A Wet World in Watercolors

Everywhere I go there is usually a camera slung around my neck or over my shoulder ready to capture images and preserve my escapades forever. But this Saturday I was trying something different, using a medium I'd not touched for a couple of decades. I've lately been wanting to reignite the 'artist' in me and dabble once again with watercolors and also oils. I painted a cherry blossom tree a couple of weeks ago under tuition and it had felt good to hold a brush in my hand again. So today I was taking a nature journaling class. A box of oil paints has been sitting on my dining room table for about a month now, yet I haven't plucked up the courage to open them, although I have prepared a few canvas boards so they're now ready to paint on. I've hit a brick wall, my lack of confidence, and the bricks need to come down.

I was excited as I left the house. I had my paints with a brand new journal in my bag and drove the short distance to Paris, VA. We have had continuous rain for over a week, and I had slumped into a depression because of the glumness outside. I'd gone to bed listening to rain pummeling the roof and windows and woken up again hearing the same sound. I'd driven to work with wipers flashing back and forth, actually got bored with the daily thunderstorms, and got thoroughly fed up with my house confinement. The vibrant green foliage everywhere now looked like a jungle, vines and grasses rampantly spreading upwards and outwards. Flowers had been flattened and destroyed but the weeds seemed to soak up the moisture, growing bigger and taking over everything. Thick heavy mists hung low on hilltops so that after a few days it almost felt claustrophobic. Saturday morning had looked like it was also going to be a wash out so when I grumpily arose that morning, my miserable depression lifted when I threw up the blinds to discover DRY windows. No rain funneling down the glass, no dripping, no pattering or spattering; the deluge had finally stopped. The clouds had run out of rain. As I drove I was fully expecting rain drops to appear on to my windshield. The air was damp, the grass almost liquid with every blade loaded down by hundreds of huge droplets. The Paris mountains were shrouded with a thick mantle of heavy fog, little creeks were now gushing torrents as they weaved through fields and woods but it was grand to be outdoors.

I had arrived early, so ecstatic to be freed from my indoor imprisonment. We were meeting in the Trinity Methodist Church. It's a pretty building built in 1895 for $3600. Used more for meetings and private events than services, it preached its last sermon in 2011, having only 5 regular attendees. I walked up one of the two little streets that make up Paris, once called Pumpkinville incidentally! There had also been a tavern here but in 1940 that had been demolished by a runaway truck. So now there are only houses, the church, the apothecary and the restaurant.

The road was silent, no residents were visible as I strolled along, avoiding the huge puddles, some of which were over 6" deep. The air was filled with the perfume of spring flowers and thick with moisture, but I was loving the still freshness. I happily hopped back and forth across puddles to nose over a fence or take a photo.

I popped into The Paris Apothocary, a tiny store that's only been open just over a year. This was my first visit but shall certainly not be my last. It was delightful, with shelves and nooks crammed full of bottles and soaps, and knick-knacks and foodstuffs, drinks and artwork. Everything was made from natural products. As I walked around I found myself sniffing as much as looking, there were samplers of lotions and creams, and tasters of snacks and preserves. I ordered a coffee with ground mushrooms to take next door with me to the chapel, and it was delicious. I will find wonderful gifts here to take back home to England in September.
Next door in the chapel our small group sat on the pews and listened to our tutor, Lara Gastinger. She had brought a few of her journals with her and had also set up a video screen so she could demonstrate live on how she went about her sketching and painting, teaching us how to begin, think about our creations and how to organize them. I particularly liked her idea of a nature book divided into weeks, so that it could be added to each year. This way I would become more aware of what plants would appear during which seasons. I want to be able to take my journal with me on hikes so as well as photographing I can capture nature in a more raw and personal way. It would also be therapeutic to sit and sketch during a hike. Many hiking groups now incorporate meditation or yoga, this would be my therapy break. I currently like to sit for a while to enjoy the sights and sounds on my walks, so journaling will be a great way of recording what I experience.

We watched in amazement as she began sketching in her book, her pen tip effortlessly skimming back and forth across the paper. No pencil or eraser used here, she went straight in with the non erasable, waterproof micron pen. Well, she has been doing this for years, but I thought it might be best to start with confidence and use the pen too rather than the pencil. She made no errors, her hand quickly swishing as she left tiny black scratches and dots that represented barely visible leaf veins and shading. I was itching to start. Lara had given us a list of art supplies to bring with us and also had a variety of hers on display. She personally used a small tin filled with tiny round magnetic tubs, each one containing a squirt of paint from a tube. This tin was then attached to her pad with a huge bulldog clip. Even an empty CD case could be used as a portable palette, another fine idea. I really liked Lara's tin but had gone ahead and purchased a small watercolor palette with half pans. I would need to use these up first but would then later transfer over to the tin and refillable pans idea. Water was already in the paint brush handle reservoir so along with a few pens in a pocket no other supplies were needed. Lara very thoughtfully handed out to everyone a strip of card with tiny dried dabs of paint that were her favorite colors. I resolved to use just this strip so my own paints wouldn't be used that day.

We walked outside where, thankfully, the rain was still holding off. Yesterday I had presumed that we'd end up spending the class indoors with a damp wilting clump of weeds in front of us to paint. I was so pleased that this scenario never came into play. All the trees and plants were dripping with moisture, huge drops of rain still clinging to petals and edges of leaves like crystal beads on a string, but that was fine. It was just perfectly wonderful to be able to spend some time outside. Lara stood by a rhododendron and explained how she started sketching in her book. We all crowded around her, marveling at her skill as a perfectly formed bud and leaves began to take form on the paper. It was fine not to finish, she said. she often worked from photos later and would skip from one subject to another while outside. She lightly brushed some color over her pen work and a masterpiece stood proudly on her page. And then it was our turn.

Everybody walked off in different directions and I simply stood there. Then I moved down the path, just so I didn't look silly on my own, doing nothing. Within a few minutes the group had spread across the grounds of Ashby Inn, sitting on their chairs with faces bent over their white pages, quickly filling up the space so the books wouldn't be 'new' anymore. I wanted to do the same but had no idea where to start. For one, I had no chair. Stanley the Santa Fe Sport was in hospital having a heart transplant, another story, and I had left my folding chair in the back of him. So I had to stand, since the ground was sopping wet. I walked on to the grass, seeing people down low, studying fronds and petals, pens and brushes moving deliberately in their journals. I opened my book and walked around some more. Eventually I picked up a leaf. I had felt a little intimidated at starting to draw a large bush so Lara suggested that I start with something small. Acutely aware that no errors could be made I made my first marks on the fresh unblemished paper. And I was off. Using Lara's little strip of paints I colored in my first leaf and then picked up another.

And then I spotted some sycamore seeds on the ground so picked those up too, wanting a change from using green paints. And then I had a go at painting a birdhouse in the next garden. After that I wandered into the vegetable garden where a few of our group were sitting on the low wooden borders. I sat too, focusing on some pretty, but flattened and soggy, yellow flowers, which the gardener told me was kale.

I was really enjoying myself but quickly spotted my mistakes in my journal. Firstly, I needed to concentrate longer on each piece and add more detail to the sketching part. I was rushing too much. Secondly, I had to somehow improve my atrocious handwriting, which actually made the finished page look scruffy. But I was relatively pleased with my first attempt and knew the next time I wouldn't be under any time constraints or scrutiny. I would feel more relaxed and comfortable. I realized how much I needed to slow down when I looked about and saw that most of the group were still deeply intent on their projects while I had resumed wandering about with a page completed already. This also underlined my need to focus more on the details, to take more time.

I sat down on a stone wall and studied a small broken twig, then trying to be more attentive, I sketched that, filling it with color afterwards. There was no way I would add any scratchy writing! I was concerned afterwards that my page was wet with paint and asked Lara how she dealt with that and got her book dry before packing it away. Her answer was simple, use less water.
When our time was up we all met on the steps of the chapel and laid out our journaling for Lara to critique, which she did very kindly. I was impressed with the quality and knew most of us would keep up our efforts judging by the amount of hard work that had gone into our first attempts. Blowing on my soggy book, I climbed into the car to head home, passing flooded and overblown creeks that were flooding fields and roads, hoping the rains would stop soon so I could start hiking again at the weekends, the next time with a palette of paints and my journal, as well as my camera.