The Unreality of Realism; Walking the Tightrope Between Fact and Fiction, Part III

Introduction to Part III

Welcome back to this 5–Part blog series exploring the nature of realism as it applies to realistic equine art. So far we've addressed our perception, some of the demands realism asks of us, the issue of blind spots, and the nonnegotiable components of realistic equine sculpture or finishwork.

In this Part III, we're going to address some issues pertaining to those works that may appear realistic, but may be lacking in those fundamental qualities that would actually make them more realistic. As before, examples provided come from Brookgreen Gardens, the premier American sculpture garden located in South Carolina. If you have the opportunity to visit, it's a must–see. You won't be disappointed! Anyway, enough jabbering and onto discussion…

Unreal Realism

We come now to the issue of the “good convince,” that work which appears to recreate reality accurately, but actually doesn’t. Or rather, there's a big difference between a recognizable horse (figurative equine art) and an actual horse (realistic equine art) when it comes to our chosen art form. (For more discussion on this issue, please refer to the ongoing blog series The Method, The Madness and the Mystery.)

And the problem is a sticky one. On one hand, we may find such work quite appealing regardless, which is fine—we love particular artworks for our own reasons, and that's a good thing. Yet on the other hand, this can confuse the issue of realism into almost impossible tangles, creating an arena of doubt that can be detrimental if we’re unable to recognize this kind of work for what it is. In turn, this can cause us problems when we're trying to identify our own blind spots, or muddle those features we must balance when making our own creative decisions—and we can get stuck again. It can also set up obstacles for developing artists new to this genre by obscuring the issues of objectivity.

Now granted, all realistic equine artwork can be regarded as "good convinces" by definition since we cannot recreate reality with total accuracy—we aren’t equine DNA. And no artist is ever perfectly objective when it comes to realism, and never will be. That said, however, we must remember that the basis of this art form—biological objectivity—is, in part, learnable, teachable, and able to be improved. That's to say, we can make our work "more realistic" when we fold more biological accuracy into our work, the primary goal we work towards throughout our careers. And our brains can be tricked by the most effective works, something we find both thrilling and desirable.

When it comes to the good convince then, “looking real” may be effective enough, because our brains so want to be tricked, but when it comes to equine realism, we haven't gone far enough. Again, our brains can discern different degrees of increased realism within the believability bubble, so those works that once appeared realistic at first may reveal fundamental errors when dissected from a biological standpoint—and this is the nature of the good convince. When we too quickly embrace the “no” of the question, "Is reality a universal constant?," we can miss some important insights that could have been useful to us. So to help our impulses gain more discretion, let’s take a look at some traits of a good convince to learn from them.

For starters, subtle anatomical errors tend to permeate good convinces. For example, the back of the jaw may not line up with the zygomatic arches, or one side of the Atlas neck bone is collapsed inwardly as compared to its other side. The set of the ears may be too far back on the head, the hock may be too pointy, the knees may be articulating at the wrong layer of carpals, or the the many angles of the eyes may be incorrect for an equine. The topographical structure of joints may be inconsistent to reality, too, possessing, omitting, or misplacing necessary elements, a common error. The structure of the stifle may be "off" in a bent hind leg, the scapulae may not be moving independently, or the elbow may not be leveraging with the radius properly. Even more subtle, the articulation of a flexed neck may place too much bend and "meat" above the 2nd and 3rd cervical vertebrae, or subtler still, the spine may not be moving consistently to the depicted motion. Perhaps the foot is improperly articulated within its 3–joint system, or the fore and hind hooves diverge from their characteristic shapes. Even more, muscles may be missing, or misplaced, or some may be invented, or perhaps they're moving inconsistently to the portrayed movement. On the other hand, maybe one muscle group may not be tying into the accompanying one properly, or too far up or too far down on a neighboring body part. Further still, it could be that the necessary textures of bone, hide, hair, and horn are muddled, too, and not reflecting their relative qualities. Overall then, the piece may appear to have correct anatomy with a cursory inspection, but when we dissect it with a penetrating and educated Eye, we find serious flaws of a more advanced nature.

What’s our insight?: Accurate anatomy is a technical aspect, not just a visual one. Each component is context for the next. 

Along those lines, asymmetries of paired limbs or bilateral areas are common with a good convince, too. The long bones of the limbs may not match in length or dimension, for example, or paired features of the head may be crooked, or mismatched. For example, the nasal bone may not be centered on the head, the forehead and crown may be lopsided, or the eyes are crooked or misangled when compared against each other. The perfect box of the pelvic girdle may be broken as well, or the spine may not be seated into it symmetrically. Paired hooves may also not match in size or angle, or paired joints may also be asymmetrical, not matching in dimension, structure, or topography. Scapulae and humeri are often mismatched as are femurs, and the tuber ischii. This goes for muscles, as well. For instance, the musculature of the shoulder on the right side may be significantly more robust than that of the left side, regardless of the motion depicted. Or muscles may be missing or misplaced on one side, but present and correct on the other. Indeed, asymmetries are typical of the good convince, and they can range from glaringly obvious to quietly nuanced.

What’s our insight?: A big component of technical anatomy is symmetry, and unless we attend to it properly, our anatomical depiction will be flawed all the same.  

Correct body balance is often off with a good convince as well. For instance, a walking sculpture may not depict the relative up–and–down motion of the forequarter and hindquarter, or the hindquarter may not be dipped downward in a Morgan–type of show stretch. Characteristic body shifts, twisting, bending, or leaning typical of certain equine motions may also not be present, or the rib cage may be inert and static despite the motion depicted.

What’s our insight?: How body areas move in relation to each other is also a feature of anatomical accuracy, so we must attend to it properly to maintain our illusion of reality.

Equines are graceful, agile, athletic, expressive, and fluid in their motion. Indeed, no other animal combines their power, speed, agility, emotion, elegance, and size, and so their movement may be one of the things we often find so beautiful about them. Unless we can duplicate these qualities in our sculpture then, we're going to miss them—and a good convince often does. Here, motion can appear stilted, contrived, stiff, and choppy, lacking the natural allure and refined coordination so characteristic of equine motion. The piece may appear awkward or unbalanced, too, as though different parts are moving independently of each other and the body. This is often caused when the spine isn't taken into proper account, and so the torso and the legs aren't moving in synch, or perhaps the legs are composed in a way that appears almost haphazard and after–the–fact. Legs may also be articulated in a manner that's clumsy and incomplete, causing an interruption in the line and flow of natural equine motion.

What’s our insight?: Equine motion is as much a part of anatomy as any bone or muscle group. Unless we accurately account for it in our sculpture then—with all the nuance, grace, and power inherent in the equine—we risk a piece with compromised realism all the same.

Or perhaps the sculpting technique isn’t as refined as it could be, resulting in inaccurate pilling, tears, or other sculptural relics. Areas that require technical crispness and precision such as the joints, coronets, eyes, and head may be ambiguous, bulbous, too generalized, or uncertain, too. Also, the sculpting style may be unable to dance between the hard and soft approaches realism asks such as a harsh and heavy–handed approach applied to every aspect of the sculpture. For example, a strong, pronounced treatment of all the muscles when many required a softer, looser approach, or all the veins are equally amplified when some needed a more “now you see them, now you don’t” quality. Similarly, we may see that the sculptor was unable to be precise or delicate when necessary, and so we find areas of fudging, coarseness, bumpiness, or imprecision when the opposite was needed. For example, thick, clumsy eyelids or wrinkles, or bumpy coronets, ear rims, eyes, or hooves. 

When it comes to painting, a good convince has its own characteristics in this regard, too. For example, the technique may not accurately duplicate the effect in life, often lacking the visual texture or proper scale. Painting can be formulaic, too, leaning more towards rigid stylization than what we see in reality, which is often mercurial and spontaneous. Methods or media can be used inadequately, creating artistic debris in a paint job, or the use of color may be more habitual than real, used as a kind of “paint–by–numbers” formula that isn’t quite consistent to life. Again, areas that ask for precision such as the eyes, coronets, mapping, hooves, or hairlines along the crest or dock may be muddled, messy, or careless.

Or perhaps the overall artistic interpretation may be too rigid and fixed—too routine—and unable to sway from a literal, formulaic depiction of anatomy, color, texture, or phenotype. Here we often see an inadequate factoring in of those “living” qualities so necessary for imbuing life’s spontaneity as the artist simply cannot create beyond their comfort zones. 

What’s our insight?: That the artistic styles and creative methods we employ are as integral to achieving a realistic result as our knowledge of biology. That is, how we create and what we create are akin to the same thing.  

A good convince also tends to excel in conformation and breed type at the expense of biological accuracy, and may even exaggerate these aspects to “wow” the eye. In short, they tend to “ping” along those concerns related to a quality horse, yet still depict one that's non–viable. (Again, please refer to the blog series, Anatomy and Conformation, Parts 1–4 for more discussion on this topic.)

What’s our insight?: Biological accuracy doesn’t depend on conformation or type. Rather, the goal is achieved through very different criteria—those compass points from Part I again.

Similar to conformation, show grooming can blind the eye to the biological flaws in a sculpture. For instance, beautifully sculpted or painted braid work, an array of lovely dapples, expertly done quarter marks, or an accurate depiction of pads or shoeing can distract us from those components intrinsic to actual realism. 

What’s our insight?: No amount of grooming’s “spit and polish” can compensate for flaws in realism. Instead, the depiction of reality starts with biology, not with fancy dress. 

Along those lines, a good convince can inordinately rely on the amount of detail in the sculpture or paintwork. Yes—details are important, but they certainly aren’t where realism begins or ends. If we take an objective step back, we find that no amount of detail can recoup what’s lost with flawed anatomy just as much as anatomy cannot compensate for flawed details. Similarly, no amount of painstaking detail in a paint job can compensate for the wrong tone just as much as a perfect tone cannot compensate for incorrect or messy details. 

What’s our insight?: Realism depends on all the pieces of the puzzle fitting together as a whole—one wrong piece and the whole illusion is compromised. 

A good convince often is flawed in proportion in terms of what’s biologically feasible (not in terms of normal variation). Somehow nothing fits together quite right, as though the piece was cobbled together from several different sculptures. Or perhaps the head is far too big, the hooves or joints unnaturally small, or the hip oddly too long. Similarly, if the sculpture was transformed magically into a real animal, it couldn’t function, just like how Barbie^® couldn’t function if she were a real person.

What's more, real proportions often are quite different than what we can be accustomed to in art, perhaps due to our penchant for idealizing something we admire. This effect can compound and skew our eye into creating stylized proportions or body parts, which sometimes can become further exaggerated through the filter of our artistic style. Common examples found here are unnaturally short backs, long necks, cannons that are far too long, deep Arabian dishes, abnormally large eyes, narrow legs, small muzzles, or oddly short croups that make the tail appear perched on the back itself rather than erupting from the dock. 

What’s our insight?: It’s often more realistic to create proportions we find in life rather than those we find more beautiful, more amplified, or “better.” Using calipers religiously with good references always is a good idea.

Given that each part of an equine’s body has myriad variations on the blueprint, no two horses are exactly the same. Each horse is an individual, just like us. So, in essence, we sculpt a unique portrait of a singular, individual horse with each new piece we create, no matter how idealized the depiction. But a body of work based on good convinces usually cannot express this nuanced diversity we see in life, and so it tends to skew towards a habitual interpretation of equine build or phenotype, resulting in a portfolio that’s homogenous and predictable; it basically looks like the same basic interpretation, only in different positions.

Similarly with paintwork, perhaps the portfolio shows a preponderance of muted, pastel–ed, "dusty" tones when many colors require vibrant, clear tones to properly represent. Many types of bays, for example, require "clean" colors for them to appear realistic.

What’s our insight?: Unless we can express life beyond a routine, habit, or a phenotypic or aesthetic preference, we’re going to run into trouble with realism.

A good convince often has problems with scale—scale of body parts and scale with painted features. For example, eyes and muzzles may be sculpted unnaturally large, or ears rendered oddly too small. Joints, hooves, or shoe clenches may be far too big and bulky, or the relative scale of muscles is incorrect or inconsistent. As for paintwork, ticking on roans or intricate patterns is often out–of–scale, as are dapples and dun factors. 

Scale is a critical issue when it comes to realism, and it’s a little bit different from the concept of proportion. While proportion generally addresses how each body part compares to each other, scale entails the relative size of something in relation to the overall implied size of the body. And the smaller the piece, the more imperative scale becomes because now even the smallest inconsistency can translate into a big out–of–scale problem.

Yet scale is often inadequately addressed when our mental library can only deal with the presence of something rather than also its scale. That’s to say, as long as something is present, its scale is often of little relevance largely because we couldn't properly scale up or scale down body parts and coat effects. For instance, miniatures with absurdly large (and often indistinct) joints or ghoulishly–sculpted heads because the tools used were too big. Another common example are “ticked” roans or fleabites with comparatively large or long streaks of applied pencil or brush that are out–of–scale for the size of the animal depicted. Indeed, if the finishwork represented a real animal, such ticks would be 3–4” long!

What’s our insight?: One of the fundamental underpinnings of realism is the sense of scale. It’s not enough then that body parts or coat features are merely present, they must also be in–scale to be correct.

Equine color is a varied, complex, and situational array of eye candy. In fact, one of the first things we notice about any given equine is his color and markings. It's almost too much of a good thing—as if this animal wasn't beautiful enough, nature imbues even more lovely qualities with his coat, hair, eyes, and hooves! Could we be any luckier as artists? Our possibilities are endless.

Yet equine color does have its set of specific effects and tonal qualities. For example, certain types of dappling only show up on certain coats such as the difference between sooty dapples, silver dapples, pangaré dapples, dapple greys, and "bloom" dapples. Ticking, mapping, roaning, and patterns should follow the coat growth while hoof striping should have that inlaid, embedded, "bruised" look to them. Certain coats are characterized by a graininess to them, too, such as dapple grey, roans, and sooties, since composite colors such as these are comprised of all the individual hairs working together to produce an overall effect. Pinked areas should appear soft and fleshy, imbued with the characteristic unique tones of unpigmented flesh. The mane, tail, and feathers should be shaded and detailed to best mimic the look of myriad strands adding up to a whole, possibly even having the coloration and staining at the roots or tips typical of an unwashed coat. Areas that required great precision such as the eyes, ears, chestnuts, face, hooves and hairlines should be neatly and painstakingly done to keep them both appealing and tidy. All in all, quality finishwork looks as though the artist maxed out every aspect of tone, effect, detail, and quality so that it looks realistic and complete.

So just as good convinces exist in sculpture, they happen in finishwork, too. Here, the tone is often incorrect such as a silver dapple that's too blue or too greenish, or a palomino that's too red or bright yellow. Dapples are a common giveaway, too, since the incorrect type of dapple may be applied, or the dapples themselves don't mimic the look and interlay of real dapples, appearing more as contrived polka dots or Figure–8s. The coat color may be flat and uninspired, often typical of a cursory treatment of the airbrush that only used 2–3 colors layered simplistically and quickly on each other. Patches of color may follow a routine treatment rather than what we find in life, often seen on roans, greys, and sooties, especially around the face, or on the body. The coloration and shading of dark skin may be done with flat black, and lack the delicate fleshy shading and tonal variance typical of these areas. Hooves may be simplistically painted, with streaks of thinned black paint used as striping rather than being shaded and treated to look like real horn. The mane, tail, and feathers may be painted a flat color throughout, lacking the tonal variances typical of such textures. Or the eyes, hooves, or other areas that needed precision and care were painted in a sloppy, hurried manner. Overall, a good convince appears almost half–done, as though the artist could have gone the extra mile, but didn't.

Furthermore, a good convince in finishwork often has relics from the process apparent in the color. For example, airbrush blotches or speckling, hair, brushstrokes, or fingerprints in the pigment, white expanses with bald or streaked areas, areas forgotten and left unpainted such as the underside of tails or inside the mouth and ears or between the lateral cartilages, mapping of the wrong color and often without hair texture, brush work with marks, breaks, or pilling, and many more. Basically, anything that would mar well–done, complete and smooth finishwork can be thought of as a good convince.

What’s our insight?: When it comes to finishwork, our job is equal portions what we paint and how we paint it. Paying close attention to every detail as well as every overall effect is necessary to concoct a convincing illusion—we need to "max out" finishwork in order to appear real.

We also find good convince sculptures lying beneath brilliant finishwork, presenting us with mixed messages. The same applies the other way around—an expertly sculpted sculpture beneath good convince finishwork. While these pieces may be beautiful on some level, they aren’t as realistic as they could have been.

What’s our insight?: One–sided achievement has a problem blending into a realistic whole. This means that the ability to objectively determine realism in both sculpture and finishwork independently can be equally important. Also, one cannot compensate for the other; the complete whole is necessary.

Finally, a good convince can tug at our heartstrings more than our heads—our emotions are targeted more than our studies. And because reality tends to be replaced by fanciful whims, strong artistic styles can even morph into caricature if left unchecked, taking our work well beyond what’s viable, or realistic. (For more discussion on the concept of viability, refer to the blog post Viability and Functionality: The Umbrellas.)

Yet it’s in this aspect that we can most struggle to find balance between reality and unreality. On top of this, many people prefer to be emotionally moved over being rationally satisfied when forced to chose…because we’re creating art. This isn’t to be dismissed! Art requires more than clinical representation; otherwise we lose the magic that’s the essence of life itself. Horses move us and unless our work does the same, we haven’t recreated a realistic experience either. That's definitely a critical insight.

Yet at the same time, we should remember our chosen art form—its boundaries don’t stretch very much, but often tend to burst. So if we push too hard by allowing our whims to go unchecked, we’ll end up popping that believability bubble just as easily as anything else. There’s a definite balance of qualities involved!

What’s our insight?: It takes as much emotionality as rationality to create a solid piece of realistic work.

Conclusion to Part III

Lots to ponder, isn't there? There's far more that goes into recreating reality than meets the eye because everything that we can take for granted in the living animal, we cannot in our media. This is the challenge of realistic equine art—what can our perception See and what can we infuse into our clay or pigment? It's the gist of our struggles. (For more discussion on related topics, please download the LSQ Guidelines.)

So in the next installment, we’ll discuss the value of a mental library as well as different schools of thought in realism, as it all helps us to gain more clarity in what we’re trying to do with our own realistic equine artwork.

"And obviously, from our own personal point of view, the principal challenge is a personal challenge." ~Richard Branson

Recommended Blog Posts

The Method, The Madness and the Mystery

Anatomy and Conformation, Parts 1-4

Viability and Functionality: The Umbrellas

LSQ Guidelines

The Unreality of Realism; Walking the Tightrope Between Fact and Fiction, Part III

The Unreality of Realism; Walking the Tightrope Between Fact and Fiction, Part II

Introduction to Part II

Hello! We’re back to our explorations of reality, and what it means for our realistic equine artwork. We’ve learned that there’s more than one way to effectively express reality, yet there also exist limitations imposed by nature itself, defining what it means to create "equine realism." In short, we have a "bubble of believability" to work within, yet even within this bubble exist gradients of "convince-ability." 

Examples throughout this series are located at Brookgreen Gardens, a wonderful sculpture garden in South Carolina. Enjoy! So let’s get down to business and explore some of the quirks found in reality that relate to the creation of our art form. Let’s go!…

Is Reality the Same for Everyone? 

Here perhaps is the crux of the issue, a question we’ll be asked to confront and reconcile repeatedly throughout our career: Is reality a universal constant? And the short answer is: “yes” and “no.”

“Yes” in that realism has a standard that's objective, observable, tangible, and defined. All we have to do is look to the living animal to see our goal clearly. We can touch him to feel his anatomy, and get up close to see how the coat effects are produced by each individual hair. We can study his behavior and how his anatomy responds to movement, moment, and physics. We can make anatomical illustrations from dissection, and map his DNA to identify his color genetics. We can’t deny this fact. But isn’t this obvious? Don’t we already know this to be true? Otherwise we wouldn’t refer to life study, or our piles of reference photos, or the of stacks of anatomy illustrations that guide us in our work. So in this sense, reality is a universal constant for our art form, one we all refer to when piloting our course—it’s our North Star. 

However, another undeniable fact is that we aren’t equine DNA. We’re imperfect human beings who are attempting to duplicate through creative expression what equine DNA already does—an entirely different equation! And it’s in this aspect that the “no” applies. So while the “yes” represents objective reality, the “no” represents our subjective interpretation. This isn’t necessarily bad, however. In fact, it’s only through the “no” that life is breathed into the genre by allowing us to play inside the bubble with our own individual voice. And play we should!

Yet like all things born of human impulse, the “no” is complicated. As it can elevate our work to new heights, it can just as easily, and in the blink of an eye, pitch us off course. It’s also within the “no” that we find distortions to the question of “what is reality,” plotting us into troubled waters if we aren't wary. 

So what’s the secret? How do we maximize the benefits of the “no” while simultaneously minimizing these unwanted obstructions? The trick is not to deny one for the sake of the other. We are the sum of our gifts and our flaws, and so it is with our art. It's what makes us unique, and our art unique. Therefore, the secret is knowing how to strike a manageable balance between reality and unreality, of finding a workable equilibrium between the “yes” and the “no,” while still remaining inside the bubble. Yet this is easier said than done! 

To learn how to manage the “no” for this purpose then, let’s explore how it can be transformed into something beneficial for us rather than remain something problematic. 

As artists, we cannot help but infuse ourselves into our work; we are our art. This is good! It makes our work distinctive, and adds vitality to our portfolio. Yet realism obliges us to manage that infusion, to prohibit too much of our whim from imposing on what is supposed to be more objective by definition. So while we strive to protect those creative stylings that establish our voice, we also work to carve out those notions that compromise the believability of our work too much. We do this naturally as we progress—we call it “making our work more realistic.”

To complicate matters, however, this process remains an ongoing and ever–changing re–evaluation throughout our artistic development, no matter how advanced we become. So because these judgment calls are rather convoluted, especially when we're newly developing, it's precisely here where our troubles with reality tend to begin. That said, however, we'll often find some useful insights if we push forward for the sake of exploration.

Because—yes—there's plenty of room for interpretation. Typically, this is linked to artistic style since there are many ways to achieve similar ends. For example, each artist will sculpt an Arabian differently, but still within that essential bubble. Or each artist may present a different narrative with their Arabian sculpture, adding new layers of meaning. There’s also the infusion of novelty—what did the artist do differently to make a piece unique not only in their portfolio, but from that of everyone else's, too? It’s in these aspects where subjectivity born from the “no” is welcome as a positive influence.

Yet it’s here where the “no” can turn rather quickly, too. The essential Catch–22 is this: while reality may be objective and observable, each person perceives that reality differently. Moreover, our individual perception will change as we artistically progress—our perception isn’t static. Its progression marks our progression. So this point isn’t only where our artistic style begins, it’s also exactly where our troubles begin. 

These differences in the perception of reality can be caused by various influences. Our individual genetics can prepare us for certain degrees of acuity, such as our sensitivity to certain color wavelengths can predispose our eyes to see color differently. It also may be a lifestyle issue because some of us have more access to real horses for life study, or can travel to workshops and seminars more so than others. But the bottom line is this: our ability to perceive reality is based entirely on the degree of objective awareness we can achieve at that moment. Said another way, we can only perceive as much reality in any given moment as our brains are able to recognize and translate it into clay or pigment. 

In a very real sense then, we each create our own “self– colored” glasses when perceiving objective reality. This is precisely why each artist's work is “tinted by different colors” of tool or brush stroke. Everything we do derives from these reality glasses from our aesthetic to our techniques to our expectations to our goals to even deciding what project we'll tackle next. As our interface and filter of reality, they predetermine everything we do and think about our work and our subject, as well as work of others. So it's also why we hear the abrupt question, “Is that artist blind?” And the twist of that question is this: maybe not—maybe it’s the one who's asking that's “blind”! This is the inherent problem with different subjective perceptions of objective reality—each of our interpretations of reality will be different. Who’s right? And how can we objectively prove it? (For more on this discussion, please refer to the blog post What’s Reality Between A Couple Of Friends…And A Bunny?, Parts 1–6.)

When we study a horse to sculpt or paint him, our mind automatically goes about processing what it sees as a series of weighted judgments. But this isn’t done objectively, as hard as we might try. Being human, what actually happens is all of our creative baggage gets factored into these judgments and colors our sight, ultimately skewing our perception and artistic interpretation of reality. And because our artistic baggage is unique, so are each of our interpretive strengths and skews. This is important to understand not only to refine our ability to recognize objective reality, but to cut ourselves and our fellow artists some slack. Only when we can accept that our own glasses prohibit us from Seeing reality as clearly as needed can we adopt a more helpful rather than hurtful approach to equine realism—especially when it comes to our own work.

Such an attitude also lets us freely exchange these reality glasses for a new pair for a new view! Only when we realize we’re wearing self–colored glasses in the first place do we gain the ability to discard them in lieu of new ones—and at will—for a fresh take. This is a powerful, pro-active tool for growth and improvement. Indeed, if we stubbornly believe in the infallibility of our own interpretation of reality, we’re stuck with the glasses we're already wearing, aren't we? And what if they’re fundamentally flawed—only we can’t see it? Thanks to the blind spots intrinsic to our current pair, how would we really know? Big problem, eh? Especially since the only way to see our current blind spots is to pop on a new pair!

That said, though, we should understand that when we pop on a new pair, when we swap out our old glasses for new ones, we’re simply trading our old issues for new ones—and so it goes throughout our career. By progressively adopting newer, fresher, and ever–clearer “reality glasses” do we make our work “more realistic” over time. Our problem isn’t one of our hands then, it’s one of our perception.

This is how the same sooty bay can be painstakingly and beautifully painted by two different artists in ways that look markedly different from each other, but still both lay within that bubble of believability. It’s also why a smooth, even, cursory airbrushed roan can look real to someone, yet appear unrealistic to someone with a more perceptive eye.  

This effect is even more pronounced in sculpture because the process is more complicated, prone to introducing a whole passel of blind spots into our work right under our noses. Yet while these skews may be appealing and we may not even perceive them as blind spots at the time, we should remember what realism is fundamentally about—objectivity. And so we strive to strike a new balance with each new piece as we grow, and our bubble shrinks a little bit each time we stretch. 

Consequently, there comes a time when those aspects that no longer serve our perception are expelled en masse from our interpretations, and our work takes a huge leap forwards: this is exactly how artistic evolution occurs. We see it all the time, too—from the beginner who starts creating significantly better work almost overnight to a workshop providing us with huge strides forwards to the seasoned artist who makes a fundamental breakthrough after a creative hiatus. But the thing is, we don’t necessarily get better at sculpting or painting per se, we get better at objectively perceiving and translating reality into our media. In short, it’s our perception that’s gotten better, not necessarily our skills. Indeed, our skills will naturally go wherever our perception leads. For this reason, we can define our progress as the honing of our perceptive abilities, or practically speaking, the ongoing minimization of our blind spots while simultaneously preserving our voice. 

So what’s a blind spot exactly? Is it always bad? Well, no! Along with those that pester us, we also have positive blind spots, those inherent strengths in our work that come unconsciously. That in mind then, we can think of a negative blind spot as anything that unconsciously steers our perceptions (and so our interpretations) away from what we desire, which in this case is objective reality. Because of this then they hide in our conventions, stylistic habits, aesthetic, and quirks that naturally pepper our art. Even so, they can also derive from those we studied under, our schooling, the works we admire, the aspects of our work we like and dislike, and our artistic goals. Indeed, anything influential can be suspect.

But a blind spot isn’t created just by those things that are present—even more importantly they’re generated by those things that aren’t! Trickier still, a blind spot by omission is far more influential for steering our work off–course, and keeping it there. How so? Well, when it comes to a present blind spot, we usually have the body part there, only it has an error or two to it. But when it comes to a blind spot by omission, entire components may be missing, often causing more serious flaws. What we don’t See, we don’t notice, right? And so those things we’re unable to perceive in reality never get introduced into our work in the first place. And it’s easier to change the blind spots generated by our adopted conventions than it is to change those created by our own unconscious omissions. 

Predictably then, identifying blind spots is hardest when we attempt to decipher reality in our own works because they’re of our own making. Talk about a conflict of interest! This is exactly why we can See errors in other artists’ work, but often not in our own. In this way, too, making our work "more realistic" is a continuous effort to remove unwanted blind spots without generating too many sneakier ones.

Again, though, not all blind spots are bad but, in fact, can be important aspects of our voice to preserve and refine. Yet herein lies another Catch–22—don’t we have to recognize our quirks first in order to decide what to do with them? But how do we recognize them in the first place if they're created by an unconscious skew? Indeed, if we could See them clearly, they wouldn’t occur ipso facto, would they?

In this lies a good question of realism art: why are some artists more successful at achieving realism while others can fail despite their best attempts? It’s not because those struggling lack talent, and it’s not because those who are more successful have more. Simply put, it’s because those who create more realistic work can perceive more objective reality, whether in life or in their work. They not only clearly see the boundaries of the bubble, they also see the possibilities within it: they simply can See more. Years of study and exercising their artistic Eye have resulted in greater acuity for picking out more objective facts from life almost immediately, providing great clarity when it comes to interpreting reality whether in the pasture or the studio. 

But there’s the great hope for those who struggle—this skill can be learned! Open our mind up enough, apply ourself enough, and be objective enough, and we may find ourselves capable of far more realism than we ever thought possible. Always remember that we are only able to perceive the reality we’re equipped to See at any given moment. Seeing and thus achieving more realism is a process, and a slow one learned one step at a time. No one gets it all in one go! 

This means that our ability to recognize and convey realism is a function of our earnestness in our artistic development. The harder we push ourselves to come closer to the objective goal, the more our eyes refine and the more we uproot our blind spots. This is why we see errors in our past work and muse, “What the heck was I thinking?!” And this is a profound moment—we should never undervalue our ability to be annoyed by our past work! Our trek towards realism requires missteps. We have to perceive when we’ve gone off track just as much as when we’re on it. In fact, this is one of the reasons why we try on different stylistic renderings as we grow, or why our style evolves as our sensibilities change. What we’re doing isn’t fruitless—we’re unconsciously exploring the boundaries of that believability bubble. How far can we push it? Where does our perception end? What’s realistic to us now? These issues evolve as we do. As a result, we can look back in our portfolio and often see a definite progression towards more realism.

But this is why settling for the status quo in our studio can be so perilous—when it comes to equine realism, most growth is pro–active. It takes hard work, keen effort, decided sacrifice, and great diligence to decipher and translate this immensely complicated subject, and an overly satisfied attitude actually protects the very quirks that can inhibit our progress. We should remain eager for new reality glasses, and try them on enthusiastically to explore the teetering balance between reality and unreality.

Nonetheless, because the ability to perceive and translate reality can be taught and learned, it suggests that it can be codified, too, at least to some degree. Remember, the bubble has boundaries. Artists, collectors, and judges are using their own codified reality when they make their judgments, and we all know some are better at that than others. Even more revealing, those most adept tend to find consensus quickest! It’s this overlap that suggests that realism can indeed be objectively assessed on some level. 

But perhaps most telling here is that becoming a better realism artist means doing precisely this—of refining this ability with each piece. If we’re challenging ourselves, our perception of reality isn’t static, but constantly evolving as we seek ever–more objectivity in our work. Base an entire community on just this effect happening in dozens of studios independently, and we have a steady upswing of that bell curve. This is how old interpretations and methods become outdated so quickly, and how communal expectation gets higher as each artist raises the bar in his or her own way.

Also remember that realism tends to attract a rather peculiar mind—one that naturally seeks more and usually bristles at being told it “can’t.” And so the bubble is under constant and uncommon pressure to shrink by the very nature of the artists themselves. And the more savvy the eye, the smaller the bubble shrinks. A clear demonstration of this effect can be found in the ceramic equine figurine market as those artists have taken their craft to dizzying new heights in a comparatively short time, and all in the deliberate pursuit of more realism.

So we can see that the question of whether reality is a universal constant is a complicated one. While our subject is objective, our attempts to duplicate him are subjective. And the bridge between the two is where all the fun, crazy, inspiring, and frustrating stuff happens! But it’s in this understanding that we can begin to work within realism with better understanding of just what we're doing, and why.

  

The Reality of Realism

Trying to extrapolate how realism will evolve in our chosen field can be a useful exercise to help identify those aspects of our skill set that need attention—because we cannot expect the pursuit of realism to remain static. As that bubble shrinks over the years, the cumulative effects of these unspoken judgments become more pressing, or in other words, what we regard as acceptable realism today may no longer apply in the future. We can't get by with made–up pinto patterns anymore, for example! Indeed, we’re starting to see significant, even revolutionary, shifts in expectation even now, especially in finishwork. 

Perspective is always helpful in this regard. For this, it can be illustrative to study a similar activity—wildfowl carving. This activity was born from the practice of carving hunting decoys, but took on a life of its own when those folks applied themselves and turned their hobby into an art form. Sound familiar? When we study these works from their early beginnings, we see a definite progression towards more realism as each artist pushed the envelope and bumped up expectation with each new work. The cumulative effect is now a genre typified by stunning realism, but possessing a depth that would keep any artist busy for a lifetime. Because, once again, we not only see a variety of artistic interpretations, but that the reality of a duck, for example, can be expressed in various ways, all of which are equally convincing. And as expected, we may find that some work appeals to us more than others due entirely to the unique voices that express them.

But the thing to take notice here is that though we may know nothing about a Wigeon Hen, for instance, our brain still can discern when one sculpture of a Wigeon Hen is basically more realistic than another. This means we’re capable of recognizing “more realistic” even with unfamiliar subjects, implying we have lots to rethink when we’re unable to do so with our own work. 

Conclusion to Part II

Lots to chew on, eh? Maybe now we can come to more fully understand just how complicated sculpting or painting realism actually is, and give ourselves more credit for the work we’re trying to achieve. Even more, hopefully it’ll inspire us to be more gentle with ourselves as well. Expecting too much, too fast is often a source of frustration and disappointment, especially for new artists, so we should go easy on ourselves. We need the proverbial "room" to bump around in and explore our surroundings so we get better at deciding when we need a new pair of reality glasses when it becomes necessary.

Indeed, there’s much to attend to and balance if we wish to concoct a finely–tuned illusion, and we aren’t done yet! In the next installment then, we’ll discuss the nature of a "good convince" and what that means for our own equine realism.

Until next time then…happy swapping those reality glasses!

"Whatever has happened in my quest for innovation has been part of my quest for immaculate reality." ~George Lucas

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The Unreality of Realism; Walking the Tightrope Between Fact and Fiction, Part I

Introduction to The Unreality of Realism

Artists who specialize in equine realism eventually have to confront what it is they’re actually doing, not in the subjective sense, but in an objective sense. This can be a unique position within art. Other creative forms usually call for a kind of personal introspection for direction or a new concept for inspiration, one usually shaped entirely by artistic whim. Yet our discipline demands something more. 

The result is a singular dilemma for us. Our work isn’t weighed against a social backdrop, a political perspective, a new art movement, or an influential predecessor. We don’t answer to schools of art theory or concepts rooted in abstraction or mercurial sentiment. Instead, we’re accountable to something beyond our making—it’s life itself that’s the measure by which our works are judged. That’s a tough act to follow!

And this is precisely where we can sink while charting our course into realistic art. Enamored with the idea of creativity and capturing the world around us, we gleefully sail onward, but without any kind of reading of our course. As equine realism artists, however, we can’t sail our ships anywhere we please. The art form has rules and boundaries, and this realization can deepen commitment in some, or arouse frustration in others, particularly when expectations become ever loftier. 

So while life is the barometer of our works, we should remember that when we compare our work to reality, what we’re really doing is comparing our perception of reality to our work. And perception can be very different from reality itself because what we deem to be “reality” now may not be a wholly accurate assessment. Plus, our recognition of reality evolves as we develop, and so ever more objectivity appears in our work the more we become aware of it. It’s a ongoing process, not a one–time event. Or rather, it’s a sporatic, chaotic, and unpredictable process instead of a clear, straight line. This means each of us will grapple continuously with this tug–of–war between our perception of reality and reality itself as we try to unlock increasingly more objectivity in our work.

As realism artists, too, we can become annoyed when our work doesn’t meet our expectations, especially when we feel helpless to engineer solutions. So to offer a beacon in the fog, let’s take a look at “reality” and what it means to be a realism artist in this 5–Part blog series. Perhaps if we have a better grasp of this madness, we can navigate our ships with more confidence and clarity.

Getting Real with Reality

As realism artists, we’ll grapple with the concept of, “What is reality?” Or to put it another way, what does it mean to create realism? As such, we’ll find debates about this question not only within our mind as we dive into each new piece, but also among artists working within the genre. These discussions are important for helping us understand the nature of what it is we’re creating, and how we’re creating it. 

Nonetheless, these discussions also need to be regarded with a grain of salt. What we’ll often find is that they end up acquiescing to ambiguity rather than attempting to pin down reality related specifically to realism art work. So rather than getting real with reality, the unspoken consensus is to accept a kind of unreality for the greater good of the community. This makes sense since we artists tend to be an amicable bunch. We enjoy the company of like–minded souls and dislike excluding our fellow birds of a feather. This perspective is valuable, and should not be compromised. 

Yet while this tactic is friendly, it also can be destructive to those who may not understand that this deduction is a social courtesy rather than a logical conclusion. Without this awareness, a developing artist can careen into trouble when lulled into the belief that she can follow her heart rather than her head—and realism is first governed by the head. Put another way, we’re obliged to understand and follow the rules first before we get to bend or even break them. 

But in order to better understand what we're doing, we first need an objective grasp of reality. While this would seem painfully obvious, it’s actually not so intuitive. Sure it’s easy to say “duplicate what you see,” but it’s entirely another matter to actually duplicate what’s actually seen! This is because when it comes to realism, we don’t have a one–way flow of perception as we would if we created entirely from our whims in which “good” is determined simply by our liking the result. When it comes to realism art, this “liking” is only part of the equation. Exploring realism may be an artistic whim, but actually practicing it definitely isn’t because the genre is too demanding; we can’t make up the rules as we go, ceasing to create realistic work altogether, by definition. 

Reality check: Realistic art is a discipline.

It’s why we labor to expand our understanding of what it means to be equine, often making great sacrifices in time, energy, and money to seek that awareness. It’s why we toil to develop increasingly tedious methods that better mimic effects, or capture minute details. Our resource library seems ever–expanding, and we may thrill with delight at the one great revelation a unique image provides. It’s why our judgments of “good enough” change as our perceptions advance. And so we need dedication to our craft with a peculiar brand of zeal in order to achieve our goals and weather the highs and lows of our arduous journey. Equine realism simply requires a great investment of learning, experience, and a vast pile of mistakes to gain ground—it’s a learned skill with an ever–deepening ocean of mastery. In short, realistic art is earned through devotion, and we won’t progress if we can’t dedicate ourselves in some measure. 

Reality check: Realistic art is a commitment. 

Likewise, we should accept that our imagined explorations have definite, inarguable limitations—nature imposes boundaries we cannot cross. As artists this means we have to keep our creativity in constant check to make sure our creative sensibilities are on track. This can be an unexpectedly difficult task! We also can’t hold anything too precious. For instance, even though we may like a certain effect artistically, we’re forced to jettison it if it doesn’t jive with reality. This situation can be particularly bitter for developing artists who still are grappling with the steep learning curve. They may not see the artistic excursions their eye is taking and end up producing something well below their expectations. On the other hand, they may also not see where they’re getting it right, and so underestimate their progress. 

Reality check: Realistic art isn’t so tolerant of unchecked artistic license.

It’s a good idea to remember the flow of our current: realism isn’t just a means to express our creative voices willy–nilly—we deliberately chose to express them within this demanding, constricting art form. There are plenty of other ways to explore equines artistically, so why realism? We each must answer this question in our own way, and revisit it periodically to successfully sail these waters. But this does explain why realistic art tends to attract a certain type of creative mind, one almost fixated on getting reality as right as possible.

Reality check: Realism isn’t the best creative fit for every artist, or artistic pursuit. 

If we’re to find personal satisfaction within the insatiable demands of realism then, we should know our creative selves completely. Indeed, understanding that we’re in for a long haul can help us sail through self–doubt and vexation. And so we also should learn to rejuvenate our resolve with each new work, regardless of set–backs or seemingly impossible challenges.

So it’s not actually a matter of having the inherent skill for realism, though many artists seem to have great ability in this regard. Instead, two other ingredients are more necessary for success. First is a kind of stubbornness to devote oneself to an art form of such an insistent and specific nature. And second, it takes a goodly measure of humility. We should accept that what we’re creating may not be “realistic” enough while at the same time allowing our creativity to be guided by rules not of our making. In short, we need to leave room for mistakes, and the learning from them. That can be difficult to accept when we want to get things correct right out of the gate! But again, achieving more objective realism takes time and effort, and lots of mistakes. It’s a great adventure, one worth sailing, yet there are high waves to be bested!

Reality check: Realism will test our mettle. 

Taking all this into account, we begin to understand that realism isn’t something we simply bang out in a moment’s creative impetuousness. It takes time. It takes craft. It takes mastery. It takes gumption. It also means we must be real with reality.

What is Reality?

While this seems like a simple question, it’s actually a profound riddle with important consequences for realistic equine art. Truly, if we don’t engage this question with each new piece, our vision can become clouded and we’ll sail off–course. So let’s look at how this question affects what we create because it’ll illuminate not only our path, but the full scope of the art form we’ve chosen. (For more discussion on the nature of reality and our perception, refer to the blog series What’s Reality Between A Couple Of Friends…And A Bunny?, Parts 1–6.) 

Plus seeing this question in action can be more illustrative because so much about realism is what we absorb, and not what’s described. No amount of words, no matter how carefully chosen, could ever adequately communicate the idea to us in ways we can visually recognize. Just like life, realism is experienced. So to help us gain deeper insight, let’s take a virtual tour through selected works at Brookgreen Gardens, a wonderful sculpture garden in South Carolina, USA.  

For starters, notice how there isn’t just one way to express reality. We see that the “bubble of believability” isn’t as miniscule as logic implies, and that sculpting what we see isn’t as straightforward as it would seem. Instead, there exists a spectrum of possibility within the genre, and we see that physical reality can be conveyed in various ways—all of which are equally successful. For instance, some approaches are very "tight" and precise, each line and curve put there deliberately, almost like Reality HD. In contrast, others are "looser" and more implied, like Reality Impressionism. Then there's the whole spectrum in between! The point is, "reality" can be conveyed many different ways, all effective and all equally valid.

We also find that different interpretations appeal to different tastes, and it’s in this wiggle–room where individual style blooms, allowing diversity to spice the art form to keep it from stagnating into something sterile. Let’s be real—if all artists sculpted or painted reality the same, it would be a barren art form, wouldn’t it? So not only is individual interpretation inevitable, it’s necessary to keep the genre relevant. We’re creating art, remember.  

However, we can see that while there may be more than one way to express reality, there’s also more than one way to pitch off course! If we’re truly paying attention in our observations, we see that our bubble has boundaries, that realism isn’t as subjective as we may think it to be. Rather, the objective physical actuality of the animal guides us, meaning we get to play within these consistent compass points:

• Anatomy
• Biomechanics
• Scale
• Equine behavior
• Anima (or “living soul”) 

These are the four qualities all believable realistic equine sculpture possesses, by definition. And if we’re paying even more attention, the more faithful a sculpture is in these aspects, the more likely it will register as “realistic.”

Now one could suggest that conformation is one of these absolutes, yet it’s not. It’s more of a subjective layer we get to infuse on top of those four attributes. (For more discussion on this topic, please refer to the blog post Anatomy and Conformation, Parts 1-4.)

Paintwork is similarly corralled by its own set compass points:

• Color genetics
• Physical properties (of hair, hide, and skin)
• Scale
• Tone
• The immediacy of the individual’s moment and lifestyle 

And predictably, the more a paint job accounts for these physical realities, the more “realistic” it appears, too. So as long as we hold true to these compass points for sculpture and paintwork then, we know we’re on the right track.

It doesn’t end there, however. Dissecting these compass points even further, we find that bone, muscle, sinew, flesh, hair, and horn need to be translated in certain ways to remain convincing. For example, we can’t sculpt fleshy looking bone, or bony looking flesh and hope to fool the eye. Or whether we sculpt our mane with an impressionistic approach or in meticulous detail, it still has to look like hair, and not like a fin, a tentacle, a sheet of metal, or like mashed potatoes gouged with a fork. 

Likewise with painting, we can’t pink–in areas with orange, or map markings with purple. Paintwork also needs to adhere to a certain level of neatness and precision so that eye color doesn’t lap up onto the lid, or coronet color doesn’t smear onto the hoof. Dappling and other coat effects can’t be too impressionistic, either, but clearly be what they’re meant to be.

Even deeper, however, we find that realism is a balance between the precise and the organic. In other words, we should be sensitive to when nature requires them to be precise and when it lets us sculpt with a more amorphous touch. For instance, sculpting the eye, or the symmetry of paired anatomy requires absolute precision whereas the delineation of muscle groups, or the flow of hair permits us far more freedom. The same goes for paintwork. There are times when reality necessitates total exactitude, like the boundary between the hide and the hoof, the painting of the eye, or the delineation between hide and mane, yet other times a looser approach works better such as the flow of coat tones, the delicacy of a grey muzzle, or the softness of pinked areas. 

Now when we step back and consider all this, it implies that while there are many equally effective ways to convey realism, there also exists a gradient within the bubble for how effective those depictions actually are. For example, when we compare different realistic interpretations to life, we see that some are more effective at getting the point across. So while we may like what we see artistically, we still can perceive that one’s “more realistic” than another. That’s to say, our brain can register different degrees of realism to make it’s own judgment. This means there isn’t only a limit to realism, beyond which a piece ceases to be realistic, there also are degrees of greater realism within the bubble, like gradations in an archer’s target. Otherwise, how does an artist decide her work isn’t realistic enough, and then strive to make it more so? 

Yet that said, if we’re being particularly observant, we find that this bubble of believability also has inherent characteristics that contribute to this distinction of “more realistic.” Bluntly put, there’s more to realism than technical accuracy. This is because we can’t regard our subject within a vacuum. Instead, we should account for physics and “the moment.” Our subject evolved on a planet with a specific set of physical forces such as gravity, centrifugal force, and leveraging power, just to name a few. Even fluid dynamics applies to such things as the movement of the hair, or the rippling of flesh. So even with all these effects, our depicted subject should be consistent with the perceived physical environment in which he presumably exists. A sculpture that doesn’t convey the mass of a 1,000 pound living animal within a believable physical world, for example, won’t register as “realistic” even if the anatomy’s rendered with adept skill. It simply lacks context within reality itself. So if we sculpt a trotting Thoroughbred with pasterns that don’t convey the downwards force of impact, for instance, our sculpture won’t ring true just as easily as if we misplaced a muscle group.

Similarly, the living subject exists in a continuum of cause and effect, of time and circumstance, and so “the living moment,” that ongoing succession of fleeting instances that blink in and out of existence, is pivotal for realistic equine art as well. Each moment contains a unique kinetic expression of the animal’s body, emotion, intention, and experience, and throughout his entire physique. Then poof! That moment is gone to be replaced by a new one, with a host of new effects. For example, the changing expressions we see on an impatient or restless horse, seen not just on his face, but expressed throughout his whole body, right down to the shifting tensions of his spine. Or for another example, a sculpted mane may look like hair, but if it doesn’t act like hair, with all the spontaneity hair experiences with each passing second, it’s not as convincing as it could be. Likewise, if an expertly sculpted mane isn’t supported by the painter’s hand, the result can fall short as well. One must reinforce the other to really drive home the impression of reality. Realism tells us that structure and force are joined at the hip, since they go hand–in–hand in real life, too. 

Now if we observe closer still, we see other, perhaps subtler aspects of realism implicit in the believability bubble: “living flesh” and thus, “living movement.” These two concepts also help to propel the depiction of anatomy beyond the technically accurate, the inert into dynamic, living reality. This is because understanding the technicalities of anatomy is only half the equation. Having chart–smarts is great, and even necessary, and will definitely serve us well—but they can only take us so far. Eventually we’ll find such things fail us, especially if we want to take our work to a new level. That’s because technical accuracy is not enough—there’s life itself we must also consider! 

It's handy to think of the equation this way: one–half is the clear, neatly delineated aspect of technicality, and the other half entails messy and organic life. Said another way, the first half is order and the second half is chaos, two sides of the same coin. If our perception is really keen then, we find that all the most effective realistic portrayals of any living subject possess a deft combination of these two components whether in sculpting or finishwork. And so our aim isn’t just to duplicate the technicality of our subject, but also the living expression of that technicality.

In other words, there’s a huge difference between an anatomical diagram and real life. So we can’t just technically recreate the anatomical blueprint neatly and accurately and think we’ve captured everything—we have to infuse chaotic life into it as well. For instance, to paint a dapple grey, we can’t just apply technically correct dapples, but also apply them as chaotically and spontaneously as they appear in life. They shouldn’t be regimented, orderly, or like a series of organized polka dots. Technical restrictions and anarchic randomness exist simultaneously in nature because just as life is founded on structure, it’s equally founded spontaneity. Being so, we’re obliged to capture this dichotomy in our own equine realism. 

Yet it’s precisely this chaotic element that can cause us to stumble most. Not only are we forced out of the certainty and security of anatomy diagrams into the realm of the organic and unpredictable, but most of the effects of chaos are either fast, mercurial, and instantaneous, and so can often go unseen by the uninitiated, or they're complicated, situational, and counter–intuitive, and so we can inordinately struggle with them. However, when we look for them actively in our references and life study, we can better see them in action to infuse into our media, and this why some pieces look rather static while others appear as though they’ll start breathing any minute. (For more discussion on this topic, please refer to the blog post, Now About Those Anatomy Charts…Parts 1–2.)

This brings us back to the ideas of “living flesh” and “living movement.” We can conceptualize living flesh as the ongoing moment by moment fleshy peculiarities, changes, distortions, and movements caused by articulation, physics, and the relationships between anatomical features. In this sense, living flesh addresses the passage of time because we’re asked to recognize that no two moments are exactly alike. For example, how muscle bundles interact in response to activation, or how they pooch, squish, or slacken in response to motion and posture, how flesh jiggles, distorts, wobbles, or ripples with physics, or how skin crinkles, wrinkles, or stretches with articulation are just some of the considerations within this concept. Just as much, too, it pertains to those aspects that obscure, distort, or otherwise morph and disguise the crisp and ordered depiction of anatomy we see outlined in an anatomical diagram. Living horses don’t appear as simplistic, jointed anatomy charts for good reason, this being one of them. 

In turn then, we can think of “living movement” as those ongoing and fleeting postures, quirks, coordinations, adjustments, countenance, presence, and physically expressed emotions and energy found in the living animal adapting and responding to those changing moments. So, here again, we’re dealing with the passage of time, the play–by–play articulations and motions of each passing moment. If we’re looking closely enough here then, we see that motion is continuous regardless of what the animal is doing, including the expression of emotions. The equine is always in motion, even when seemingly standing stock still, or fast asleep.

So what does living flesh and living movement mean for sculpture? Well, basically this…we can neither render our sculptures all the same way nor in the same manner as an anatomy chart would have us believe. Instead, each should be interpreted as a unique snapshot. The unconventional, the changing, and the fleeting are just as important as the commonalities. So look for unexpected, individual details, and quirks in structure and emotion! They're not only fun to incorporate into our work, but add interest, uniqueness, and depth to our portfolio. 

All this brings us to a related concept…since each species has its own unique blueprint, each has its own characteristic expression of living flesh and living movement. Now marry all this to the species’ characteristic behavior, and we’ve got our proverbial genie by the foot! For instance, a bear doesn’t look like a bear just because it’s built like a bear. It looks like a bear because it also moves like a bear. There’s more to “bear–ness” than simply looking like a bear! Our brains inherently pick up on these additional, inherent features in life to draw from when we actually look at a bear sculpture, which is why some bear works appear more “bear–y” than others.

So to apply this idea to our subject, horses look like horses not only because they're built like horses, but also because they move like horses. That may seem obvious enough, but consider this: what if our equine sculpture exhibited a gallop more akin to the flexible spine and rolling gait of a running lion, or the stiff–backed, short–gaited dashing stride of a hyena? Our brains would instinctively detect these divergences, and our illusion would be compromised just as easily as if we had sculpted the knees bending the wrong way. 

Therefore, the living flesh and living movement of the equine aren’t unique only moment–by–moment, but also within the animal kingdom. What’s more, these two things mesh together with that familiar, unique equine anatomy plus equine behavior to convey what it means to be wholly equine. Put it all together, and we have a sculpture that truly reads "equine-y."

Yet, again, this is another aspect of equine realism that can trip us, especially if our observational skills aren’t honed enough, or we haven’t practiced enough pro–active education and life study. Our mental library expects this essential “equine-ness” in our work as it perceives in life, but if any one of these four components falls short, so does our illusion, and regardless of how accurately the anatomy is depicted.

Conclusion to Part I

Clearly there’s more to realism than just sculpting what we see, or even sculpting according to anatomy charts! In Part II then, we’ll explore the nature of reality and how we can make it work for us instead of against us.

So until next time…keep it real!

"It's through my artist's eyes that I see wonderful things in nature that I never saw before." ~Kathy Connelly

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