By Claire Giordano
Plop. The first drop of rain hits my damp paper and creates a star in the grey expanse of clouds. Plop plop plop. More stars appear, and I hurriedly hunch over my painting while friends dig out a small tarp and corral gear, people, and notes out of the rain. The grainy soil of the moraine on Mount Baker absorbs the droplets without sound, and the group of young women learning about glacial hydrology don rain jackets as the mountain contributes to the lesson. Under the tarp, I carefully lay out my paper, small tin of paints, and delicately place more pigment onto the page. The marks of the rain, scuffs of dirt, and people around me become imbued in the painting, a tangible connection to a special place.
My first experience with field painting occurred on the same moraine, also in the rain, seven years before. I was a participant in the women’s science, leadership, art, and wilderness program called Girls on Ice. During the 12-day program we lived on the flanks of Mount Baker, learning about the mountain through the lens of science, mountaineering, botany and art. I still have the painting I created on the fifth day of the program. The shapes of the moraine blurred and my ink notes ran, capturing both the science we learned and the physical forces of the environment around us.
Seven years later I returned to Girls on Ice as the guest artist in July of 2017. Despite the wind and rain, I had the lucky opportunity to teach a handful of art lessons, working with the team to explore the ways art can be a tool for observation and communication. The weather was horrible, but I marveled at the ways the young women captured the sinuous lines of snow runnels and the contrast between rock and blue glacial ice.
Girls on Ice was a catalyst, opening my eyes to the potential of art to create connections with a landscape for both me and those who view the artwork. Whenever possible, I create paintings on-site in the wilderness, embracing the unpredictability of conditions and letting my paintbrush and paper ground me in the present moment. These paintings become a record of the place, both as a visual representation and reservoir of feeling; the brush strokes on the page and dance of pigment drying in the sun reflect both what I see, and what it feels like to experience a place in a deep and meaningful way.
Painting outside presents both unique opportunities and challenges. Watercolor is my primary medium because it is incredibly portable; all I need is my small palette about the size of a business card, a few brushes, water and paper. Lately I’ve begun bringing larger pieces of paper on hikes, which is an exercise in delicate pack rigging, and leads to many interesting conversations (and weird looks).
The weather is a constant factor, as it is nearly impossible to paint in rain without some kind of shelter (and even then the paint may take hours to dry instead of minutes. And if it is too hot, the water dries quickly and creates unpredictable patterns). Of all potential weather conditions, however, I think clouds of mosquitos are the worst. When painting, I become singularly focused on the piece, often forgetting my half-eaten snacks and letting conversations dwindle away in the fresh mountain air. And mosquitos take full advantage of this inattention to bite my hands. I learned the hard way to wear gloves or bug spray.
These challenges all become part of the painting. The starbursts of water a record of the weather, fine grit reminiscent of the blowing wind, and the occasional grey-brown smudge my revenge on the mosquitos. These field paintings are imperfect compared to the controlled atmosphere of my studio. But in that imperfection, I find space to explore what it feels like to be outside, feelings ingrained that much deeper through the movement of my brush.
When I return home from a trip, most of the paintings end up in an organized heap beside my studio table. When I prepare to make a new, larger piece, I excavate the ones I created in the area and leaf through them, pausing on each to go back to the place they were created. It is my hope that when people see my paintings, they will feel some of what it is like to be there. The incredible beauty and joy of a mountain summit alongside (and made more beautiful by) the shadows of risk, loss, and mystery.
Earlier this year, I created a painting for the Fund’s auction on April 7th. It depicts the top of Mount Shuksan, with Mount Baker rising from the clouds in the background. Baker features prominently in my art, as it feels like an old friend after visiting it each summer, two trips to its summit, and a multitude of paintings. Spaces like the North Cascades are rare in a world where so much of our life is lived in or near a city. In wilderness I find a place where I can be myself; nature doesn’t care what I wear or what I do for work. And in those moments of painting, looking up at the incredible beauty of a mountain, I find connection to something larger than myself.
Claire Giordano is a painter, illustrator, alpinist, and writer based in the forested foothills outside Seattle. She is a lifelong artist with a passion for connecting people and place through art, education, and adventure. You are most likely to find Claire on a ski slope or perched beside a trail, a paintbrush in one hand and a chocolate bar in the other. To see more of her work, check out her website at www.claireswanderings.com and her Instagram at www.instagram.com/claireswanderings.