AN OPEN LETTER TO ALL WATERCOLOR ARTISTS By Robert L. Huffstutter

AN OPEN LETTER TO ALL WATERCOLOR ARTISTS


If there's one major truth about painting with watercolors, it is the sense the artist has that the painting is either not "quite right" or "not quite" done, two sensations that can totally ruin what could have been a fairly decent watercolor. These two personal assessments are not restricted to the zany or psychotic artist, they are absolutely normal whether one is a Sunday painter or commercial artist. How do I know? Simple, I have been around long enough to know these facts through personal experience and through conversation with other artists. Moreover, observation is the evidence that supports these opinions. What can we do to minimize our cost of expensive French watercolor paper and increase our confidence and self-esteem?

The answer is as primary as a a set of Prang watercolor paints. Remove the painting and set it aside for several weeks. Look at it after the time lapse and ask yourself several questions. Should there be more black lines around the window sills? Do you really need to make the blonde's hair longer? And how about the biceps of the men showing off--should they be more pronounced and obvious? Should there be two more palm trees down by the beach? After pondering over these superficial dilemmas, one will usually decide that enough is enough.

Now, about the part that there's something about the work that is "not quite right." That, unfortunately, is the realization and admission that only a few people can paint like Don Kingman. If we are so naive or vain that we do not want to exhibit until we perfect our art to the heights that Kingman's art has reached, we might as well put the brushes and paints out in the garage and wait for a neighborhood sale.


We must believe that although we are not as professional and prolific as artists like Kingman, we must accept our style as our own and learn to appreciate it as our contribution to the very large and sometimes hollow world of art. To continue our momentum and keep our spirits positive, we need to keep painting as many subjects and scenes as possible. Sooner or later, we will accept ourselves as being the best we can be and understand our style is unique. We might even begin to really appreciate our work and feel a warm fondness and affection for our paintings in much the same manner as we appreciate the work of our favorite artists. There is nothing to prevent us from looking at Kingman's magnificent watercolors and hoping that in time, we will feel like we are getting better with the completion of each new and different watercolor. That is, I honestly believe, what Don Kingman believed each time he finished a painting. One fact is obvious, he knew when to sign his name to signify that it was done.

A VIEW OF YOKOHAMA FROM A BRIDGE LONG GONE

There is an image in my mind much like the one in the slide of a bygone Yokohama.

It will remain long after I am gone. Somewhere in another frame of time this scene will survive and the bridge upon where I stood will be rebuilt with those moments in mind.

If Heaven does exist, and I see no reason why it shouldn't, or couldn't, we will all see some of our favorite places there, in a never-ending light, sunlight or moonlight, our choice to make, at some other time, but moreover, the reasons why it was so special will not be missed in such a future scene, the smiles exchanged will seal the scene as a moment of reality saved and given back, our reward for having survived the trials and temptations of a time away from eternity, a time our earthly residence will have removed all memory of the time we spent before volunteering for a tour as earthly beings on a planet we will always remember as our home, dear Earth.

Does it not make sense, then, that we should have some special spots to recall, like photographs in earthly albums shared while we were here. These scenes, like the slide of another time, another place, the Yokohama Waterfront, will be forever on display somewhere in another planet for the rest of all eternity.
And there is so much more we will not learn until that time, I believe.

There's no sense in thinking all of this was simply a big mistake. By Robert L. Huffstutter

TIME AND THE WISDOM OF KNOWLEDGE

TIME IS THE MOST MYSTERIOUS PART OF A LIFETIME; NEITHER THE YOUNG OR OLD CAN EXPLAIN IT CLEARLY AND BY THE SAME TOKEN, IT,S SAFE TO SAY THAT NEITHER THE OLD OR THE YOUNG OWN MORE OF IT THAN THE OTHER. THERE IS A WISDOM ABOUT TIME, HOWEVER, POSSESSED BY ONLY THE OLD; IT IS A WISDOM THAT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO GAIN IN YOUTH. AND THAT IS GOOD IN THAT IT GIVES EACH PERSON EQUAL WISDOM IN DUE TIME. NO YOUTH CAN COMPREHEND THE REALITY OF TIME IN THE WAY ONE WHO IS THREE SCORE AND TEN. TIME, IT IS A REALITY THAT IS SO DECEPTIVE TO ONE AND ALL. THE DECEPTION WILL ALWAYS BE REALIZED LATER THAN SOONER; AND THAT IS THE SAD PART. BUT SINCE TIME CANNOT BE SAVED IN A BOTTLE OR A VAULT, IT IS MORE OR LESS IRRELEVANT. YOUTH SPENDS TIME AS IF IT WILL NEVER END WHILE THE ELDERLY HANG ON TO EACH DAY, FAR INTO THE SUNSET AND ONLY LET GO RELUCTANTLY. YOUTH RARELY, IF EVER, SIT AND GAZE OUT WINDOWS AT BYGONE DAYS WITH REMORSE. FOR THE AGED, REMORSE QUITE OFTEN HELPS THEM WHILE AWAY THEIR TIME IS A MOROSE FASHION. TOO TIRED AND STIFF TO RUN OVER HILL AND DALE OR GO EXPLORING IN THE WOODS, THOSE SAD REGRETS WILL OCCUPY THEIR TIME; IF IT DOESN'T, KNITTING OR PAINTING PICTURES OFTEN SUFFICES QUITE WELL.

those old neighborhood estate sales of long ago

those old neighborhood estate sales of long ago are making a comeback, or so they say...I have noticed I am missing a lot of books somebody said I would never have time to read...missing too are old American Artist and American History magazines published before paper became necessary to ration out...I miss those glossy covers I promised I would read sometime, someday...to the sibings of my offspring...I wonder if they would have enjoyed them as much as I would have had if...I taken time...yes, time, to stop long enough to read them...

A BRIEF MENTION ABOUT MY LIFE AND TIMES IN YOKOHAMA by R.L.HUFFSTUTTER

MY LIFE AND TIMES IN YOKOHAMA could have gone on forever. They should have, but they didn't. It was a time when almost everything was perfect, yet at the same time, totally screwed up. Their was a lot of unrest in southeast Asia; there was much going on that I knew nothing about. Had I been able to predict the events of the next few years, I could have become an Admiral. I was young. Who hasn't been at one time or another? There are good times to be young and bad times to be young. I would have preferred to have delayed my youth. That is to say, extended it for as long as it was necessary to get my mind focused on the distant future. Looking back on those times, I am glad I experienced them. Among those days and nights exists a memory that has sustained me in times of deep despondency, in times when I felt I had left all on a pier on cloudy morning in December of 1963. Images somehow return with age and seem nearer now than then. It's strange how much closer I feel to that yesterday today than I did when it was so much closer to real time. Has my heart and mind been healed by time? Perhaps. And I have no guarantee that I will not be going back to that pier someday and resume what had to be delayed. Such is the mystery of love and yesterday. Yokohama, you were there when I needed you and there you have remained, your gardens, coffee shops and little places in Motomatchi remain for return in the hours before dawn when my restless soul seeks to escape back, back to another time and another place.