What Is Claybord, and Why I Draw On It

If you've followed my work for a while, you may have noticed that my older drawings are on watercolor paper, while most of my newer work is on something called Claybord. I get asked about this often: what Claybord actually is, why I switched, and how it's different from paper. So here's the full explanation.

What Claybord Actually Is

Claybord is an art panel made by Ampersand Art Supply, Inc., based in Buda, Texas. The panels are 1/8-inch thick hardboard, coated on one side with clay to create a very smooth, very white surface for drawing or painting.

Hardboard, commonly known as Masonite, is an engineered wood made from steam-cooked, pressure-molded wood fibers. Ampersand makes theirs from US-grown, low-pH aspen fibers, and seals the panels using their own process to keep them acid-free.

The drawing surface itself is a layer of kaolin clay, about 7 to 10 mils thick, applied to the panel and sanded smooth. Kaolin, also called china clay, is the same soft white clay used to make porcelain. It's named after the hill in China, Kao-ling, where it was first mined. That fine, sanded clay surface is what allows for very crisp, very fine detail.

Ampersand's process results in a rigid, archival-quality surface that won't warp or discolor over time, and panels are available in sizes up to 48 by 72 inches.

Where It Came From

Claybord wasn't invented in a lab by a materials company. It came from an artist trying to solve his own problem.

Charles Ewing, born in Albuquerque and now living in southwestern Colorado, enjoyed scratchboard drawing, but didn't like the scratchboard surfaces available at the time, which were mostly clay-coated cardboard, not very rigid or durable. His technique involves applying layers of India ink washes, getting gradually darker, then scratching or abrading the surface to remove ink and expose the white clay underneath, producing highlights that range from sharp to broad.

Since nothing on the market worked the way he wanted, Ewing made his own clay-coated panels and used them privately for about ten years before beginning to sell a limited supply to other artists. In the early 1990s, he was approached by Elaine Salazar, then a graduate student at the University of Texas McCombs School of Business. She and three classmates built a business plan around the product and won a national business contest with it, which led to the founding of Ampersand Art Supply in 1993, together with Charles and Barbara Ewing. Salazar still serves as the company's CEO today.

Claybord was Ampersand's first product, but the company now makes eleven different surfaces for various media, including Scratchbord, a version of Claybord with a black India ink coating already applied. They also produce inks, tools, and frames designed specifically for their panels.

How I Use It

My technique borrows directly from Ewing's approach: I build up graphite in layers, then scratch, abrade, or erase back into it to reveal the white clay surface underneath. Beyond that, my actual drawing process on Claybord is similar to how I've always worked on paper. I apply graphite with pencils, as well as with cotton swabs, makeup brushes, sponges, and applicators.

The real difference between the two surfaces shows up in two places.

First, Claybord's very hard, very smooth surface lets me get crisp, clean lines when marking with a pencil. Paper has more texture, and that texture tends to soften a line slightly, which can leave a subject looking a little fuzzy up close, not ideal when I want sharp edges or fine detail. Second, abrasion from blending and erasing can rough up or damage paper over time, while the clay surface on Claybord is far more durable and is actually designed to handle that kind of abrasive technique.

Like Ewing, I rely heavily on Claybord's ability to take an etched line. Because the clay surface is bright white, scratching through the darker graphite layers reveals very pronounced, very crisp highlights, the kind I could never reliably get on paper. Paper absorbs graphite deep into its fibers and never quite returns to a true white once that graphite goes down. Claybord accepts graphite well without absorbing it as deeply, so it can be removed back to a clean white surface, and the hard panel allows for sharply etched lines that paper's fibers simply can't hold.

Why It Matters for Collectors

Beyond how it changes my drawing technique, Claybord solves a real, practical problem with works on paper: longevity and display.

Paper is delicate. To protect it long-term, it needs to be sealed into a well-built framing system: mat board, acid-free materials, and glass on top, all working together to keep contaminants and light away from the surface. That's a real cost, in materials, in fragility, and in weight, especially as a piece gets larger.

The drawing surface on Claybord can be varnished and displayed without glass at all, the same way an oil or acrylic painting on canvas is finished and displayed. Varnish does require occasional long-term maintenance, much like the varnish on any painting, but it removes the need for a sealed glass system entirely. Some of my newer pieces use cradled Claybord panels, reinforced along the edges with birch plywood, which can be framed traditionally, floated in a frame, or hung with no frame at all for a more contemporary look.

While a Claybord panel costs more upfront than a comparable sheet of paper, the savings on framing, no glass, often simpler molding, usually brings the total finished cost down, especially as the size of the piece increases.

Claybord in Practice

A good example of how this comes together is a pair of drawings I made for the Colorado Governor's Art Show: DOUBLE PARKED and LEAVING SUMMER PASTURE, both 16 by 20 inches, graphite on Ampersand Claybord panels.

Both pieces were drawn on varnished Claybord and framed without glass, with the panel's edges stained and finished so the piece could be displayed in a frame or hung frameless for a more contemporary look, the same flexibility I mentioned above. The crisp highlights Claybord allows for, the wispy clouds and built-up storm light in DOUBLE PARKED, the sunlit haze and dust in LEAVING SUMMER PASTURE, are both places where that etching technique did real work. Those bright, sharp highlights against the darker graphite are part of what gives those drawings their depth, and they're the kind of detail that's much harder to pull off convincingly on paper.

That's the short version of what Claybord is and why I've made it my primary surface. In a future post, I'll get into more of the specific tools and techniques I use once I'm actually working on the panel.

Why I Draw the West I Know

When people ask me why I draw what I draw, the short answer is easy: I draw the ranch life I grew up in, because it's the life I know.

The longer answer is a little more involved, and it's worth telling.

A Ranch in Southeastern Colorado

I grew up on a family cow-calf operation in southeastern Colorado, on land my family has worked since the late 1890s. The ranch sits twenty-five miles from the nearest town, a small agricultural community of about 2,500 people. Growing up that far out, I spent a lot of time on my own, which meant a lot of time drawing. Horses with balloon heads and stick legs, at first. Old West action scenes traced and copied from the cowboy art my mom kept in old calendars and magazines: Charlie Russell, Charlie Dye, George Phippen, Will James.

As I got older, I found myself drawn to a different kind of Western art. Photographers like Kurt Markus and Jay Dusard had been capturing Great Basin buckaroos throughout the 1980s and '90s, and artists like Tim Cox, Robert "Shoofly" Schufelt, and Dino Cornay were drawing contemporary cowboys working in places like New Mexico, Arizona, and Colorado. Their subjects wore the gear I recognized, did the work I'd seen done. Compared to the more sensational, historic Old West imagery, their work felt grounded. It felt like home.

That's the direction I wanted to go. I just didn't get there until about thirty years later, after a detour through technical drafting, a long career designing bridges, and a stint as an amateur leather worker that I'd like to think built character, even if it didn't build much of a business.

An Ambassador for a Way of Life

I spent thirty-one years, and counting, working as a bridge designer. Drawing wasn't part of my life for most of that time, unless you count the occasional pen-and-ink rendering of a bridge for a public meeting, which, contrary to what you might assume, is not exactly the stuff of artistic legend. In early 2019, during a week off between Christmas and New Year, I picked up a pencil again. The first drawing came out better than I expected, which either means I'm a late bloomer or that my standards had dropped considerably. I posted it on Facebook, got an encouraging response, tried another, and by 2020 my wife and I had started A.R. Pelster Western Art LLC.

Once I started drawing seriously again, I had to figure out what, exactly, I wanted to say with it. I found the answer in the words of a painter named Ed Sandoval, who described himself as "an ambassador representing northern New Mexico." His paintings, he said, were meant to introduce people to the history, culture, and landscapes of the place he was from.

That's exactly it. I'm an ambassador for the ranching culture I grew up in and which remains close to my heart.

Ranch families breed, raise, and care for living creatures that eventually feed the country and the world. They witness life, illness, and death daily. They depend on the weather and the land, and so they take care of both. They work alongside family and neighbors and look out for one another. And yet, ranching has become a misunderstood way of life, often portrayed inaccurately by people who've never experienced it, whether through Hollywood mythology or through art that simply hasn't done its homework.

My drawings are not staged. The subjects are not actors, and they are not in costume. My subjects are friends, family, and neighbors who continue to live and work in rural southeastern Colorado. The branding scenes, the horses, the gear, the trucks and Carhartts and ball caps mixed in with felt hats and split reins, all of it is drawn from real people doing real work that I've witnessed or participated in myself.

What "Authentic" Actually Means

"Authenticity" has been at the foundation of my artist statement for years, but it's a word that gets used loosely, and I've spent a fair amount of time thinking about what it actually requires.

There's a version of authenticity that's really about the artist's own vision: if an artist sincerely believes their portrayal of the West is true, then it's authentic to them, regardless of whether it reflects historical or factual reality. I understand that argument, but I think it lets too many artists off the hook. It would make a Hollywood Western "authentic" simply because the screenwriter believed in it.

I draw a line between authentically representing an artist's vision and authentically representing facts. I've seen well-regarded painters present a modern photograph as if it depicted a "historical character" from a different era entirely, with no idea they'd gotten the basic facts wrong. I've seen beautiful, technically skilled paintings that combine elements from completely unrelated sources, a roping photo here, a branding pen there, a dog dropped in to balance the composition, until the resulting scene doesn't actually make sense as something that could happen. The paintings are well executed. They're just not true.

I love windmills, and I've spent time around them, including a summer working with a "windmill man" who serviced wells and windmills back home. So when I see an "Erector Set windmill" in a painting, something that looks vaguely windmill-shaped but bears no resemblance to how the things are actually built, it pulls me right out of the image, the same way a swell fork saddle in an Old West movie ruins the scene. The information to get it right is out there. Photos, owner's manuals, even detailed technical drawings going back to the late 1800s are easy to find. There's no excuse for guessing, and there's definitely no excuse for an Erector Set windmill.

My advice to other representational artists is the same advice given to writers: draw what you know. That doesn't mean you have to be a veterinarian to draw horses or a geologist to draw mountains. But if you're going to draw something, you owe your viewer the respect of doing the research, because the people who know that subject best are exactly the people most likely to be looking at your work.

Drawing Modern Ranch Life, On Purpose

The simplest way to describe about ninety percent of my drawings is contemporary ranch life. And I'll be honest: from a marketing standpoint, that's not exactly the home run I might have wished for.

Collectors and galleries tend to gravitate toward art that's "meant to be historic," old-time cowboys, gunfighters, new interpretations of Remington or Russell. Modern ranch scenes are a tougher sell. But historic Western art today is so often inaccurate anyway, mismatched clothing, gear from the wrong era or region, modern horses standing in for the smaller, rougher range horses of the 1800s, that I'd rather draw the version of the West I can actually get right.

I draw modern ranch work in its true context: portable pens, pipe corrals, cowpies. The gear and clothing in my drawings are whatever the people I know actually wear and use, not whatever looks "more Western." I draw what I see.

When I take on commissions, I keep to subjects that fit this same world: ranch, rural, or agricultural life, rodeo, equine, livestock, working dogs, and Western wildlife. I don't draw pet portraits, fan art, or scenes from Western movies and TV shows. No Clint Eastwood, no John Wayne, no Kevin Costner. I'd honestly be more likely to draw your chinchilla, and I'm still not going to draw your chinchilla.

Style: Looking Through a Window, Not at a Photo

My work is generally described as Representational Art, or Realism, and is often called "photorealistic." I don't think that's quite right, and the difference matters to me.

A camera captures everything with roughly the same level of focus. The human eye doesn't work that way. We focus on what interests us, and everything else falls into softer detail around it. I use that selective focus deliberately, putting the most detail into the areas I want the viewer to land on, and letting the rest support the image without competing for attention. The goal isn't to mimic a photograph. It's to mimic looking through an open window into another place, a window that happens to lead into a monochromatic world.

I say "monochromatic" rather than "black and white" because graphite, charcoal, and carbon each produce subtly different warm and cool grays. I almost never use true black or true white, saving those extremes for the focal points of the drawing, another way of guiding the viewer's eye.

Growing up, I spent hours looking through my family's collection of historic photographs, some dating back to 1900, when my family first came to the Eastern Plains. Those images, real people, real places I knew, brought the old days to life for me in a way no painting ever did. Later, photographers like Kurt Markus, Jay Dusard, and Bank Langmore photographed everyday cowboys and buckaroos throughout the West in black and white, and Ansel Adams was doing the same with Western landscapes, printing in gelatin silver to get tones that go far beyond simple black and white.

That's the effect I'm after with graphite, charcoal, and carbon. Each of those materials reflects light differently and produces a different warm or cool tone, and using them together lets me build the same kind of depth and atmosphere those photographers achieved in the darkroom.

Why I Draw, Not Paint

Drawing in graphite and charcoal is sometimes treated as a lesser medium, something for sketches and studies rather than finished work, with oil painting considered the "real" fine art. I've made my peace with being the guy who showed up to the fine art party with a pencil instead of a paintbrush. I'd argue that value, the relationship between light and dark, matters more to a successful image than color does. An image can be full of color and still feel flat if there isn't enough contrast in value. Working in a monochromatic medium forces total attention to that relationship, because there's nothing else to fall back on.

Drawings on paper also come with real practical downsides. Paper deteriorates. It has to be matted and framed under UV-protected glass in an acid-free system to have any kind of lifespan, which adds cost, weight, and fragility, all real concerns for collectors and galleries.

That's a big part of why I've moved most of my work to Claybord, a hardboard panel coated with kaolin clay that I'll write more about in a future post. The short version: Claybord lets me draw with the same materials and techniques I've always used, but the surface is durable enough that the finished piece can be varnished and displayed without glass, much like a painting. It also lets me etch back into the drawing to create crisp, bright highlights I could never get on paper, which has become a real part of how I build a finished image.

Two artists who have influenced me more than any others, Robert "Shoofly" Schufelt and Dino Cornay, also work in graphite, with exactly this kind of authentic, lived-in subject matter. Watching artists working in graphite and charcoal continue to find real recognition in the Western art world gives me confidence that the subject, the style, and the medium I've committed to aren't a dead end. They're just not the easy path.

The Through-Line

All of this, the subject matter, the style, the medium, comes back to the same idea: I want to draw the West as it actually is where I'm from, using materials and techniques that do justice to that place and the people in it.

I'm not trying to recreate the 1880s. I'm trying to document right now, the version of ranch life that's still going on in southeastern Colorado, with the people I grew up with and their kids after them. If a hundred years from now someone looks at one of my drawings the way I used to look at those old family photographs, and sees something true about this place and this time, that's the whole point.

The Importance of Properly Framing Art on Paper

You've just spent a significant amount of your hard-earned money on a piece of art and now it's time to proudly display it. If you are new to collecting art, you may be wondering where to start?

I typically deliver my commissioned drawings unframed unless specifically asked by my client to select the framing and given a budget. Unframed drawings are far less expensive to ship than drawings framed under glass. This approach also allows the client to personalize the design and materials to their home and their own tastes.

Because my non-commissioned original drawings will be displayed in shows, galleries, or other venues until they are sold, I have nearly every one professionally framed. I choose the design and materials to compliment each drawing. When they are sold, they are sold framed and ready to hang in your home.

Removing a drawing from its frame may also be done at a nominal cost.

When selling unframed drawings, I always recommend that, to ensure the longest life for the artwork, you should have it professionally framed. I try to educate all of my collectors about the importance of proper framing, accounting for time and expense, and consideration for the consequences improper framing can have on the life of their investment.

You should be prepared to find that the framing will cost as much or (usually) more than what you paid for the artwork. Additionally, if you plan to give the art as a gift, or need it by a certain deadline, you should plan to schedule at least an additional month for framing.

Both of these facts can come as a shock to new art collectors and questions of "why":

• Why does framing cost so much?
• Why does framing take so long?
• Why is it so important to have a professional frame my art?

The answers come in understanding how the framing system protects the art and the job that each component performs, as well as understanding the importance of using quality materials and the services of an experienced craftsperson. Finding the answer to the last question will lead to the answers to the previous questions.

Why is proper framing so important?

Framing artwork is not a purely aesthetic exercise. Every component used in framing a work on paper has a purpose not related to aesthetics. Although, it is an added bonus that thoughtful framing enhances the aesthetics of the piece. I won't cover choosing molding styles or mat combinations here because aesthetics is a lengthy topic that requires it's own article.

When it comes to works on paper such as graphite, charcoal, color pencil, or pen & ink drawings, and pastel or watercolor paintings, all the components of framing work together to protect the artwork. Think of framing like putting a drawing in a tiny museum with a controlled environment...or putting it in solitary confinement.

The paper I draw on is most often a heavy (300gsm), acid-free watercolor paper. The media I use is also lightfast under normal conditions. The result is, when properly cared for, the paper should not change color, buckle, or warp, and the image should not fade.

Paper is delicate and must be protected from exposure to contaminants in the environment. Most people have seen the effects time has on paper documents over time: color changes, stains, creases, mildew, etc. Exposing the paper to surfaces with a high acidity, such as cardboard or other paper products that are not acid-free, will certainly lead to discoloration of the paper and speed up the deterioration of the paper. Think about if you have ever left a newspaper clipping in the pages of a book. Over time, the newsprint, which is highly acidic, discolors the pages of the book, which are less acidic.

UV protected glass

The drawing surface must also be protected from abrasion or anything that would move (smudge) or remove the media. In the case of graphite, charcoal, and pastel, you must keep in mind that the drawing is really just dry particles clinging to other particles that are clinging to the paper. Graphite has better adhesion than charcoal, which has better adhesion than pastel. I apply a clear coating of fixative to my drawings when they are finished. This provides a level of protection during light handling. It does not replace the need to keep the drawing behind glass. Artists working in pastel use very little, or no, fixative because it can affect the vibrancy of the colors of the pastel. In other words, fixative can mute the color of the drawing. However, without fixative, pastel particles can easily be dislodged from the drawing.

Exposure to UV light, such as direct sunlight, will also lead to discoloration of the paper and fading of the drawing. A UV protected glass will reduce the effects of exposure, but prolonged exposure should be avoided.

Exposure to airborne contaminants such as dust and smoke will also affect the appearance and life of the paper, as will exposure to humidity. Humidity can lead to warping, buckling, or sagging of the paper. It can also lead to mildew, which will eventually destroy the paper.

Acid-free mats and mounting materials

All materials that contact the drawing must be acid-free. Acid from acidic materials that contact the drawing paper will migrate to the drawing, resulting in yellowing and deterioration. Contamination is irreversible.

The outer acid-free front mat provides space between the drawing and the glass. This ensures that the glass itself does not remove or move any of the media. The space also keeps the paper from adhering to the glass.

I typically use two mats in front for aesthetic reasons. The image of COILS BETWEEN CALVES above shows a triple mat. Additional mats do not add additional protection and are purely an aesthetic choice. Occasionally, I use a single mat and a wood fillet, an accent strip placed between the mat and the drawing, that compliments the outer wood molding. This is also an aesthetic decision that does not affect the performance or durability.

The drawing should be mounted to another backing board of acid-free mat board. The backer keeps the drawing flat, provides a rigid support, and protects the the drawing from light impacts from the back. The drawing can be mounted to to the backer with acid-free hinging tape or with specially made plastic tabs. It is called hinging tape because of the method used to secure the drawing to the backer. Basically, two or more pieces of tape are applied on the top back edge of the drawing, creating little hinges. The adhesive on the tape is usually activated with heat or water. If the drawing needs to be removed from the backer, the tape is heated or steamed to release the tape. If using the plastic mounting tabs, nothing is adhered to the drawing itself, so damage to the drawing is less likely when the drawing is removed from the backer. The plastic tabs act as little picture holders all around the perimeter of the drawing.

The front mat is typically attached to the back mat with hinging tape along the top edge of the front mat. The drawing is sandwiched in between. The glass and matted drawing are secured into the frame using pins driven into the frame around the back side of the backer.

Dust cover or backing paper

Once in the frame, a protective backing paper is applied to the back of the frame. This paper is often brown kraft paper, which is not acid-free. However, the acid-free backer provides a buffer between the drawing and the acidic paper. The backing paper is an additional barrier to keep dust and other contaminants from attacking the drawing from the back side. It is sealed all around the perimeter of the frame with either adhesive or double sided tape.

Frame and hanging hardware

The frame (usually a wood molding) provides a rigid substrate to hold all of the other components together. It provides a rigid framework from which the drawing can be hung and protects the drawing, and the other framing components, from impact if the drawing falls on it's edge onto a hard surface.

Picture hanging wire and D-rings attached with screws is the most secure way of hanging framed art. This system provides a strong connection to the frame and it properly distributes the load from the weight of the framing.

Why does framing cost so much?

Now that you have a better understanding of the importance of the job that each component of the the system works, you should realize the importance of using quality materials. As with any product, quality materials don't come cheap. However, a good framer will work with you to select the most economical design and materials without sacrificing quality.

Quality craftsmanship comes from knowledge, experience, skill, care, etc. Again, quality workmanship comes with a price tag.

Why does framing take so long?

The length of time is usually related to ordering materials, the current availability of those materials, shipping times, and so on. Framers offer hundreds of molding styles to meet the demands of diverse clients and projects. They do not keep an inventory of all of these many molding options. Similarly, framers offer mats in hundreds of colors and finishes. Molding, mats, and glass are typically custom ordered for each project, and it takes time for those materials to arrive from their various suppliers.

Finally, it takes time to prepare and assemble the materials. Precision fabrication takes time.

Other frequently asked questions

Why is some art framed without glass?

Oil and acrylic paintings on canvas or panel are typically much more robust than works on paper. They would not usually require the mats or glass as described above because they would have a protective coating of varnish over the surface instead. However, if framed, the molding and hanging hardware are very similar.

Drawings may also be drawn on panel, or other rigid substrate, rather than paper. These can also be varnished and framed without mats or glass.

Does framing prints require as much care?

My framed prints are intended to represent my work in shows or galleries to the same level of quality as my original drawings, so I have my prints framed using the same materials and techniques. 

My prints are giclée prints, meaning are made with an inkjet printer using lightfast pigment based ink on heavy acid-free 100% cotton paper. Because the image is ink, it is hard to remove and nearly impossible to smudge. However, because it is still a paper product, prints require almost the same level of protection as the original.

Because prints are not one of a kind, and can be replaced at a fraction of the cost of the original drawing, lower cost materials are often used to frame prints. I still use acid-free materials, but I often use a less expensive molding, may only use a single mat, and sometimes choose clear glass, rather than UV protected glass.

Further reading

This is an edited version of an article written for one of my past newsletters, "I was Framed!". If you would like to have articles like this sent straight to your inbox, please subscribe to my mailing list. All past newsletters can be found by selecting Read Past Issues on my Newsletter page.