Happy Little Google

In these last few days of October, America remains sharply divided.  In a tie too close to call, about half of the population understood today’s Google Doodle of Bob Ross, while the others didn’t have a clue.  In our household, we have avidly supported the guy with the anachronistic afro.  We frequently tuned into that socialistic mainstay, PBS, and watched while the plaid-clad man with the gentle voice transformed a plain white canvas into a beautiful vision of a pristine planet.  With willing suspension of disbelief, we let him transport us to the snowy mountaintops or to a remote cabin along a winding creek.

Bob Ross was a one-man industry, demonstrating an oil painting method that obviates the need for art school or drawing talent.  His techniques of pumping, pushing and pulling paint across canvases is legendary among artsy wannabes.  I have spent hours, literally, watching him turn X-motions into cloudy skies, gentle scrapes of moody colors into mountain peaks, and tickles with a fan brush into majestic pine forests.   He used no photos or actual physical sites; he would place his “happy little trees” wherever he wished.  In his world, there were no mistakes, just “happy accidents.”

Whereas I watched Bob Ross with fascination, enthralled with his process, my husband became a Bob Ross “user.”  In fact, when he needs to nap or to decompress, Bob Ross is his drug of choice.  The low gravelly voice is sufficient to lull anyone into a deep coma.  My husband is highly sensitive to its effects, hitting the point of unconsciousness in approximately 4.5 minutes.  He now keeps a full set of CDs in the basement (he thinks I do not know that he has them or where they are hidden), whipping them out surreptitiously and disappearing into oblivion for hours at a time. 

About 20 years ago, my husband—newly infatuated with Ross landscapes—decided that I needed to try this oil painting technique.  I think he believed that I would become a world-famous landscape artist spontaneously.  For my birthday, he bought me a complete set up, including an easel, a full set of Bob Ross signature paints and brushes, and a how-to video.  It was a very sweet gift, and I really appreciated the time he spent considering a hands-on gift that I would enjoy.  He set up a television and VCR in our spare room so I could paint alongside the video.

Earnestly, I set out blending Phthalo Blue with Titanium White to create a clear blue sky with the gentle hint of clouds.  I merged Sap Green with Van Dyke Brown and loaded up a 1 inch brush, attempting to create a horizon.  Grabbing some Alizarin Crimson with a palette knife, I pressed in some Phthalo Blue to create a dark color for my “purple mountain’s majesty.”  Switching to my handy fan brush, I grabbed some more of the green-brown mixture, teasing out a lacy pattern that resembled tall trees.  I then touched the loaded brush with a little Cadmium Yellow to create trees in the foreground that pushed the other trees back into the canvas.  I was giddy with my ability to mimic Ross’s movements, creating a stream through the middle of the painting and using the brush to pull the paint from the landscape elements down into the water, creating a reflection.  I even cleaned my brushes in the coffee can of paint remover and banged it dry along the legs of the easel. 

This was, in fact, as easy as he made it.  In about 45 minutes I had completed my first canvas.  The colors blended naturally and the brushes were designed to create the images and effects as promised.  Until I stepped back to admire my work.  There on the canvas was, indeed, a mountain landscape with a progression of trees that moved closer and closer to the eye.  But it was flat and lifeless, appearing more like the cardboard cutouts of ducks set at a carnival shooting gallery, elements set in parallel tracks at different focal lengths.   It lacked the misty photographic values of Bob Ross’s own paintings, mine completely devoid of painterly quality.  Note to self:  don’t quit your day job.

I was surprised to discover that Bob Ross died very young—a few years younger than I am now.  For about a decade, we tuned in to PBS regularly on Saturdays to enjoy his creations and his sedating manner.  I remember when he introduced the squirrel he rescued and returned to health, keeping it as a domestic pet.  I remember when he thanked his audience for the outpouring of sympathy that followed the death of his wife.  He clearly had a dedicated following, accomplishing what many of us can only hope to do—leaving a mark on this world in a unique way.  He did this without putting anyone down, without being divisive or controversial, and without raising his voice.  Seeing him featured on Google today demonstrates that even a quiet man who lives in a world of his own making can make an indelible impact.