Are We All Seeing the Same Painting?
I've spent a lot of time looking at my own paintings and wondering how other people see them.
Not necessarily whether they like them. Of course, I hope they do! But that's not really what I'm thinking about.
I'm wondering whether they're seeing what I intended to paint.
Does that distant mountain look like it's disappearing into the atmosphere? Are the shadows on a person's face falling in the right places to give it the shape I was trying to create? Does that tree look like it's standing in the forest, or does it look like I've just plopped it down in front of everything?
And then there are the little details. The things I've deliberately included, or sometimes deliberately left out. Does anyone even notice them?
I know what I see when I look at my paintings. After all, I painted them. I've spent hours choosing colors, creating shapes, adjusting shadows, and occasionally getting a little frustrated when something wasn't working the way I wanted.
I've put my time, my experience, and often my emotions into that canvas. But when someone else stands in front of it, what exactly are they seeing?
These are three versions of the same painting. The first shows the original colors I chose, while the other two have digital filters applied. They're not meant to simulate color blindness, but they give us an interesting way to experiment with how changing color can influence what we notice. Which version catches your eye first? And does changing the color change the way you experience the painting?
Are we all actually seeing the same painting? Not whether we like the same painting. That's something entirely different. I'm talking about whether our eyes and minds are experiencing the same colors, contrasts, and details when we're looking at the exact same piece of artwork.
And, as usual, one little question has sent me wandering down another artistic rabbit hole.
Meet Goethe — And Yes, I'm Going to Tell You How to Say His Name!
While exploring the history of the color wheel for a previous article, I came across Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
First things first. His last name is pronounced something like GUR-tuh. Not Goth, which is where my brain immediately wanted to go!
Goethe was a German poet, novelist, playwright, and thinker who became fascinated with color. In 1810, he published a book called Theory of Colours.
Isaac Newton had already spent considerable time investigating light and the physics behind color. Goethe approached the subject differently, and he didn't agree with all of Newton's explanations. Modern science supports Newton's fundamental discoveries about light over Goethe's competing physical explanations. But Goethe was interested in something else that caught my attention.
What happens when a human being actually looks at a color? How does the eye respond? Why can one color look completely different depending on what's beside it? Why does a color sometimes seem to remain in our vision even after we've looked away?
And since I'm fascinated by color, I thought I'd take a look at his book myself. Well, let me tell you something.
I was curious enough about Goethe's ideas that I decided to open his book, Theory of Colours. I'll admit, I didn't get very far before realizing that nineteenth-century scientific writing and I weren't going to become the best of friends. I even tried having my computer read part of it aloud to me!
Between the translator's preface, the original preface, and the rather technical explanations, I was having a difficult time keeping my eyes open. But buried in all that complicated language were some genuinely interesting observations. And one of them made me stop and think about painting.
Is the Color on the Canvas the Color We Actually See?
Goethe spent considerable time observing how our eyes respond to colors. One example involves something called an afterimage. Have you ever stared at something brightly colored for a little while, looked away toward a white surface, and noticed a faint image in another color? Goethe was fascinated by observations like that.
Our eyes aren't simply little windows letting us look at the world. Our visual system is actively involved in what we see. And here's where that gets interesting to me as a painter.
I can mix a particular shade of green on my palette and place it on the canvas. But when I put that same green beside a bright yellow, it may appear different than it would beside a deep blue. I haven't changed the green. I've changed what's around it.
The paint itself hasn't changed, but our perception of it can. So when someone is looking at one of my paintings, they're not just seeing individual colors. They're seeing all those colors interacting with one another, under the lighting in the room, through their own eyes. And those eyes may not experience color exactly the way mine do.
What If Your Red Isn't My Red?
When we say someone is color blind, we often imagine they can't see certain colors at all. But that's not usually how it works. Most people with color blindness can see plenty of colors. What they may have difficulty with is distinguishing certain colors or shades from one another. Red-green color-vision deficiency is the most common form, although there are others. And even among people with the same general type of color blindness, the experience can vary.
Which brings up a rather strange question. Who decided what red is supposed to look like anyway? I know. That sounds like the beginning of a pretty wild rabbit hole!
We have science. We can measure wavelengths of light, study how the eyes respond, and test how people distinguish colors. But when I look at a tube of red paint, and you look at that exact same tube, we both agree that it's red. We've both learned to call it red. But how do I know the red you're experiencing looks exactly like the red I'm experiencing? I can't climb inside your head and borrow your eyes for a few minutes.
And if someone has color blindness, are they seeing my painting incorrectly? Their color vision may differ from what most people experience, but that doesn't make their experience of the artwork any less meaningful. They're looking at the same painting. They're just potentially seeing some of its colors differently.
Would the Forest Still Have Depth?
Let's imagine I've painted a forest. I've used several shades of green, from bright yellow-greens in the sunlight to darker blue-greens in the shadows. Some of my trees are close enough that you can see individual branches. Others are farther away, with softer edges and less detail. I'm trying to create the feeling that you could walk right into that forest.
But what happens when someone looking at the painting has difficulty distinguishing some of those greens? Does the whole forest suddenly look flat? Not necessarily. Because as painters, we have more than just color to work with. We have light and shadow, shapes, edges, texture, and something especially important called value.
Value is simply how light or dark a color is. And this is something I spend quite a bit of time helping students understand in my painting classes. Especially beginners.
Sometimes we're so busy choosing the colors we think are pretty that we don't notice whether there's enough contrast between them. You can have a beautiful collection of greens in a forest painting, but if they're all too similar in value, the trees may blend together. The distance between them disappears, and suddenly the whole thing feels a little flat. You stand back, look at your painting, and think, “Something just isn't right.” But you can't quite figure out what.
One of my favorite ways to help students see this is to take a photograph of their painting and turn it into black and white.
Suddenly, all those beautiful greens are gone. What remains are the light and dark values. And now it's often much easier to see what's happening. Are the distant mountains lighter than the foreground? Do the trees stand out from one another? Can you still see where the sunlight hits the branches?
If everything blends into one big gray shape, that may be part of why the painting wasn't quite working. The greens weren't necessarily the wrong colors. They may simply have been too similar in value.
Even without the color, much of the painting can still be there. The depth, the shapes, the shadows, and the composition can all continue working.
Of course, looking at a black-and-white picture isn't the same thing as being color blind. Most people with color-vision deficiencies don't see the world in grayscale. But the exercise shows us something important. Color is only one of the ways our eyes understand a painting.
Goethe Was Looking at More Than Just the Paint
The more I think about Goethe's observations, the more I understand what originally caught my attention. He was interested in what happens between the color and the person looking at it. He explored afterimages, colored shadows, and the way light and surrounding colors change our experience of what we're seeing.
He didn't have all the scientific answers we have today. And I certainly wouldn't recommend his book as a little light reading before bed! But I appreciate the curiosity behind it.
Sometimes we get so focused on learning how to mix a certain color or paint a particular object that we forget to think about what happens when someone actually looks at the finished artwork. In my classes, I try to help students understand why a painting works, not simply which color to put on the brush next.
Two people can stand in front of the same artwork, look at the same details, and still notice entirely different things. One person might notice the dramatic contrast between light and shadow. Another might be drawn to a tiny detail tucked away in a corner. Someone else may notice something I never even thought about while painting it.
So, Are We All Seeing the Same Painting?
I'm starting to think the answer is both yes and no. We're looking at the same canvas. The same brushstrokes. The same carefully placed highlights and shadows. But our eyes, memories, experiences, and emotions all come along for the visit.
The person who loves bright, dramatic colors may be drawn to a painting that someone else finds overwhelming. Someone who grew up near the ocean may feel a connection to a seascape that has very little to do with the particular shade of blue I used. And someone with color blindness may appreciate that same painting for reasons I hadn't even considered while creating it.
I find that rather wonderful. As artists, we spend a great deal of time trying to create something meaningful. We choose our subjects, mix our colors, move our brushes, and hope that a little piece of what we're trying to express finds its way onto the canvas. But once the painting is finished, we no longer have complete control over what someone experiences when they see it.
And perhaps that's exactly how it should be.
Do we paint for other people, hoping they'll see what we intended? Or do we paint what speaks to us, trusting that the right painting will eventually find the person it speaks to? I'm not sure those two ideas have to compete. Maybe we put our own experiences into the painting, and someone else brings theirs when they stand in front of it.
Maybe art doesn't require everyone to see the same thing. Maybe part of its beauty is that we don't.
What about you? Have you ever looked at a painting with someone and discovered you noticed completely different things? Do you have color blindness, or know someone who does?
I'd be especially curious to hear whether it changes the way you experience paintings. I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Until next time, happy painting!
— Hope Blakely, Blakely Art Collection
See It in Practice
Take a moment to look at this painting. Where do your eyes go first? Are you drawn to the brightest area, the darkest shadows, or perhaps a tiny detail somewhere in the composition? Now look at the black-and-white version. What changed? Can you still see the depth? Now go back to the color version. Does knowing what you just noticed change the way you see the painting?
What did you notice that someone else might have missed? The artist tells part of the story. You bring the rest.
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References and Further Reading
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