Charles Ritchie

Note: The following discussion is adapted from correspondence with composer Roger Reynolds, whose music I admire.  I thank Roger for his interest in my art and for his engaging questions.

Q: How does your writing function?  Is it an expressive act more than a literally ‘communicative’ act, so that it would not matter if it were intelligible to others, or even to yourself?

A: I try to keep my script legible, at least to myself. There was a brief period during the earliest years of my journal keeping in which I wrote without concern for reading what I had written.  I considered the exercise a strategy for breaking my ways of note taking that felt restrictive at the time (see online journal entry for 10 February 2008.) As my notehand evolved, it developed into a tool for inscribing thoughts quickly, compactly, and privately.  At the speed I write, occasionally I’ll slip into an unreadable passage.  I would prefer it otherwise.  However, I do think of the writing as abstract form. It is certainly a practice of miniature gestures that is completely outside the purpose of composing language; a kind of drawing practice. Sustained discipline is required to write in this way. In order to keep the rows of script parallel I balance the side of my hand along the lower edge of the paper working my way down the sheet incrementally from line to line. In a design sense, I’m also conscious of the page and the placement of my writing in relation to images even though the pictures and text rarely describe each other.  In the end, I write primarily to record ideas and I endeavor to make the writing comprehensible to myself.

In my early journals I attempted to track my train of thought.  With this exercise I intended to train myself to follow the words that came into my head as much as possible.  These thoughts were often notes about my projects as they developed. However, my books have grown with me over the years, reflecting my abilities and interests, and my writing has become almost solely about recording dreams. I have cultivated my ability to remember these elusive phenomena and it has paid off  (see on line journal entry for 25 December 2007.) My motive for dream recording is to keep in touch with my subconscious as manifested in dream symbols.  When I transcribe my dreams, it is almost like taking dictation.  This approach seems far more direct in its ability to show me what is going on beneath my surface than the rambling train of thought I scribed during my early years of journaling.  I can’t make this dream stuff up.  I may shape dreams into words and verbally describe the images and feelings that accompany them, but I have no control of the content.  I like that.

I don’t draw my dreams, although you might think I would want to.  I have often imagined film would make the best visual adaptations of dreams as it is a more temporally structured medium.  Writing down my dreams is perfectly effective for my purposes.  And when the texts are placed alongside my drawings in the context of my notebook, the two threads become parallel perspectives coursing through my life.  They rarely touch and give alternate vistas of who I am and how I live.

Q: What are you thinking about when you are writing?

A: Beyond my efforts to put the dream experience into words, there are numerous tracks of awareness that shift in and out of focus.  The first thing I do when I wake is look over a small spiral bound book that I keep at my bedside. If I’ve managed to put down some dream notes overnight, I’m hoping that deciphering a few key words will trigger a clearer memory of the dream. As the notes are often written in a drowsy blur, they lean towards illegibility.  Sometimes I can bring back the essences of the dream using the notes.  Sometimes I can’t.  I usually reserve the first part of my early morning studio hours for my writing process. I am usually sitting at my table in front of the window and waking up; becoming aware of my surroundings.  I am beginning to observe my subjects and occasionally I may break into quick watercolor study of something I notice that I want to get down in my journal.  I am also distracted with chores; making coffee, feeding the cat, remembering the things I have to get done in the day ahead.  These things can sometimes derail remembering the dream.  Sometimes I pick up my guitar and run through a section of a song I’m trying to learn or stop to review my current crop of drawings, trying to decide which I will work on during the coming drawing session. A bit of maintenance on the Rapidograph pen that I use to write in my journal can also cause a detour; it’s hard to keep the thin points working well.  The written dream often takes shape slowly, and as the writing process continues, I begin to decipher what associations may be in the symbols appearing in my dream.  I find there is almost always some connection between the feeling of the dream and the way I feel about some situation somewhere in my life. The dreams mirror my true feelings about things.  They can often be unsettling because I know their essence is speaking the truth.

From the above description it’s obvious that the process of inscribing my dreams is rarely the steady plotting of narrative in my journal.  I spread myself out while I’m writing; my attention is in flux and tied to my intuition.  This flow of focus is a useful part of the creative process.  I’m convinced that all of the various inputs listed above (and many others) shade my language and influence the drift of my writing.  I know transcriptions of my dreams can never be exact replications. My imagination intersects with everyday events; with reality.  The resulting composition written in my journal is a picture of me at a certain fragment in time.  And vice versa, I think my dreams and writing process shade the drawings as I begin work in my studio session.  It’s hard to say exactly why, but I feel the gossamer threads of the dreams permeate and weave the drawings together.  As I begin to draw, I still have the dreams on my mind.  Sometimes stray fragments of dreams percolate into my consciousness; I’ll lightly inscribe these on my drawing in pencil, preserving the remembrance for later transfer to journal. (see online journal entry for 14 May 2009.)

The artist writing in his journal 10 July 2010.  The pencil drawing is work in progress based on a postcard image of a painting by Caspar David Friedrich.

Views of the World

For many years I’ve kept framed prints by Andreus Cellarius hanging at either side of my studio window. The engravings from his 1660 Harmonia Microcosmica are not rare, probably modern reprints of plates adapted from the volume.  The subjects fit well among the small group of astronomical charts hanging my studio and also bear a private significance.  As I sit looking out my window, the Ptolemaic theory, placing the earth at the center of the universe hangs to my left; while the Copernican theory depicting a Sun-centered universe is to my right.  I like being ensconced between these viewpoints; I believe my drawings are continually proposing options for viewing the world.

The photograph above shows the current state of my drawing window.  We recently decided to paint our house and the windows are first; most have never been properly prepared and coated.  The project involves removing everything in the vicinity of the windows, including my favorite drawing table.  I rarely do a thorough cleanup, so such a task is massive with piles and piles of materials, tools, letters, papers, and drawings to dig through.  The buildup is largely due to my reluctance to throw things away, leaning on the hope that everything can be used someday.  Yes, I’m resourceful and I do reuse lots of things, however I’ve collected far more material than I will ever be able to employ.

I learned many years ago that cleanup is an important component in the creative process.  The activity can be like paging through a journal where pieces of your life are reviewed, sorted, categorized, reclaimed or discarded.  In my cleanup, I am rediscovering a thousand ideas left unrealized; in particular abandoned works-in-progress that deserve a second chance.  I’ve found at least twenty sheets that I would like to rework.  The intervening years since developing these drawings have brought creative experience and can provide reinvigoration and insight.  In my piles I’ve also found many small sheets of drawing paper, torn to evocative sizes, some minimally worked, and these can also serve as catalysts if matched with the right idea.  In addition, I’ve found twelve drawings that I’ve categorized as not worth spending more time on; unredeemable at this point.  These I will put in a box, far out of mind, knowing perspective migrates over time.

In my piles I’ve uncovered tools, rulers, inks, paints, brushes; lots of supplies that may spark some new direction or augment a current project.  These materials I’ve sorted into jars.  Last but not least, two of my favorite postcards emerged from a stack of papers; displaced in the detritus.  These postcard images have never been far from my table over the years.  To me they stand as ideals for specific approaches to making art. The drawing by Leonardo DaVinci in the collection of the Royal Library, Windsor Castle, England, is a study for an equestrian monument and illustrates sensitivity to line. Leonardo weaves light layers of line before settling on the dominant elements to be emphasized. Note how transparency is retained allowing details such as the horse’s legs and head to be postulated into variable positions.  An oil study by Camille Corot from the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, England, is the second image and I deem it to be a perfect example of tonal painting.  The artist brushes fluidly, confidently, and precisely with an immediate and evocative effect. I particularly admire the restrained palette and how it sways between warm browns and cool blues. Leonardo and Corot’s inspiring images represent alternate views whose lessons I hope to absorb into my own practice.

Soon our house painting will be over.  I’ll be back at my table and hopefully all of the displacement will have realigned into more and different views of the world.Charles Ritchie, Dark Drawings at the Window, 2009 - (work in progress), graphite on Fabriano paper, 4 3/4″ x 9 1/16″.

(Above) Photograph of drawing table with Landscape in Graphite II (work in progress) 5 x 12″, graphite on Fabriano paper.  This drawing has been executed in pencil and powdered graphite applied with brushes and water.  On the table can be seen a dish of powdered graphite (top center), various weight pencils, a bit of cut plastic eraser and graphite stick (far right), and a dish of water with index card (upper right) on which to mix and test the graphite solution before applying it to the drawing.

Drawing into Painting / Painting into Drawing

Over the winter I’ve engaged graphite as a drawing medium, building tone with pencils of various weights from 9H to 9B. I usually start the compositions with very hard lead pencils and then move to darker, softer lead.  Sometimes I move back and refine the areas of softer graphite using the harder leads, pressing the material into the surface of the paper.  As I develop my image, I tend to smooth out tone with a bit of plastic eraser which evens the surface and cultivates an atmosphere that unifies the composition (Window with Dark Drawing and Open Journal was created in this method).  In more recent experiments, I’ve set the eraser aside, and in doing so I’ve sensed a different kind of sparkle emerge from the drawing surface.  Perhaps more of the white paper shines through on a microscopic level when I refrain from smearing the graphite. And certainly crisper edges and details are possible without smearing.  In the end it’s probably learning when to smear and when not to smear with the eraser that is the real lesson from employing such a technique.  One key element I recognize is that graphite has provided me a springboard for returning to the study of value.  In my early drawings black watercolor was my essential medium for investigating light and dark relationships.  But in recent years I have employed alternate color-based ways of painting darks that have come to be more satisfying (see online journal entry for 4 May 2008).  Of course graphite is not black, but gray, and it is reflective, thus bringing me to another set of problems and possibilities in the study of value. An advantage to utilizing pencil is that I can build and refine tone precisely.  With watercolor, I’m not as fully in control of the medium.

In addition to working in pencil, I’ve resurrected a procedure for using graphite powder that I used with some frequency years ago.  Finely and evenly ground powder can be applied effectively with brush and water.  Some experimenting with mixture is needed to make the pigment stick to the paper. Mixing too much graphite into the water can leave excessive residue and when dry, the friable powder will dust off the paper without sticking. I’ve found that using a hard, finely sharpened pencil can press the dry graphite powder into the paper as I mentioned above.  The advantage to applying the graphite powder with brush and water is that the result has a washy, aleatory look which serves as and a nice counterbalance to the precise, highly-controlled, fine point pencil lines.  Brush application can also apply tone over large areas quickly.  One other experiment that I just beginning to explore is adding a bit of binder to the water and graphite. Gum arabic, the standard binder for watercolor can do this, but it only takes a little bit.  The problem with gum arabic is that it will give the surface a glossy finish that I find distracting if used in any significant amount.  This can be avoided by restricting the gum arabic to the tiniest amounts; not inherently a problem as very little is needed to make the graphite adhere.  It is just difficult to know how much gum arabic is being used as the fluid is transparent and very hard to see.  If there is too much, one generally feels a drag on the brush to some degree.  Note also that too much gum arabic will make it harder to scrub back into the dry surface.  The painted mixture essentially becomes graphite watercolor with its more strongly adherent qualities (see Study for Landscape in Graphite II which was executed in this technique).

The point of all of this technical discussion is that the drawn line and the painted tone can be used in concert effectively; the two approaches can have a nice flux. I find that brushed fields of wash can cover and fill tone quickly, lending atmosphere in the way pigments settle and investing the surface with a fresh look.  But such bravura can be superficial; a facade without depth.  Drawing and erasing back into areas such as this can return a structural base and essential details. It is a delicate dance, drawing into the painted areas and then painting back into the drawn areas.  I don’t hesitate to scrub out or erase as I find that trying to preserve one area of a work due to liking it too much can become an enemy.  And that is another advantage of using graphite; it’s meant to be subtracted.

While I love to investigate such technical issues, I keep in mind that these tools are in the service of expression; a means of digging deeper into the heart of a subject.

(Above) Landscape in Graphite II (work in progress) as of 12 April 2010.  The drawing will be set aside in this state.  I will return to it next fall when I can work in front of the subject under similar conditions.

Photograph of the artist at the window with his temporary painting table.

A Window on Philadelphia

The exhibition Prints by Gallery Artists is on view until 27 February at Gallery Joe in Philadelphia and three of my prints are included in the venue: Night II, and Water Tower and my accordion fold book, April 2008.  I’ve just returned from seeing the exhibition and highly recommend it.  As well as stepping back and seeing a few of my prints in a fresh context, I enjoyed studying the works of 16 other excellent artists hung in a salon style presentation:  Astrid Bowlby, Emily Brown, Lynne Clibanoff, Christine Hiebert, Marilyn Holsing, Jeanne Jaffe, Mary Judge, Sharon Louden, Winifred Lutz, Rob Matthews, Linn Meyers, Kate Moran, Stephen Robin, Samantha Simpson, Mark Sheinkman, Martin Wilner.  The installation is connected with the city-wide, season-long focus on contemporary printmaking titled Philografika.

In order to make it to the Gallery Joe opening, my family and I drove on Friday from our home just north of Washington DC, ahead of a massive snowstorm.  The light snow started just as the reception began and certainly didn’t dampen the opening crowd; at times I could hardly find a place to stand as the big crowd ebbed and flowed.  Over the course of the evening I got to meet and talk to quite a number of artists and visitors (see below).  After dinner, we retired to our hotel room as the snow and wind grew stronger and the blizzard began to roar into town.  Originally we had intended to visit some of the Philadelphia museums and galleries over the weekend, hoping to see some of the other Philographika venues, but when we woke, it was clear, most everything was closed that day.  So, I pulled my chair and table up to the small window of our hotel room three stories up.  As I gazed across I-95 and the Delaware River, the second largest snowstorm in Philadelphia history moved through.  Sitting in my comfortable quarters I witnessed twenty eight inches of snowfall before it was over.

It was a pleasure just to sit and look.  I saw wave after wave of snow blowing nearly horizontally past the window, at times the view nearly went white.  Dark settled slowly and the lamps came on. As the snowstorm faded, I was sorry to see it go.  I made only one drawing in my journal (see below).  I took no notes;  I didn’t have any noteworthy dreams that evening.  But I have no doubt that the peace and beauty I experienced in front of that window will fortify me for a long time to come.  Sometimes journaling is just looking; looking deeply.

Warmest thanks to Becky and Gil Kerlin, Jenny, and Sam.(Above) Philadelphia Blizzard. Sketch made Saturday 6 February 2010, watercolor, graphite, and pen and ink on Arches paper in bound volume, page 4 x 6″.

(Below) The artist at Gallery Joe discussing with visitors his accordion fold print project, April 2008 on view in the display case.
Photographs by Samantha Ritchie.