Ghosts for Marchmont

Where the ‘Ghosts’ came from

They began with a strange moment of recognition; an ailing beech found on a walk seeming to contain something figurative beyond the visible. Once I’d seen this I couldn’t unsee it – pareidolia was at work.

Philpstoun ghost beech by Tansy Lee MoirWhen I first started this series way back in 2012-13 I called them ‘Ghosts’ because they carried memories and echoes of things I couldn’t quite grasp on a conscious level, but sincerely wanted to connect with. For me, these works had a dark energy and a bittersweet mix of emotions behind them. The art was a way of expressing something I couldn’t do any other way and it’s quite difficult to write about even now. Their mystery was always appealing to both myself and the collectors who ultimately chose them.

share:

The origins of the ‘Spirits’

How a new series of artwork began

Isn’t it interesting how one set of experiences in our lives affects another quite separate set? It can literally change how you see the world. It’s all about making new connections. Creativity is essentially about connecting previously unconnected things, then making something to express that new perception.

Harbinger charcoal drawing by Tansy Lee Moir
‘Harbinger’ Charcoal and conté on wooden panel 30x30cm

I wanted to share a little on how my ‘Spirits’ series came about. It’s not always obvious how ideas for new work emerge but in this case there has been a clear path from experience to artwork.

share:

Two books for our time

In the political and social chaos that infected this autumn, I found myself seeking some focus. With many competing ideas, distractions and the temptations of doom-scrolling, I needed a little help to work out where to direct my energy.

Do we really have all the time in the world?

Charlie Gilkey’s ‘Start Finishing’ and Oliver Burkeman’s ‘Four Thousand Weeks’ take different approaches to the same problem – how to do what’s important to you in the time you have. These two books gave me some unexpected answers. They taught me that I, like so many of us, am just one person trying to do far more than is possible. Since you might be trying to do this too, I thought I’d share what I’ve learned from them.

share:

Making ‘Rivers of oak’

Where do the ideas come from? How do the images form themselves? 

It’s not until after I’ve finished a body of work that I can get enough distance to see where it might have come from, what it relates to and where it sits amongst all my work. While I’m making it, it’s mostly a response to a creative urge rather than following a plan.

charcoal drawing
Standing wave, charcoal on paper, 65x50cm

Rivers of oak series

Looking back now I see that my ‘Rivers of oak’ series came from the coalescence of two visual elements – the bare, weather-eroded sapwood of long dead ancient oaks and the turbulent patterns of the sea where I row. Both are things I’ve looked at intently.

share:

Painting light with oils

New work is emerging – painting light with oils

It’s been an intense few months in my studio, while I’ve been immersed in developing a new way of working in oil paint. New materials require trials and experiments, so I’ve been doing my best impression of a methodical person, testing all the variables of substrates, grounds, paint brands, mediums, mark-making tools and finishes. The time (and money) invested is now paying off and I’ve found combinations which are enabling me to say what I want to in paint. I now know what I like, don’t like and hate with a passion – this will make it so much easier to express myself in new but hopefully still familiar ways.testing oil paints

Colour choices

I’ve bought a lot of new paints and tried a LOT of combinations. Earthy colours and natural pigments like slate or oxides have appealed most to me from these trials. I’ve been particularly excited to discover a ready-made oil paint using charcoal as the pigment, since I realised making my own in any amounts would take more time than I’d like.

colour swatches in oil

I’ve decided to restrict the works to an almost monochrome palette, using colours which suggest ‘beechness’ but don’t attempt to depict it. I plan to use subtle glazes to deepen the colours and enhance their glow.

Reductive painting

I approach my charcoal works as if I’m drawing with light, so it made complete sense to work with paint in the same way. Reductive painting simply means removing paint to create lights rather than adding it to create darks – it’s a very tonal technique with a broad range of mark-making possibilities.

removing paint with a clothIt also means I get to paint with my fingers, so I’m still in that particular comfort zone! Guiding me on the studio wall are images of lithographs by Eugène Carrière, a master of ethereal monochrome work and images by early Pictorialist photographers which remind me to keep those tones simple whenever I get too wrapped up in details.

Here’s what my reductive painting technique looks like in action…

and here’s a quick view of the paintings drying between layers…

The arrival of a title

As they’ve been gathering in the studio, the word ‘Grounded’ has linked itself with this new series – in my mind it seems to sum up both the qualities of the trees they are inspired by and my reaction to being in their presence.

ancient beech tree in autumn

These old veterans are relics of a former landscape in an ancient woodland at Kinclaven, Perthshire. Massive, stoic and stunningly beautiful, they’ve given me enough ideas to keep me working through whatever the winter brings.

I’ll be continuing work on my ‘Grounded’ series over the next couple of months, in preparation for my solo show at Linlithgow Burgh Halls next February. If you enjoy seeing snippets of work in progress, I also post video clips on Instagram – come and say hello there.

share:

Experiments in charcoal

It’s no secret that artists absolutely love getting new art materials, regardless of whether we actually need any or not. In fact need has nothing to do with it. I think this collecting habit is driven by curiosity – what if that new brush is exactly what I’ve been searching for, maybe that new pastel is the perfect green for those mossy bits, perhaps that ink will make exciting splashy marks I’d never imagined possible?

In this spirit of discovery, I jumped at the chance to try some unusual types of charcoal when I came across Wildwood Charcoal showing their experiments on Instagram.

I usually use charcoal from art materials suppliers, mostly made by Coates and Nitram for sticks and Derwent for the powder. I’ve not been too fond of homemade charcoal for drawing before, as it’s been very unpredictable, pale and quite frustrating to draw with. However, I heard from another artist that the passionflower one was great to work with so I ordered a little sample pack and got to work on some arty experiments.

charcoal made from brambleMy exciting little package arrived nestled beautifully in sweet smelling straw, wrapped in carefully labelled paper – nice touch! I set to work testing them in a not very methodical way, just allowed the marks to flow as the charcoals suggested.

Passionflower was indeed a delight, luscious and black. Gorse on the other hand was scratchy and grey, but in an interesting way. Clematis was definitely a favourite for its depth of tone but also its texture – the outer layers being ridged and slightly crumbly, giving pleasantly surprising results. Wisteria had less personality and bramble (pictured above) was pretty brutal – the thorns still jaggy even after carbonising and the stem so hard it seemed almost metallic.

I came to the conclusion that passionflower and clematis would be a great addition to my charcoal ‘palette’, gorse would be worth further exploration and bramble would be excellent if I ever wanted to draw on a stone wall. Each species had its own distinct character which produced a drawing style particular to it. I’d love explore this further, working on more sustained drawings. Of course I’ve also got a list of other plants I’d like to try now – I’ve got a feeling that’s the first of many little Wildwood charcoal packages arriving in my studio.

 

 

 

 

share:

Oily doodles

When does a drawing become a painting? I think of these as drawings made in oil paint and oil pastel.Project_paint10

Above are Dalkeith oaks, below a beech tree near the Cromarty Firth. All are done in the studio from photographs and sketches.

Project_paint11

The painting experiment continues…

share:

How do I make my drawings?

charcoal-splatcharcoal-sticks-2

It’s a question I’m often asked. I do workshops and demos for groups but thought a timelapse video of the process might be an interesting way to share a little of what I’ve learned too.

So, the blank white paper is taped to the board, the preparatory sketches made, materials collected and it’s time to begin. First I make large gestures with a charcoally hand to quickly give the drawing structure and movement. Lively lines help to begin to define the big shapes. There’s a magical feeling early on in a drawing when the forms begin to emerge from the dust. I can draw with energy and excitement. “This is going to be a good one!” my internal monologue says. Then, gradually the drawing morphs into the ‘smudgey grey mess’ stage when it seems like it’s all going nowhere… time for a tea-break.

time_lapse_closeup

However, I’ve learned to persevere through this – I know it will happen and I know I just have to keep going, keep walking away, looking through squinted eyes, looking at it upside down, all the usual tricks to help spot what’s not working. A few years ago I read on American artist Stapleton Kearns’ blog that drawing was like herding sheep – you should always be paying attention to the ones straying or lagging behind, rather than the ones way out ahead. So pay attention to the bad bits of the drawing, try to fix the things that are not working and eventually they will all catch up with each other and hopefully resolve into something ok.

Dalkeith_burred_time_lapse

Dalkeith burred oak 7

The end result of all that herding turned out to be quite pleasing and I found that I really enjoyed knowing that I could review all the previous stages of the drawing on the time lapse. Being able to rewind time has proved a useful tool – I won’t do it for all my drawings but I’ll definitely do more little films.

Here’s the video of several hours work condensed into 3 minutes…

share: