Minimum Age Level:
8+ (children should be accompanied by an adult) Location: San Benito Cultural Heritage Museum 250 E. Haywood St., San Benito, TX 78586 (956) 281-0810 Workshop Overview Using native plants as a visual resource, participants have the opportunity to engage with their subject while experimenting with a variety of materials. Implementing a fun and abstract approach that follows the artist’s own practice in the field, this workshop is appropriate for all skill-levels and ages. In conjunction with the artist’s exhibition, Sacred Wisdom, the workshop will follow an artist talk (10-11am, free) and take place within the exhibition space. About the Instructor Jessica Monroe is best known for her large-scale oil paintings inspired by the natural world. Interested in using art as a means to bring awareness to environmental issues, Monroe creates paintings full of energy and movement. Exploring delicate and endangered ecosystems, Monroe often works outdoors using watercolor, pastels and a camera, which inform her studio practice. Monroe holds a Bachelor of Arts from Southwestern University and studied painting at New York University and the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. For over fifteen years, Monroe has exhibited her work throughout Texas and the Rio Grande Valley, and taught art to students of all ages. www.JessicaMonroe.com. Materials List: provided by instructor • A variety of art materials for experimentation, including pencils, charcoal, pastels, watercolor, brushes, and paper • Reference plant matter Materials List: students may bring • Drawing board with a smooth surface (best size would be about 16” x 20") • Any pencils, watercolors, pastels and brushes you may already have
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Sacred wisdom |
(disclaimer- this post starts off with struggles, but if you make it through, it ends with hope) A big, hearty welcome to 2019! I think for many people, 2018 was hard. For me it was a year of feeling exhausted by the news, heartbroken with miscarriages and searching for meaning in my life and work. Though punctuated by incredible moments of sweetness with family and friends, much of the year tested my strength as a citizen, woman, and artist. Searching for my creative “why” and accepting loss and the sadness that follows brought me to an old friend in Colorado. We hiked in the Rockies with backpacks full of art supplies- It was cold and crisp and beautiful and I could have stayed at least a week. Though I didn’t find “my purpose” there, I did come away with the understanding that my answers were outdoors- my heart was pulling me there. |
Realizing my frustration and discontent were directly related to the amount of time I spent indoors and attached to a screen, I decided to paint or draw or journal outdoors at least once a week and share my experiences and thoughts in this blog.
I’ve discovered in these carved out moments (where I don’t worry about production or productivity) my creative practice is about finding joy- in appreciating the great variety of plants and animals, or the beautiful play of light and color, or experiencing an unexpected insight into the nature of all life and in particular my own- and sharing that joy with others.
I was worried at first the time spent outdoors and even painting might be self-indulgent and frivolous, but I think it’s only because we underestimate the importance of joy. I cannot save the world or fix the corruption. Nor am I political, ready to fight the good fight. (Though I greatly admire those who do.) I can, however cultivate and share my awareness. And, I do believe the world right now very much needs more joy.
In this next year I hope to continue my outdoor practice and blogging. I also hope to share more in the way of online tutorials and in depth workshops. I look forward to learning how a creative practice pursuing joy and connection influences my work, and I wish for everyone a new year full of joy, blooms and pollinators.
I’ve discovered in these carved out moments (where I don’t worry about production or productivity) my creative practice is about finding joy- in appreciating the great variety of plants and animals, or the beautiful play of light and color, or experiencing an unexpected insight into the nature of all life and in particular my own- and sharing that joy with others.
I was worried at first the time spent outdoors and even painting might be self-indulgent and frivolous, but I think it’s only because we underestimate the importance of joy. I cannot save the world or fix the corruption. Nor am I political, ready to fight the good fight. (Though I greatly admire those who do.) I can, however cultivate and share my awareness. And, I do believe the world right now very much needs more joy.
In this next year I hope to continue my outdoor practice and blogging. I also hope to share more in the way of online tutorials and in depth workshops. I look forward to learning how a creative practice pursuing joy and connection influences my work, and I wish for everyone a new year full of joy, blooms and pollinators.
Running one of many errands at a local nature center, I count the hours in my head before I need to pick up my two-year-old and finish the other things on my list. I have 40 minutes free and pull out the small, travel watercolor set I carry with me always. The smaller pieces of paper from the set direct my process as I focus on a small section at the base of multiple trees growing together. |
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.
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.
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.
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.
When I first started out in my outdoor session the day was bright and beautiful. I found a shaded area where dappled light kissed an old, dead tree and filtered through the leaves of a young shrub. To be in this space was such a joy and I felt excitement with my subject and grateful for the beautiful weather. I set up my easel and began to draw. And then it turned cloudy and cold. At first, I was disappointed that halfway through my drawing, my subject had completely changed. But then I found that I had as well. My unabashed happiness was replaced with a calm focus. Within myself I found a stillness and felt more grounded, reflecting on my surroundings. As the sunlight changed, I was aware of different textures and gained a deeper understanding in my conversation with these trees. |
Jessica Monroe
Working to foster a deeper connection with nature by using art as a means to engage with the natural world.
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