The 4-hour Painting

...... by Bill Hudson. 

My last two months have been unusually busy. As a result, the first time I’ve been alone to paint in my studio was Friday. To make up for lost time I challenged myself …to start and finish a painting in less than four hours!

Normally I’m a slow, meticulous painter who spends considerable time planning my approach which includes: composition, mood, techniques, colors, mixtures, paper dampness, etc. All of this is my effort to maintain control over transparent watercolor …a difficult medium with a personality that seeks freedom. Between planning, singing to oldies, and actually applying paint … a finished work on a half-sheet (15” x 22”) of cold-press paper typically takes me 20 to 60 hours to complete. 

So, for this 4-hour challenge I simplified most processes. I began with a 10”x14” sheet from an Arches watercolor paper block. For reference, I chose photographic-type AI images that I had generated on Midjourney with prompts containing “the rocky coast of Maine in a stormy sea, with heavy mist, dark afternoon skies, huge waves, seagulls flying, a lighthouse, and a ray of hope.” I specified an aspect ratio of 14 x 10.

The clock began and I sketched my composition, wet the entire sheet, and laid in the sky. The race was on. And slightly less than 4-hours later, I was an artist with a renewed appreciation of the magic of watercolor. Working quickly had replaced control and detail with spontaneity and excitement as colors were allowed to bleed and blend with little constraint. 

My focus during the process was to capture mood and contrast. I relied on layering to incrementally achieve desired values which also intrinsically adds richness and detail.

In the end I liked my painting. But speed has compromise and relying on chance for creativity adds to the risk of rejection. My comfort zone reains somewhere between Bob Ross and Leonardo da Vinci who took 5 years to paint the Mona Lisa and 3 years for the Last Supper.

But I learned a lot in that 4-hour exercise and isn’t that the attraction to art, and watercolor in particular. Winston Churchill summed it up best by saying, “When I get to heaven I mean to spend a considerable portion of my first million years in painting, and so get to the bottom of the subject.” 

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Brother Wright, RIP

On Wednesday, February 19, 2025, Brother Wright died. Brother was 4 years older than me. He, his younger sister Alverta and younger brother Steve were my neighbors in Baltimore for my first 14 years when the critical foundations of life are built. 

In our block were 20 guys plus Alverta all being led by Brother who generously taught us many life lessons. At the top of that list was NEVER call him by his real name “Roman” or he’d kick your ass. But beyond that one exception, Brother inspired us to build our sandlot on the undeveloped Methodist church lot directly across the street from my house. Every day he gave instruction, built our baseball skills and self confidence, and kept us appreciative of the game.

But, most of all, Brother taught us, by example, how to respond to bullies.

Our sandlot had the church graveyard in deep centerfield, the church parking lot in right field, and Old Man Haus’s yard immediately to the left of our third base foul line. And there was the problem. With a disdain for kids, Old Man Haus loved two things …martinis and his immaculate grass yard with islands of exotic flower gardens he was constantly weeding. As soon as a ball was hit toward his backyard, he grabbed it and yelled, “Stay out of my yard you damn kids!” He then walked back into his house carrying our baseballs.

One summer day we lost two baseballs in confrontations with Haus. Brother hit a personal limit. That night, after all Haus lights were out, Brother spread bags of rocksalt on Haus’s grass. Within a week it was brown and dead. Yet Haus’s flowers continued to flourish. Old man Haus seemed confused as he worked on his yard trying to restore it. But the confusion ended when Brother left this note in Haus’s mailbox…… “Return our baseballs or your flowers die next.”

The next day a bucket load of baseballs lay in the middle of Haus’s yard. And thereafter the sandlot was ours. Whenever a ball went into Haus’s yard, we slowly walked in enjoying every step, picked it up and looked into his backdoor window where we saw him staring back in defeat.

Miss you, Brother