Watercolor painting is relatively new to me. In the past, I avoided it like the plague. I like to think that was because my sense of color is richer than the medium is capable of, but I suspect the real reason is because I’m a control freak. Tight composition and geometry has always been my strong suit and the thought of swirling, interweaving of pigment in my painting made me shiver with anxiety. At any rate, the only time I used watercolor was in solitary hikes among the woods and bogs of Myles Standish State Forest. This was about 30 years ago and I had a small field palette I would bring with me to sketch out plein air studies for future, larger paintings. They were useful as studies, but I paid them little mind, really.
About a year ago I lost my little sister to cancer - a loss that continues to deeply pain me daily. Immediately afterward, the very thought of doing any painting at all was practically impossible, though I knew that if I did, it would help me get through the sadness. Not to be over-dramatic, but me entering my studio has always been like going to church - a place of ritual where I hold conversations with my conscience and my better self. So, I dragged myself there as much as I could, though many times I just sat in my hammock-chair and brooded.
Enter watercolors, the medium that forced me to give up control and let expression flow freely. I still had the little field kit and a dusty pad of Arches paper sitting on a shelf. One day I picked up a brush, poured some water in a tumbler and made some marks….then some more, and the faucet was open. Watercolors became my tears.
Now, a year later, I have a tall stack of watercolors - some good, most not. But regardless of their quality and value as art, they served a very real purpose - one of grief, pain, redemption, second guessing, but also joy, confirmation and freedom. My work has been affirmed.