There's nothing like a deadline—it's wonderful and horrible.

Several months ago, during a casual conversation with the exhibition coordinator at my school, she mentioned that she was planning a Small Works sale for the holidays. She intended for that conversation to motivate us obscure students to create small, affordable works that would help us establish reputations for ourselves and make a little money.

It's a great idea. I love the art world's tradition of offering smaller, lower-priced works at the holidays. 

Then she mentioned that the works in the show would probably need to be priced at $75 or less. This started me thinking. Could I produce anything that would be priced that low? Drawings? Only if they were unframed. Tiny oil studies? Only if they were unframed. I just couldn't bring myself to submit work that would later appear with  my name on it unframed. Plenty of good artists will happily hang unframed works on the wall and let the buyers handle the framing. But I have this persistent image in my head of a buyer coming home with a drawing, and then the drawing sitting on top of the dresser for months, occasionally with socks or jewelry tossed on top of it. Oy vey! When a buyer comes home with a piece of art, the only thing they should have to do is find a hammer and hang the thing. Some buyers know how to frame a piece attractively, and some don't. Some will take care of the framing right away, and some won't. I prefer to do all of that stuff myself, partly out of concern for the buyer's experience, and partly because I want to have control over the framing. I also provide the hanging hardware with the work when I handle the sale myself, just because I imagine most people don't have picture hangers lying around. Buying and hanging artwork should be easy.

As I considered participating in the small works sale, I concluded that the kind of work I produce really can't be priced at less than $100. I decided not to participate. I also have observed that paintings sell a lot better than drawings. People want color. When a drawing sells, it's usually to another artist.

When the Call for Art was issued about three weeks ago, the price ceiling had been raised to $150. Phew. I decided that I would participate after all. Thus started a two-week period of making a painting a day. I produced only eight paintings during this marathon, because the one larger piece took three days instead of one to complete. 

The week before the deadline was devoted to (a) letting the paintings dry, (b) getting the paintings critiqued, and (c) buying frames for the paintings. First I ran around town finding frames for each painting, and I really lucked out. I found frames that enhanced each painting and would allow me to keep the prices low. I temporarily framed the paintings, and I took them to my mentor's studio for a critique. She said something I've never heard before: "These two paintings don't need anything." It was a beautiful moment. She made it more beautiful by buying one of them. 

I came home and made corrections to the paintings the following day. Two days later I photographed the paintings, framed them, photographed them again, and packaged them for delivery. Yesterday I dropped off the box of little paintings with the submission paperwork, a few hours before the drop-off period ended. It reminded me of my days as an editor when I helped writers along toward their deadlines. I remembered how much I valued and appreciated the writers who managed their workloads well, and how anxious I felt about writers who took on too much and needed regular reminders of their upcoming deadlines to keep them focused on the stories I needed.

Now I'm on the other side of the deadline, I want to be the kind of artist that curators don't worry about. By the time people stroll through the third-floor hall at Gage Academy of Art, looking at hundreds of small works, they may or may not imagine the behind-the-scenes frenzy of activity that led to that point. Probably not. They'll just assess in an instant whether they like each piece. We humans have an amazing capacity to navigate the visual world. We make sense of what we see in a moment. The people who love art and buy it shouldn't have to think about what happens under the hood unless they want to. That's what artists' blogs are for. 

As the years go by, I'll probably come to love and anticipate an annual holiday deadline. 

​Happy holidays. 

Oil paintings are meant to last for centuries, but many paintings deteriorate over time. For casual painters, longevity doesn't matter, because they paint just for fun. For professional artists, however, who sell their paintings to collectors or clients, this could be -- or should be -- a serious concern. 

The biggest problems in oil paintings as they age are paint that cracks, paint that forms a cupping pattern over the surface, and paint that loosens or falls off the support. Most of these problems can be traced to the kind of support -- canvas or panel -- the artist chooses before applying paint. 

George O'Hanlon, cofounder and technical director of Natural Pigments, a company that sells historic and natural oil paints, mediums, dry pigments, and other art supplies, taught a workshop, Painting Best Practices, at Gage Academy of Art in Seattle last week. This is the first of two articles summarizing the workshop.  He estimated that 90 percent of problems of deteriorating oil paintings could be prevented by choosing the right support. 

"Painting on canvas is really the worst choice you can make as an artist," O'Hanlon said. He was referring only to canvas that is stretched over stretcher bars, not canvas that is affixed to a panel. Painting on panels results in a more durable painting than painting on stretched canvas, but not all panels are equal. 

In this article, I will not attempt to explain the chemical reactions of paint combined with various panels or stretched canvas, or the mechanical changes paintings undergo over time and under changing atmospheric conditions. I will offer only practical advice with some supporting evidence, intended for artists who aren't especially interested in the science behind the materials, but who care about the longevity of their works. For more detailed information, see O'Hanlon's technical articles. 

Below is a list of panel materials, from least durable to most durable, along with a few of their distinguishing characteristics:

Solid wood expands and contracts much more than the dry oil-paint film in response to changes in temperature and relative humidity. It also expands at different rates in different directions, unlike the paint film. This can contribute to delamination, or paint layers separating from the panel over time. Solid wood panels are better than stretched canvas, but there are better choices.

Plywood is made with urea formaldehyde, which is an excellent adhesive between layers of wood, but it creates fumes that are bad for oil paint. Plywood is also highly absorbent, so it must be treated with an impermeable "size" or barrier. Then the ground (often called gesso) can be applied. The paint layer must be protected from the panel's tendency to absorb other substances. Also, plywood's inner layers contain knots, which create uneven tension and mechanical stress for paintings. 

Fiberboard: This popular support also contains urea formaldehyde resins to keep the fibers together. It's strong and hard, but needs to be protected from getting wet, which causes the fibers to lift. It also can be damaged. If, for example, the panel is dropped, a corner could shatter. Imagine that an ordinary household object, like a shelf made of fiberboard, is dropped. It isn't catastrophic. If a family heirloom painted on fiberboard is dropped, it is catastrophic. An example of fiberboard is medium-density fiberboard, also known as MDF. 

Hardboard is similar to fiberboard, but denser. It shares the same characteristics as fiberboard. Examples of these panels, available in art-supply stores, include Gessobord and Claybord. The manufacturer, Ampersand, says on its website that its boards are made without formaldehyde.

Plastic is rigid and lightweight, and doesn't absorb much moisture. That's the good news. The bad news is that it's susceptible to damage by ultraviolet rays. Plastic also doesn't welcome paint to its surface without some kind of adhesive ground. Many artists will recoil when faced with the possibility of using traditional paint and painting techniques on plastic panels, but such materials, including polyvinyl chlorine (PVC) and polyethylene, do show promise for durability.

Metal and metal composite: This category includes copper, aluminum composite material, and aluminum honeycomb panels. This category offers the most durability for oil paintings. The panels are strong and lightweight, and they don't expand or contract with normal changes in temperature or relative humidity, and some of them are easy to fabricate. Aluminum honeycomb panels, the very best type of panel, are expensive and hard to find. This makes copper and aluminum composite material the most practical choice for artists and art students who care about durability but need to procure their panels easily and get back to work at their easels.

"Oil paint has an affinity to copper," O'Hanlon said. "You can paint right on it." The bright gleam of new copper is alluring to artists who like to paint with transparent colors over a reflective surface, but the gleam doesn't last. Copper oxidizes, turning dull brown over time, through exposure to oxygen. Coating the copper with lacquer will slow oxidation, and scuffing the surface will aid with paint adhesion. 

The panel that combines the most practicality, affordability, and durability is aluminum composite material (ACM). It's composed of thin sheets of aluminum around a polyethylene core. It's lightweight, rigid, and stable. Standard-size panels aren't sold in most art-supply stores, but they are sold by Natural Pigments. (I also bought a 4-foot-by-8-foot sheet of ACM at a plastics supply outlet, which I cut myself. To learn more about the process of purchasing ACM, cutting it without power tools, and priming it, watch my video.)
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O'Hanlon was trained as a fine artist, and he developed an interest in professional-grade art materials over time, consulting with scientists, scientific writings, conservators, and conservation writings to learn how materials interact with each other, with air and moisture, and with time. He and his wife, Tatiana Zaytseva, co-founded Natural Pigments in 2003 in their garage. The company has expanded into a 10,000-square-foot building with five employees, and the owners anticipate expanding again next year. Natural Pigments is located in Willits, California.

Other topics in the Painting Best Practices workshop included grounds, paint, mediums, and varnishes. Next week I'll post an article about these topics. 

Author's note: Thanks to Gage Academy of Art for awarding me a scholarship, which made it possible for me to attend the Painting Best Practices workshop.

I drew a portrait a month ago that I was proud of. It was a mastercopy, so the master artist, Jacob Collins, had worked out the composition, the color palette -- all the planning problems. All I had to do was make a good copy of his painting, and soak in the artistic wisdom. I spent about 15 hours on it, using about 30 colors of pastel pencil.

Later, I decided to frame the drawing, and I found a good frame in my studio. I only needed the mats. I prepared my drawing for a trip to the frame shop. I looked around for a sheet of slippery paper to tape over the drawing to protect it. I couldn't find anything in my studio, and I was running out of time. I went into the house and I saw a roll of wax paper on the kitchen counter. Eureka! Wax paper! It's cheap, it's on hand, and it should work. I tore off a sheet and taped it over my drawing. 

At the frame shop, I removed the wax paper and chose the mats. (Why do I always choose expensive mats?) I put the wax paper back on, and I put the drawing in the back of my car. I drove to school to attend a painting class. The drawing sat in my car for the whole afternoon, and it was a warm day. As I later discovered, the wax paper warmed up, leaving spots of melted wax on my drawing. 

Back at home I removed the wax paper and stared. My drawing! My drawing! Oh no! 

It was ruined. For the next two days, I felt depressed. I moped. I thought about tearing up the drawing. I thought about ways to salvage it. I couldn't really think about anything else. Eventually, I came back to life and did a little studio organizing.

Now the drawing is hanging on the studio wall, unframed. It will not be framed or offered for sale. I will, however, refer to it when working on my next portrait. 

The morals of the story are: (A) Child, step away from the wax paper. (B) When one drawing dies, another will surely be born. Have a good cry, and make your way back to the easel. 

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​Update (2018): I framed the drawing after all, wax spots and all, and hung it in our bedroom. A cautionary tale. 

Two things are true about artists: (A) they love to talk about materials, and (B) most need to save money. 

So when recent graduate Tenold Sundberg visited the Aristides Atelier last week to talk about his experiences in the real world, the conversation took a brief turn toward materials and expenses. Tenold showed a few paintings that he'd made on "door skin," or thin plywood, and he answered questions. He said the plywood was an effort to save money. Paintings on wood panels also last longer than paintings on stretched canvas.

Coincidentally, in another class I was just starting work on a still-life painting that has a long, horizontal composition. After discussing plywood with my instructor, and getting the green light, I went to a lumber yard Tenold recommended and bought a piece of plywood. Normally I would buy panels at the art-supply store, because they're thin, lightweight, archival, and ready to use. They're more than twice the price of good plywood, however, and only come in standard sizes. For my new painting, I needed a panel that was 9 inches by 18 inches. My instructor, John Rizzotto -- another atelier graduate -- wouldn't allow me to squeeze my composition onto a standard panel. (It's good advice, and one of the many reasons I attend school rather than figuring things out on my own. Just to clarify, I'm not an atelier student; I was there for a workshop. I take classes at Gage Academy of Art.)

I got the plywood home, sanded the edges, and coated it with acrylic gesso on all six sides. After it dried, I sanded the layer of gesso and added another coat. After that dried, I sanded it again.  My studio now features a thin film of gesso dust. Oy vey!

I'm glad to know that I can save money and use better materials to make paintings in any shape I need. On the other hand, preparing my own panel was a lot of work, and it made a mess. So, I'll continue to use plywood for paintings in custom shapes, but for standard shapes, I'll probably stick with store-bought panels.