of the time so the artist cannot see all of the drop. After the scene is drawn in it is traced with ink, which enables the artist to lay in the main local colors without destroying the drawing. The drawing out of an interior is very laborious. The work has to be done very accurately and pounces and stencils made, as there are many pieces to be covered.
In case of a landscape, they sky is laid in first, distance follows, then the middle distance, and there are many pieces to be covered.
In case of a landscape, the sky is laid in first, distance follows, then the middle distance, and the foreground last. The trees are run up when the sky is dry, which takes a short time. After all the broad “masses” of the “lay in” are dry and a clean palette has been arranged by the “paint boy” and the pots and pails holding the “lay in” are placed under the palette, “(a clear space is required for the many tints that are mixed on the palette, several small cups of dark purple and a strong rich color is used to emphasize the darks in the foreground) comes the careful work of finishing a landscape; strong shadows and half tones in foliage up to the strongest flickering of sunlight. We now take a little more time for our work. The “lay in” had to be done very quickly as it is very essential that the colors be kept will blend, which, in turn, makes the “cut up” easier. A drop representing a landscape 24×36 feet in size can be “laid in” with a lot of rough detail inside of two or three hours and retain wet edges.
As the distemper colors dry out several shades lighter t causes many anxious moments to a novice. There was no trouble with color fading or changing before fireproofing; it eats all the blue (especially Cobalt) out of purple, leaving a bad color, neither a blue nor red, which makes trouble for the artist.
Showing difference between wet and dry pigment colors during the painting process
In most cases, in painting a landscape, the artist endeavors to obtain his dark colors in the “lay in” so that when the “cut up” comes it will be all light colors. Most of the artists start to finish the drops from the foreground, getting the strength of the foreground first. Big, broad strokes are what count. It may look rather coarse close by, but when the completed scene is properly lighted you will find a surprise awaiting you. We know how to light a scene, but often some of our best effects are purely accidental. We follow these accidents up, develop them, and find soft, atmospheric color, all to be done with electricity.
Looking up at a collection of backdrops and seeing the bottom battens
Stock scenery for small halls and opera houses and for large vaudeville theatres has grown to be quite a business. Scenic studios have sprung up like mushrooms all over the country. To get the very best facilities for handling all sizes of scenery, the studio has to have a height of at least 54 feet, allowing a drop 30 feet high to be painted from a stationary floor, 24 feet from the basement floor. The width of the studio should be at least 50 feet and 150 feet in length. A building of these dimensions will accommodate fifteen paint frames, giving work for fifteen artists, five paint boys, four helpers to handle the scenery on and off the frames, two sewing women and six carpenters to build and prepare the frames for the scenes. This would constitute a first class studio and turn put a lot of work.”
