Normally, I build a drawing or painting by blocking out the forms lightly with a pencil starting with the largest, and gradually building up to the smaller shapes and details. But today, I can’t find my pencil. The added limitation further directs my process as I focus on the shapes and spaces between the forms, the textures of sporadic leaves, the subtle shifts in color, and the end of lines as one shoot disappears behind another. Without worrying about what the final drawing will look like, I build the marks, careful to control the amount of water and pressure, using mostly the tip of my round brush. I paint slowly, deliberately, with each mark corresponding to a specific area of the plants in front of me.
The result is a sweet bouquet of mostly vertical, wiggling lines. I smile at my simple reminder of this time reconnecting- carved out of a busy schedule. A guide walks by and talks to me about birds and ecosystems and wanting to paint more. It’s a beautiful day.
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Between the holidays, illness and a remodel in progress, it’s been over a month since I’ve carved time to work outdoors. After being stuck in on some of the most beautiful days of the year, I sneak out on a Sunday afternoon while hubby and son are napping.
The first thing that strikes me is how out of practice I am. Like anything, time outdoors improves with frequency. I fight the urge to jump right into a painting or drawing. Like any good conversation, the situation requires listening and respect. So I force myself to slow down, to be quiet and attentive. I find myself drawn, not to the beautiful dramatic twists of the mesquite (as I thought it might be,) but to the ground- it’s layers of tree litter and ground cover, its shadows and golden patches of dappled light, the transition of the mostly horizontal ground to the mostly vertical growth at the path’s edge. I notice leaf cutter ants moving ever so slightly in the distance and the air is filled with the sounds of birds and Tejano music. I have no idea how to capture or recreate the multitude of textures, values, and shapes. So, I spend my time observing, drinking it in, and feeling my soul recharge after weeks of stress and disconnection. I finally pull out some paper and pastel and begin to build up layers of warm and cool colored lines. After only a few minutes though, I lose my light and the once magical ground is monotone and quiet. I stop. I’m not worried that my unfinished drawing is little more than scribbles or that it probably wouldn’t have been much of a drawing even if I’d had hours to work. Because sometimes (probably most times) it’s more important just to show up and listen. |
Jessica MonroeWorking to foster a deeper connection with nature by using art as a means to engage with the natural world. Archives
May 2024
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