BACK IN THE ERA of the Paris Salon (late 1800s onward), the day before the exhibit opened, everyone varnished their paintings. Thus was born the term Verness—a special, exclusive day before the public is allowed to wander the exhibit hallways.
The tradition has carried over in a variety of ways. At events such as Art Miami, or the modern Armory Show in New York City, there's a special day when art buyers can pay to get in before the crowds. They get first dibs on the best art. That day is still called the Verness, though there's certainly no varnishing going on.
Today, large art exhibitions seek ceremonial points at the start, middle, or end, and besides awards ceremonies, other points have been invented on the theme of the “varnishing” (though, again, no actual varnishing).
Back at the Paris Salon of old, how did they undertake this mass, cumbersome task? One can find mid-nineteenth century drawings of a salon full of large paintings, floor to ceiling, and men on ladders over drop cloths applying the varnish—and this after the paintings were already in their frames.
It is difficult to find in art history books or general articles any stories of how this on-the-ground experience worked: its successes, mishaps, and opinions of painters in light of the varnishing requirement (was it required?). Why did they varnish things after they were in the frames? Why not before? Plus, varnish in that era took several days to dry, raising the possibility of dust sticking to artwork surfaces. Not a concern?
Artists must have quibbled with the requirement. Famously, Picasso, who had no luck with the Salon scene, anyway refused to have his paintings varnished. Apparently, he did not like the shiny patina. Or it was old fashioned. Or he felt that the slightly yellowish film distorted the colors of his paintings.
Many other of the modern painters followed suit. It became a badge of honor to have one's painting display the dull surface of dried oil paint, even though different pigments invariably produced uneven texture under normal light.
All that is different today. To mention just one innovation, the paint manufacturer Gamsol produces a varnish called Gamvar, that, being solvent-based, can be applied in gloss, satin, or matt formula in a thin, scrubbed on layer. It can be dry to the touch overnight. Every oil painter knows that a coat of varnish will make the darks darker and the colors richer. The varnish, which can be tediously but safely removed, also protects the surface of the painting.
Yet the idea of varnishing repels some artisans. For one thing, the gloss can produce glare. Anyone who has visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City knows that the centuries of varnish, and now glass coverings, render many of the paintings impossible to contemplate at a normal frontal vantage point.
So, the alternative for many modern painters has been to mix a gloss-effect medium into the oil paint as you are painting. The Windsor & Newton product Liquin seems to be a favorite: it helps paint dry quickly and imbues it with a modest gloss (there are other more complex three-part mediums, with historic precedent, that you can mix up yourself).
What I have found, however, is that if the gloss-adding medium is not used consistently in all mixtures of paint, you end up with a surface that can be shiny here, dullish there. In the end, you need to apply a final varnish to homogenize the surface.
When I studied painting in college I used acrylic, which I realize now, after years of doing oils, has its own plastic sheen. True, we had varnish for our acrylic paintings. But the paint seemed to have a soft shine already—very different from the dullness of dried oil.
For now, I've taken the counsel of veteran painters to stick with strait oil and then varnish with Gamvar once the paint is dry to the touch. It so far works great. As to mixing the shine into the paint itself (rather than a final varnish), these are complicated, self-mixed mediums. If you like being a chemist, they have their siren call.