You paint plants? . . . actual plants?

When I began to paint plants, it was like constant voyage of discovery. I couldn’t believe I had missed seeing them clearly for all my life. I began to drive around Delhi with my head up, peering at passing trees for a flash of colour, new leaves, old leaves, even no leaves. I switched from totes to cross bags that carried a pair of scissors, my phone, all my spectacles, and a copy of Pradip’s iconic ‘Trees of Delhi’. All my kurtis were provided pockets and I declared the cargo sleeveless jacket as the best thing since sourdough bread.

Every so often I am asked ‘But why paint plants?’ I would explain at length: the sheer joy of detailing, the pleasure of identifying species (like the explorers of yore), the link to science and so on. The comprehension rate was about 10 %. Now I just say it’s free therapy, which everyone gets instantly.  Then it’s all ‘Oooh, just like meditating, soooo relaxing’.

But the process of botanical painting, while very absorbing, is not really meditative. There is just too much happening, and usually on multiple fronts. First off, if one is really true to the art, then the shape, colour and form of the species have to be carefully studied and noted in a set of pencil sketches and coloured samples. Which means one needs to see the plant and note down its features over an entire cycle of growth, as in leafing, shedding, flowering and fruiting. This could mean months of observation, or even a year. All the notes and sketches are made from live samples and it’s always a fairly frantic race to stay one step ahead of the natural process of wilting and withering. This is where the 20^th century rises magnificently to the occasion. One can take superb reference photos with the new smart phones (point to note when buying phone—always check the camera quality, not the other 99 apps that connect you to Pluto).

In the pre-tech centuries, botanical artists usually accompanied explorers on their voyages to new lands. Most of the final paintings were done back home in studios, but all the groundwork was in the field in rain or burning sun, traipsing across desert, mountain or forest on foot or horseback. Canvas tents, lanterns, mosquitos, mud and muck. Definitely no filtered water, anti-venom or antibiotics, and a guaranteed shock around every bend. Months spent in musty, dimly-lit cabins hoping to reach dry land with the pressed specimens intact. The art was many things, but definitely not meditative.

A portion of Bauer's numbered colour chart.

The greatest challenge in the pre-camera days was to get the colours right. Ferdinand Bauer (1760–1826), an amazing artist who went on several expeditions to Greece and Australia, made a numbered colour chart for reference. He carefully noted the numbers of all the shades of the specimen in the field on his pencil sketch, and then back in his well-lit studio in Europe, he used the chart to mix his palette. Apparently, he had listed several hundred shades of green. I believe that, because as you can imagine, green is the most prolific shade in nature.

One of Bauer's numbered field sketches.

Bauer's finished painting

I do admit that once everything is in place, the process gets into a more relaxed mode. The final artwork can take several weeks or more. But it’s rare to be able to work on just one artwork without interruption. There is always another plant to chase down, as it is just coming into flower or fruit or whatever. Some seasons, like spring, are dedicated to fieldwork. Each day not spent outdoors seems a wasted opportunity – huge FOMO moments. For instance, the shahtoot (mulberry) goes through new leaf, flower and fruit in the space of ten days in February. Blink and you’ve missed it.

Basically, you snooze, you lose!