Roy Mason is essentially a landscape painter whose style and direction has a kinship with the English watercolorists of the early nineteenth century, especially the beautifully patterned art of John Sell Cotman.
And like this English master, Mason realizes his subjects in large, simplified masses which, though they seem effortless, are in reality the result of skilled design born of hard work and a thorough distillation of the natural form that inspired them.

As a boy Roy Mason began the long process of extracting the goodness of the out-of-doors, its tang of weather, its change of seasons, its variable moods.
His father, a professional engraver and an amateur landscape painter, took his sons on numerous hunting expeditions, and imparted to them his knowledge and love of nature.
Out of this background of hunting and fishing, it was only natural that Roy first painted subjects he knew best: hunters in the field, fishermen in the stream, ducks and geese on the wing -- almost always against a vast backdrop of weather landscape.
It is this subject matter that has brought Mason a large and enthusiastic following among sportsmen, but it is his exceptional performance with this motif that commends him to artists and discerning collectors.

Mason had to earn the privilege of devoting himself exclusively to painting.
Like many others, he had to work hard, long hours in a struggling family business which, though it was allied to art of a kind -- the design and production of engraved seals -- bore no relation to the painting of pictures.
But it did teach Roy the basic techniques of commercial art, and later, for twelve years, he and his sister Nina conducted an advertising art studio in Philadelphia.
On the death of their father, they returned to their home in Batavia, New York.
After more years of concentrated effort, Roy and his brother Max finally established a thriving family business at the old stand.

During all this time Roy continued to paint, first only on weekends, and then, as the family business permitted, for longer periods.
Gradually he withdrew from the shop altogether, and for the past thirty years, he has worked independently as a painter, except for his continued hunting and fishing expeditions.
But even on these, the palette often takes over while the shotgun cools off!

Except for a rich friendship with the painter, Chauncey Ryder who gave him the only professional instruction he ever had -- and this was limited to a few lessons, though the two artists often went on painting trips together -- Roy developed his art by himself.
In the best tradition, he first taught himself to see, then to draw with accuracy and assurance, and then to paint.
He worked in oil for years before beginning his work in watercolor, and his first public recognition and early honors, including his election to the Academy, were for his essays in the heavier medium.
Gradually watercolor claimed his greater affection until today it has become his major, if not exclusive, technique.

It has been my privilege to paint with Roy Mason on numerous occasions, mostly in the vicinity of Batavia.
More often than not I have found easy excuse to leave my own work and stand at a respectable distance where I could watch this man transform raw nature into a composed, not imitative, painting.
What I have observed time and time again is a process of integration, integration that begins as abstract design and gradually takes on recognizable form;
color patterns that are made to weave throughout the whole composition;
and that over-all, amazing control of large washes which is the Mason stylemark.
Finally come those little flicks of a rigger brush and the job is done.
Inspiring -- yes;
instructive -- maybe;
duplicable -- no!

But for the technical fact, we have the artist's own testimony:

"Of late years, I find that I like best to work out-of-doors.
First I make preliminary watercolor sketches in quarter scale (approximately Af inches) in which I pay particular attention to the design principles of three simple values -- the lightest light, the middle tone, and the darkest dark -- by reducing the forms of my subject to these large patterns.
If a human figure or wild life are to be part of the projected final picture, I try to place them in the initial sketch.
For me, these will belong more completely to their surroundings if they are conceived in this early stage, though I freely admit that I do not hesitate to add or eliminate figures on the full sheet when it serves my final purpose.

"I am thoroughly convinced that most watercolors suffer because the artist expects nature will do his composing for him;
as a result, such pictures are only a literal translation of what the artist finds in the scene before him.
Just because a tree or other object appears in a certain spot is absolutely no reason to place it in the same position in the painting, unless the position serves the design of the whole composition.
If the artist would study his work more thoroughly and move certain units in his design, often only slightly, finer pictures would result.
Out of long experience I have found that incidental figures and other objects like trees, logs, and bushes can be traced from the original sketch and moved about in the major areas on the final sheet until they occupy the right position, which I call clicking.

"Speed in painting a picture is valid only when it imparts spontaneity and crispness, but unless the artist has lots of experience so that he can control rapid execution, he would do well to take these first sketches and soberly reorder their design to achieve a unified composition.

"If I have seemed to emphasize the structure of the composition, I mean to project equal concern for color.
Often, in working out-of-doors under all conditions of light and atmosphere, a particular passage that looked favorable in relation to the subject will be too bright, too dull, or too light, or too dark when viewed indoors in a mat.
When this occurs, I make the change on the sketch or on the final watercolor -- if I have been working on a full sheet in the field.

"When working from one of my sketches I square it up and project its linear form freehand to the watercolor sheet with charcoal.
When this linear draft is completed, I dust it down to a faint image.
From this point, I paint in as direct a manner as possible, by flowing on the washes with as pure a color mixture as I can manage.
However, first I thoughtfully study my sketch for improvement of color and design along the lines I have described.
Then I plan my attack: the parts I will finish first, the range of values, the accenting of minor details -- all in all, mechanics of producing the finished job with a maximum of crispness.
The longer I work, the more I am sure that for me, at least, a workmanlike method is important.
Trial and error are better placed in the preliminary sketch than in hoping for miracles in the final painting.

"As for materials, I use the best available.
I work on a watercolor easel in the field, and frequently resort to a large garden umbrella to protect my eyes from undue strain.
In my studio I work at a tilt-top table, but leave the paper unfixed so that I can move it freely to control the washes.
I have used a variety of heavy-weight hand-made papers, but prefer an English make, rough surface, in 400-pound weight.
After selecting a sheet and inspecting it for flaws (even the best sometimes has foreign 'nubbins' on its surface), I sponge it thoroughly on both sides with clean, cold water.
Then I dry the sheet under mild pressure so that it will lie flat as a board.

"In addition to the usual tools, I make constant use of cleansing tissue, not only to wipe my brushes, but to mop up certain areas, to soften edges, and to open up lights in dark washes.
The great absorbency of this tissue and the fact that it is easier to control than a sponge makes it an ideal tool for the watercolorist.
I also use a small electric hand-blower to dry large washes in the studio.

"My brushes are different from those used by most watercolorists, for I combine the sable and the bristle.
The red sables are 8;
two riggers, 6 and 10;
and a very large, flat wash brush.
The bristles are a Fitch 2 and a one-half inch brush shaved to a sharp chisel edge.

"My usual palette consists of top-quality colors: alizarin crimson, orange, raw sienna, raw umber, burnt sienna, sepia, cerulean blue, cobalt blue, French ultramarine blue, Winsor green, Hooker's green 2, cadmium yellow pale, yellow ochre, Payne's gray, charcoal gray, Davy's gray, and ivory black".

In analyzing the watercolors of Roy Mason, the first thing that comes to mind is their essential decorativeness, yet this word has such a varied connotation that it needs some elaboration here.
True, a Mason watercolor is unmistakably a synthesis of nature rather than a detailed inventory.
Unlike many decorative patterns that present a static flat convention, this artist's pictures are full of atmosphere and climate.

Long observation has taught Mason that most landscape can be reduced to three essential planes: a foreground in sharp focus -- either a light area with dark accents or a dark one with lights;
a middle distance often containing the major motif;
and a background, usually a silhouetted form foiled against the sky.
In following this general principle, Mason provides the observer with a natural eye progression from foreground to background, and the illusion of depth is instantly created.

When painting, Mason's physical eyes are half-closed, while his mind's eye is wide open, and this circumstance accounts in part for the impression he wishes to convey.
He does not insist on telling all he knows about any given subject;
rather his pictures invite the observer to draw on his memory, his imagination, his nostalgia.
It is for this reason that Roy avoids selecting subjects that require specific recognition of place for their enjoyment.
His pictures generalize, though they are inspired by a particular locale;
they universalize in terms of weather, skies, earth, and people.
By dealing with common landscape in an uncommon way, Roy Mason has found a particular niche in American landscape art.
Living with his watercolors is a vicarious experience of seeing nature distilled through the eyes of a sensitive interpretor, a breath and breadth of the outdoor world to help man honor the Creator of it all.

The artist was born in Gilbert Mills, New York, in 1886, and until two years ago when he and his wife moved to California, he lived in western New York, in Batavia.
When I looked up the actual date of his birth and found it to be March 15th, I realized that Roy was born under the right zodiacal sign for a watercolorist: the water sign of Pisces (February 18 thru March 20).
And how very often a water plane is featured in his landscapes, and how appropriate that he should appear in American Artist again, in his natal month of March!

Over the years, beginning in 1929, Mason has been awarded seventeen major prizes including two gold medals;
two Ranger Fund purchase awards;
the Joseph Pennell Memorial Medal;
two American Watercolor Society prizes;
the Blair Purchase Prize for watercolor, Art Institute of Chicago;
and others in Buffalo, New York, Chautauqua, New Haven, Rochester, Rockport, and most recently, the $300 prize for a watercolor at the Laguna Beach Art Association,

He was elected to the National Academy of Design as an Associate in the oil class in 1931 (after receiving his first Ranger Fund Purchase Prize at the Academy in 1930), and elevated to Academicianship in 1940.
Other memberships include the American Watercolor Society, Philadelphia Water Color Club, Allied Artists of America, Audubon Artists, Baltimore Watercolor Society.