Art project preempts holiday prep
Have you ever had an artistic idea that consumed your thoughts until you just had to pursue it, even at the expense of, say, getting ready for Christmas?
For me right now, it’s newts.
Yes, newts. Not real ones, but three paintings I recently started, based on photos I’ve taken while walking the Trail Around Middlebury. I mean Eastern newts in the “red eft” stage of their life cycle—you know, the bright-orange little amphibians that hang out on or near the trail after a rain.
I’ve grown fascinated with newts, not only because I think they’re adorable but also because my six-year-old grandson is a newt aficionado. Together we’ve spent hours searching for and observing newts in the woods.
My interest in newts has reached an unnerving level. If you and I spend more than five minutes together, I will tell you how, during a 40-minute walk on the TAM this past August, I spotted 31 red efts. Thirty-one! (I’m letting you know now so you’ll be ready to react appropriately when I drop this into conversation; I suggest an impressed whistle or exaggerated “wow.”)
Newts look both graceful and cartoonish, and since I don’t care to touch them—their skin secretes a neurotoxin—I take photos of them instead.
Having collected dozens of such photos, I’ve had this vision over the past year of making three small newt paintings to be hung above the triple window in our kitchen. The pops of orange would add visual interest to the room and, as interior decorators like to say, “draw the eye upward,” something I’ve generally let the cobwebs do.
I know what you’re thinking: “Newts? In your kitchen? But why?” Maybe you’re right, and it’s weird. Or maybe—and this is the theory I prefer—you don’t know anything about art.
“Their legs already look like they were stuck on with hot glue by a crafter who’d misplaced her reading glasses, so if I didn’t quite get them right, would anyone know?”
One day last week, my vision would wait no longer. I started painting and have since spent a couple of hours at it every day, not wrapping presents or decorating the tree or even making dinner. My newt muse calls.
In past forays into realism, I’ve discovered that I stink at architectural forms. The barn I tried to paint a couple of years ago was plagued with perspective lines that refused to converge. Observers would cock their heads to try to resolve the image into something three-dimensional and come away with headaches.
On the other hand, I once painted a pretty outdoor scene. It may not have accurately depicted the location I had in mind, but without a roofline to contend with, I managed to make a decent generic landscape, which is all I was going for.
I figured newts, with no corners or cupolas to test me, would make similarly forgiving subjects. Their legs already look like they were stuck on with hot glue by a crafter who’d misplaced her reading glasses, so if I didn’t quite get them right, would anyone know?
After days of work, I’m happy to say my efforts are yielding recognizable newts. I’m still struggling with the legs, however. It turns out that while I find newts’ extremities improbable looking, they do in fact make biological sense. As a result, it’s noticeable when I’ve got it wrong.
Will this poor creature ever have toes on its front foot? We have no way of knowing.
And though I’ve captured their basic newtness, it would be a stretch to say my paintings resemble the individuals I’m attempting to portray. If I approached one of the three subjects in the wild and showed him his wonky-legged portrait, he’d probably squint and say, “Sorry, I don’t know this guy. Who are you, his orthopedist?”
But a casual, nonamphibian observer would say, “Sure, that’s a newt or salamander or whatever.” And that’s good enough for me.
My grandson, hearing that I was going to paint his favorite forest creature, couldn’t wait to see my progress. But when he laid eyes on the three paintings—in their unfinished state, mind you—he just stared at them, at a loss. Eventually, in the gentle voice kids use when their best friend is having a bad day, he said, “If it’s easier, you could just print the pictures off your computer and frame those instead.”
The kid is a born diplomat.
“You’re sweet,” I told him, kissing the top of his head. “But it’s obvious you don’t know anything about art.”
