I have also read through a lot of 'how-to' accounts by present-day painters themselves, and while these highly detailed accounts surely ring more genuine than the 'tortured soul' accounts written by non-painters, they still do not reflect what is going on in my head while I am working. Maybe I am not a very deep person, because most of what I was thinking about when I did the two still lifes here was pretty shallow, but I am sort of tired of artists who are intent on keeping the real process under wraps, to preserve some sort of 'artist's mystique.' For myself, at least, I can try to set the record straight.

I am a real 'tool man,' one who has learned to use and appreciate the value of tools for most of my adult life. I have worked with my hands my entire time, fixing and making things, and the whole process of working with tools is a pleasant experience for me, overall, even when I am freezing under my car, filthy, with smashed fingers, and cursing the god who invented the internal combustion engine.

This first painting, titled 'Vise,' is my own vise, which was here in the basement when I bought the house, and belonged to the last owner of the house, one Steve Vician, who I knew from my earliest childhood, and was an early influence on my love of tools, being a 'tool man' himself. I had bought up a bunch of tubes of student-grade oil paint from a female painter in the neighborhood, who I had named 'Carrot Girl' because of her orange hair (she did not know about this nickname, I kept it to myself). Anyhow, she was moving out of her studio and having a sale, and for about $20 I bought a huge quantity of this paint, and carted it home, and have been using it ever since, on all of the oil paintings that I have produced in the past two years. I found that two of the colors, if brushed together on a canvas that had been prepared with the usual acrylic gesso, made a pretty interesting rust color, and since the vise was sitting there on the floor at the time just getting rustier, I decided it was a good candidate for a still life, and about the right size for this particular canvas, which had been prepared in advance, with nothing particular in mind.

As far as composition is concerned, I didn't give it any thought at all. Actually, I never give composition the kind of deep consideration I have seen discussed in treatises on art, and have no serious inclination to ever do so. Most of what I have seen written about composition seems incomprehensible to me, and I wonder whether the people who wrote it even know what they are talking about, because I certainly don't. I just push things around in my head until they seem right, and occasionally move things around after the fact, when I notice a better way to lay them in. With watercolors, I use a pencil to lay things out, because it's impossible to back up in watercolors, but in oil, I just erase mistakes with a rag, or paint them over, whichever is more appropriate.

Up until very recently, the size and shape of the canvases I make has been more often determined by the size and shape of the canvas and pieces of wood I had available than any pictorial consideration, since I was working almost exclusively from scrap. A lot of my color choices have more to do with the paints I have in my box (also, almost exclusively either what I have found, been given, or was on sale) and how I can best make them work on a particular subject, than any color harmony theory, or anything else.

The same is true for brushes, what they are and are not capable of is a third determining factor to how the work proceeds. This is not to say that choice of subject et al. (the 'artistic' considerations) do not exist in the process, simply that those artistic considerations are subservient to my materials to a degree, and also subservient to my hand and eye coordination, to a much larger degree.

The first painting was done from life. I had to pick up the vise, which involved some physical risk, as I have a bad back, and chronic lower back pain. I remember that after the painting was finished, the vise sat there for weeks before I finally moved it, and I never moved it very far. It now resides on the floor just a few feet from where it sat when I painted it.

I drew the vise in onto the already dry background with a small brush and some thinned-down paint, and in a few hours it was done, no measuring, no mistakes, just the essence of weight and rust, and a shadow to indicate ground, but without any horizon line. This was not deliberate, but just something that I did not think about, consciously at least. I went back over it a few days later, and added the white and orange highlights, and then made the only compositional decision necessary, in deciding where to sign my name.

My thinking process during this painting (and in fact during most of my paintings) had nothing in particular to do with the painting itself. I have an old office chair with the wheels removed sitting about 12 feet back from my easel, and the way I work is that after I get each little bit down, I walk back and sit there, which gives me a good perspective of the painting. I also have books lying around, so I wind up thinking equally about whatever I might happen to pick up and read at the time, instead of focusing exclusively on the painting itself.

The second painting, 'Frank's Vise,' was done from a digital photo. I have seen a lot of criticism leveled at painters who work from photos, but I have little patience for such criticisms, as long as the individual in question has taken the time and expended the effort to be able to work from life as well. If Rembrandt had a digital camera, I am willing to wager that he would have used it, and felt not the least bit that it was compromising his art.

As far as I know, there is no deep rationale as to why one painting is done in a sharper format than the other, except that it seemed to work better in capturing the bright, outdoor sunlight, and especially the steel openwork stand that Frank's vise sits on, so that it doesn't collect water, since it stays outside year-round. The first painting was done inside, where the light was a lot less powerful, and more diffuse. On 'Frank's Vise,' I also had to make a second compositional decision, in addition to placing the signature, in that I eliminated all of the background, painting it in with Payne's gray (blue-black) to complement the orange and yellow of the vise and its base. I did not think of this complementary color scheme at the time, though, I was just painting with the colors I had laid out in advance.

I am still using up that old student-grade paint that I bought from the Carrot Girl. Sometimes I wonder what ever became of her, and if she ever gives any thought to the fate of the paint she sold me. After she was done with that sale, I made sure to walk by her place every day, and check the trash cans. One day I was rewarded, when she tossed out all the stuff no one had been willing to pay her for, and which she was unwilling to take with her, to wherever she went. All sorts of old paint brushes, and old sample boards, which had perfectly clean and useful backs to paint on, which I have put to use. The price was certainly as right as it can get.

In retrospect, as I write this, I can see the connection between me and my 'tool ways,' and these other, earlier 'tool men,' and their tools. I feel more at one with their ethic of hard work and craftsmanship than I ever will with the still popular twentieth century image of the 'artiste.' There is no polite way to say this, so I will just come right out and say it. I think that a lot of what passed for art in the twentieth century was not, and a lot of those who passed themselves off as artists in the twentieth century, were not. The same goes for the galleries and modern art museums. A lot of it was just hype and crap, and will not stand the test of time.

For myself ... well, I would rather paint vises.