Plen Air Painting for Every Season

I wish I could say I love plein air painting.

For me, it’s always been a mess of bug bites, sweltering sun, and jerking my leg every time a blade of grass brushes my ankle. My french easel has this adorable habit of collapsing right at the most inopportune moment. Don’t get me started on the winter- my hands are freezing faster than the water on my palette. And I do consider myself an outdoorsy person. There’s just something about painting outdoors that’s unlike existing outdoors. And if that’s for you, then it’s for you. But me personally? I prefer to do my plein air painting indoors.

I know, the translation of plein air literally means “in the open air”. But who’s to say what air is the right air? As a figurative painter, my primary interests are painting poignant portraits and dramatic interior scenes. It makes the most sense to paint interior scenes from life. So, plein air, right?

I can justify this thinking in three ways: 1) it’s still painting from life 2) I’m painting a naturally occurring scene and 3) I get everything I would get from the experience of plein air painting this way that I would outside (minus the bug bites).

First, the whole point of plein air painting is to take your palette on the go. And I do; I take paper, a metal palette, my watercolors, and an espresso shot-size cup of water. In this case of contemporary plein air painting, I’m painting my life; my habits, my observations of the world around me. It just so happens that I’m most likely to be found in a coffee shop.

I plan my palette the way I do when I’m oil painting in the studio; separating transparent colors from opaque pigments. I think in glazes. If I see a bright highlight, I first illustrate the shadow it creates by painting the cool undertones and building up color. For deep burnt sienna brick, I begin with a transparent purple; sketching out the masses of the room in thin layers. Then I slowly build up opacity and texture as I observe the room around me. There’s a base level of understanding with these works (especially in the field) that you are not in control of the outcome. Using watercolors is about learning to embrace the imperfections. Painting becomes more of a general observation and quick note-taking than a fully-fledged idea.

Observation is key to plein air painting. I’m taking in my natural surroundings, as is the practice, avoiding eye contact while wide-eye-gawking at (and just so happen to overhear the conversations of) the people around me. In this coffee shop in D.C., the reader to our right exclaims every time he reaches the end of a startling sentence. Farther towards the corner is a reunion of old friends wearing curiously clashing wool scarves (I imagine these were unfortunate gifts given long ago, brought out of hiding for just this occasion). While I cannot quite represent them in my sketch (that feels a little creepy) I colorfully imbue them into the scene. Here we see a warm interior, one of light and excitement, contrasted by the cool light streaming in through the windows. The people are absent pictorially but are very much present in spirit.

Finally, getting down to the root of it all: the experience. With watercolors, it’s not an immediate painting. You’re sitting for a stretch of time waiting for the water to evaporate with every new brush stroke. In a world where everything is happening on your phone, on the news, via text, socials, etc, it’s a trial of turning everything off and sitting with yourself for an hour.

The process of observation through painting brings you closer to the scene at hand. It becomes more meditation than anything else. Because the gap between layers is filled with time, you’re mandatorily assigned to a more personal inspection of your subject. Patience is something you expect needing, but when faced with these pauses, it becomes a more prominent partner in the art-making process.

I look at a painting I did of an indoor courtyard of a Smithsonian Museum and I can hear the room; the echo of muted voices whispering and doors opening and closing. I can smell the must of somewhat-stale coffee, hear a kid’s footsteps streaking by me as he traces the pathway of garden planters. There’s the stinging cold of the air outside, the brush of wool scratching my neck every time I shift in my coat. I remember more details about the memory than I would with a postcard or a picture. I remember how it felt to exist in that moment.

As much as I’d like to be the student who chalks plein air painting up to an antiquated practice, I can’t. The practice holds true. It presents an opportunity for practice, meditation on life, and careful contemplation. And while painting in truly outdoor open air may not be for me, with a few personal tweaks (and the addition of a cappuccino) there may be more plein air painting in my future.

- Jessica

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