written by Erica Walker,  CPSC Secretary-Treasurer

Balance, harmony, storytelling, guiding the eye – so many things depend on a good composition.  Without a good design our pictures end up weak and irresolute, not getting our message across.  It takes experience to develop a strong sense of design (although some people seem to be born with it) but there are basic devices that can help you.  Because I am self-taught, I am not familiar with all of the official terms for these designs: but they are all tried-and-true, classic means of composition that have served artists well for centuries.

Good composition involves so many things at once (shape, space, colour, value, line, etc.), but especially PLACEMENT – WHERE the elements are positioned, and what amount of space is positioned between them.  The spaces between objects (negative space) are as important as the objects themselves (positive space).  Once you get the hang of using negative space, you’ll be amazed at how it can enhance your work.

Premières écorchures

Balance is all-important in a good design.  Elements have to be balanced in a work of art, so that people’s eyes don’t get stuck in one area or move out of the piece altogether.  The design should also contribute to the desired mood: for example, to portray a feeling of isolation the artist might completely surround his or her subject with empty space.  Alexandra Bastien does this in her powerful, eloquent “Premières écorchures.”  She has also chosen a square format, boxing the subject in so that she is both alone and imprisoned.  The format always requires careful consideration.  Different basic shapes provoke different responses, even if we don’t realize it.  We don’t respond to a rectangle the way we do to a square, and we don’t get the same feeling from an oval as we do from a circle.  Even if you always use the rectangle, a very thin, elongated rectangle will have a different effect from a shorter one.

Bird on a Wire (House Wren)

There are many ways of placing things so that balance is maintained.  One is to arrange things in a triangle: this is a classic, solid design.  Our eyes tend to travel peacefully around a triangle, always returning to the centre of interest and never being jarred out of the visual path.  Deborah Strong’s “Bird on a Wire (House Wren)” is an example.  Together the bird and wire form a gracefully-curving triangular shape.  Unlike many triangular compositions, it is set on point, creating a liveliness that suits the subject perfectly.  The effect is further enhanced by the subtle touches of colour, the delicate, precisely-rendered detail, and the bird’s animated pose.

Boat and Moon

The “cruciform” is a design that touches all sides of the support to form a rough cross-shape.  Compositions based on the cruciform usually convey stability because they anchor the image with horizontal and vertical lines, which tend to give a greater sense of strength and calm than diagonals or curves.  (Diagonals are dynamic, going-places lines that lend things a sense of energy and movement.  Curves also convey movement, but their movement is less abrupt and decisive than that of diagonals.)  Gordon Webster’s spare, enigmatic “Boat and Moon” shows how effective this design can be.  The elements of the boat and water touch all four sides, while the boat (a diagonal, which provides a note of movement and keeps the design from becoming too static) is further balanced not only by the long stretch of water but by the curving sliver of moon, which also echoes both the shape and colour of the boat’s sail.

Réflexions

Sometimes a design can create tension from the balance of visual “weights.”  This has an effect like a delicately poised scale: there has to be enough pictorial weight on both sides or it will tip.  An example of this is Manon LeClerc’s contemplative still life “Réflexions.”  She’s put all the rounded, bulky shapes of the cup, saucer, and the bowl of the spoon at the very left edge.  She’s also put all the red (a POWERFUL colour) at the edge.  But instead of keeling over to the left, the work is balanced by the spoon’s handle.  Its subtly curving lines relate it to the other elements, while its contrasting shape (long and thin) makes it a very effective and “weighty” visual opposite.  So do its darks, its interesting abstract shadow, and the expanse of space surrounding it.

No Flies on Me

Then there’s the “rule of thirds.”  This device consists of dividing the support into thirds both vertically and horizontally and then placing important areas roughly along or near those divisions.  “No Flies on Me” by Vickie Lawrence does this.  The result is calm and even and enables us to admire the beautiful horses at our leisure.  But the flowing, curving lines, the animals’ about-to-move-slightly positions, the irregular shapes of light appearing and disappearing on their glossy coats, and the warm sparkles of greenery in the background all create a sense of gentle movement that prevents the work from feeling predictable.

Byng Inlet #3

A design that emphasizes diagonals can create livelier movement, as in “Byng Inlet #3” by Lynette Richards.  This sparkling, breezy image is divided vertically, horizontally, and from corner to corner.  The forceful diagonals fill it with energy.  Nothing is still here: the tree’s branches whirl us all over the work, the cloud-like hills roll us back to the centre, the small strategically-placed shrubs are bent over with wind, and everything is enhanced by the choppy, flurrying pencil strokes.  But the steadying horizontal bands of landscape, and the strong central vertical of the tree, keep things under control.

Cellophane Symphony

Finally, there’s the unity-in-diversity, abstract design like Teresa Mallen’s “Cellophane Symphony.”  This kind of design gets its harmony from repetition and its interest from differences within that repetition.  “Cellophane Symphony” has no “subject” (without the title, we wouldn’t know what we were looking at), but there are so many wonderful variations of colour, shape, value, and line that we are never bored.  A lot of the main lines are essentially verticals, which serve to stabilize the work.  But because they all incline slightly to the right or left, they also act as mild diagonals, adding more energy.  They dance our eyes continually over the piece, up and down and around.  (Abstract art can be a great way to learn about shape and colour without the “distractions” of realism.)

These are just a few of the most common compositional devices.  All of them are excellent, and have been used to create great art.  When you have a good, solid design, you can proceed more confidently and with a much greater chance of success.  Try to analyze the artworks you look at: to see how and why your eye travels around the work, and why you respond as you do.

written by Erica Walker,  CPSC Secretary-Treasurer

The road to success is paved with failure.

We’ve all had our failures – those works we cringe at the sight of, the ones we hope no one else will ever see. In a medium that tends to be slow, such failures can be very discouraging. However, it really is possible to learn from our mistakes. As a self-taught artist I’ve had plenty of opportunity. I can honestly say that I’ve learned more from my failures than from anything else.

Attitude is crucial. We have to realize that some failure is not only inevitable, it is necessary. This is because it teaches us as nothing else can what won’t work. If you are trying to do a portrait of a Caucasian subject and you use a single peach-coloured pencil for the skin and black for the shadows, it is highly unlikely that you will ever do so again, once you see the result. And then, if we don’t allow it to depress us too much, failure will also spur us on to better things. After your peach-and-black attempts you will find yourself avidly studying both living skin and great portraits (thankfully for those of us who don’t have access to the originals, even reproductions can be incredibly helpful) as you never have before, and making many new and wonderful discoveries.

That being said, here are a few of the most common pitfalls that are avoidable:

Going too fast. Impatience, overconfidence, laziness; whatever urges us to hurry almost always leads to trouble. The slowness of coloured pencil can actually be an advantage. It is much more difficult to rush, so you have time to notice what you are doing, where you might have gone wrong, and take steps to prevent going there again.

Carelessness. There is no place for carelessness in art. Whether you are highly experienced or just starting out, every part of your work should receive equal and close attention. This is especially true concerning your initial drawing. It makes sense to prevent as many mistakes as you can before you start adding colour. Do believe that absolutely nothing will salvage a bad drawing. Colour will not fix or even camouflage it; it will probably make it worse. We all want to plunge right into the exciting things, but carelessness, especially in the early stages, comes back to haunt us. Be patient and exacting. You must demand the best from yourself.

Aiming too high. At the same time, though, you must try not to be to ambitious at first, when you are still learning the basics. It is important to challenge ourselves, but many failures – and the frustration that goes with them – are the result of taking on too much too soon. It’s always hard to limit ourselves to what we might think of as boring exercises. But this is the way to gain confidence and skill. When you can do a boring exercise really well, you know you are ready to take some risks.

Sentimentality. Nothing works against total success like partiality for one particular thing. We get so attached to what we have done well, especially when we are starting out and every accomplishment means so much to us. Clinging to a favourite element is counter-productive if it interferes with the success of the rest of the work. That tree may be the best you’ve ever done, but if it throws off the entire design because it is too far over to the left, you must get rid of it. Don’t fall in love with any single part of your work. What matters is the picture as a whole, not your beloved tree – which no one will be able to appreciate anyway, if it ruins everything else.

Overworking. This happens to us all, particularly at the beginning. Being unfamiliar with a medium makes for a lot of mud, and coloured pencil is no exception. It helps to keep a ‘test sheet’ nearby to try different colour combinations and techniques. In time, we learn when and where to stop. Unfortunately, the temptation to fix what ain’t broke remains stubbornly present, even to artists who have experience enough to ignore it. It insinuates itself most often at the very end of a satisfying, successful piece, or even after it is completed. We so enjoy our triumph, that we can’t resist the urge to add to it; and before we know it we have gone too far. Overworking like this is one of the most crushing disasters. It is truly heartbreaking to be unable to fix something that was just the way you wanted until you tried to improve it. If you are really pleased with something you have done, and it doesn’t entail the sacrifice of any other necessary element, leave it alone.

All of these are pitfalls that we can sidestep with enough care and practice. But what if you have indeed done your best, and the thing is still hopeless? Whatever you do, don’t look upon it as the measure of your talent, especially if you are still in the process of becoming familiar with the medium. Failure is often a measure of skill, which is something quite different. If we all took our worst efforts as the extent of our talent, how long would any of us last? (And even the very best and most accomplished artists have off days.) Nor should you consider your blunders a waste of time. If you have learned something, the time has not been wasted. You probably have an idea of what went wrong, and now you can avoid it next time. But even if you don’t, if you can’t figure out at all what bothers you, don’t be in too much of a hurry to reject what you have done. Instead, put it away for a while before looking at it again. We put so much on so many levels into our work, that sometimes we are literally unable to see where the problem lies. Separation enables us to become more detached and less partial. Sometimes, too, we can have the pleasant surprise of discovering that what we thought was hideous isn’t so bad after all. Give it time.

We must also educate our eyes. Study what is great. Do not limit your study to your own work, or to the work of others at or only slightly ahead of your own level. If you do, you will never go beyond a certain point, either in ability or in the capacity to appreciate. This doesn’t mean that you should expect to accomplish what these artists have, or that your work is worthless because it isn’t as good as theirs. But we must look to work that is far beyond our own if we want to get anywhere.

Thankfully, we do get somewhere! As we grow and improve, failure becomes a rarer (though never extinct) phenomenon. Our standards rise along with our achievements, and there must always be some risk. But after a time our failures cease to intimidate us so much. Instead, we find ourselves regarding them as landmarks: places that show us where we were once, where we are now, and where we hope someday to be.