Hegel Meets the Magi

When I was a teenager, I got to watch a very good painter in action. He was close friends with Harvey Dinnerstein, and was in some ways a better painter. His name was Stanley Phillips. He drew beautifully, and had a staggering command of oil paint. He hosted a figure drawing group at his studio, which I and my father attended. One pose for two hours. Stan had evolved a technique that enabled him to do a finished oil study in that period of time. I wish I’d spent less time trying to draw the model and more time watching Stan. But I saw a few things.

He would rub a thin, opaque layer of dark paint onto his canvas, and begin by knocking out the lights with a rag, and then painting into the wet surface with dark paint, usually burnt umber, and a fast drying underpainting white. He understood the proclivities of these materials so well that he never seemed to have to mix paint; the right amount of white would be darkened just the right amount by the dark paint underneath. It was like a magic act. If Bob Ross never held much charm for me, maybe it’s because I came of age watching Stan.

His full-blown compositions were not quite as exciting to me; as with John Constable, Phillips’ rapid oil sketches had an excitement that wasn’t as evident when he had numerous sessions with which to work.

His method for long-form pictures was to paint directly, and then once the session was dry, glazing or scumbling over it, or in his words, “Bring it together.” He would then paint into the wet glaze, restating his darks and lights.

Stan had been a follower of Karl Marx when he was younger, and his method reminds me of Hegel’s theory of the dialectic: Two steps forward, one step back. Paint boldly, temper it with a glaze, and then try again.

At the time, I was in the process of discovering and emulating the Post Impressionists, and this whole “bring it together” thing made no sense to me. It makes considerably more sense to me today, but I’ve got reservations as to the technique Stan used to harmonize his color.

There can be some problems with successive layers of paint when there’s medium mixed between each coat, particularly a medium containing varnish; a lot of people say that this can play havoc with permanence. “Fat over lean” is an axiom that’s guided the construction of oil paintings for centuries. One teacher, who’s helped me a lot over the past ten years, is extraordinarily cautious about such things. Paint directly. If it ain’t right, paint it again. At one of his workshops, he saw me about to apply a scumble to a picture in progress, and when he stopped me, it was with the urgency one employs when little kids want to play in traffic.

I’ve tried to follow his advice, and seldom cut my paint with anything but really good turpentine. But as this small picture nears completion, I’ll probably find myself glazing, scumbling, and overpainting.

I began this thing in Phoenix, three years ago. I’ve worked from a few sketches of a marvelous rack of winter clouds and a scraggly hillside, pockmarked with snow. The scene is the Magi approaching Jerusalem.

Snow isn’t often seen in Biblical subjects, but this particular event took place in December, and the Bible does mention snow 25 times, so I think I’m safe enough including it. (It also figures in another composition I’ve wrestled with for quite some time, of Jesus in the wilderness after his baptism. The warmth of Palestine’s climate doesn’t tell the whole story. Jesus’ ministry had to place him up against everything that makes life difficult, so why not show him coping with snow? Modern scholarship tells us that Jesus’ forty-day temptation took place in the central highlands of Judea during the months of February and March. Snow was a sure bet. And even if Jesus somehow never literally encountered it, he definitely had to deal with a thousand other things that make life in a world dominated by God’s archenemy a challenge. So why not suggest it with snow?)

The Magi were Persian astronomers, and followers of the prophet Zoroaster, whose teachings very closely paralleled those of the Old Testament regarding the coming Messiah. They came bearing three gifts, gold, frankincense and myrrh, but nowhere does the record in Matthew say that there were only three Magi. Considering that they were heading a delegation from one nation to another, the notion of only three Magi borders on the ridiculous, especially considering that they were paying homage not to an ordinary king, but to the King of Kings.

Anyway, three guys traveling hundred of miles carrying hugely expensive treasure would be on a suicide mission. The route connecting Persia with Jerusalem was rife with highwaymen. The Magi, however many there were, would have been accompanied by guides, assistants, and a formidable security detail.

I want very much to finish this thing in the next few weeks. This may well involve the dangerous glazes and scumbles. So be it. Hegel meets the Magi.