Outside to See
When I go outside to see, I pack my backpack with my car keys, wallet, phone, sketchbook, tripod, red thread, ink pens, charcoal, walnut ink, bottle of water, and snack. I walk in restored outdoor spaces, most recently forests and prairies, to bear witness to the delicate and abundant forms filling the area. I was first intrigued by these preserved and restored places while building and maintaining trails in Colorado. I am excited by how certain structures remind me of my own body; dried leaves curl curiously around their stalks while my own hands wrap around the straps of my backpack. Milkweed pods split into two identical parts framing the stalk that holds them just as my shoulder blades surround my spine. When I look up from drawing, I see so much more.
Why I draw plants
A growing collection of sketchbook notes
Have you ever noticed how the meeting of a leaf and petal can hold a small drop of water?
Walking up the hillside in the morning, new purple flowers have popped up, they are covered in dew. Their five petals hang open like a package tipping over. Inside, there is an orange bit, of what I do not know. These flowers welcome me, and as I notice more I sink into this hill we share.
On a Queen Anne’s lace flower, the umbel reaches out like an upsidedown umbrella. Looking closer, each flower repeats this shape on a smaller scale.
When my dad and I walk in the spring, we stop each time we see a new wildflower. He describes the flower’s structure and tells me the name. I write it down.
When we walk in the summer, we both point to the flowers, naming each familiar face that greets us.
When I am sitting in a park, sitting in the sadness of an approaching goodbye, I pay attention to how this dried leaf has broken apart, cracking down its centerline. I can trace that line on my page. There is still space for wonder in this park.
At a state wildlife preserve, I pick up a plant with chaotic purple tubular flowers. I slip it in my backpack so the zipper secures the stem but the flower peeks out. I notice my hands smell of mint. We ride back to the studio, and after I draw, the ID book tells me that this flower, wild bergamot, is in the mint family.
After drawing this goldenrod, I find out there are 14 different kinds in Wisconsin.
When I trace the stem of Queen Anne’s lace, when I reach the base of the umbel and I follow the firework of this flower, I do not need to be anywhere else.
Looking up from a drawing, my sensory periphery is alive. The rush of this creek soaks into me like the warmth of the sun.