Drawing plants as realistically as possible is many things at once: a type of meditation on and intense concentration on a unique pattern of creation; an ecological study of the location, behaviour, light effects, water retention capacities, development, morphology, and the creatures that form a community with the plant; an opportunity to research in a non-linguistic way without imposing interpretations; a respect for the plant that it offers knowledge of itself to us directly and at a rate we are ready for (rather than stealing its secrets through reading botany books, etc.). A plant never looks the same after being carefully drawn even once. Though not describable in words, its uniqueness has come forth through the care the artist has placed when sitting with it and seeing its lines and rhythms.
The goal of drawing is not self-expression, and art of this type is not a narcissistic striving for a personal style or uniqueness. If a style emerges eventually, it is in spite of the artist’s intentions and an expression of the same creative rhythm that is in the plant manifesting in the human. The drawing is an act of humility and a prayer in the face of a being that is infinitely more beautiful than any representation of it. The final product is almost irrelevant.
Drawing requires a constant assessment of angle –and the angles of leaves and branches is in no way random- shift the angle slightly and the plant might begin competing with itself for sunlight, or funnel water in erosive ways, or perhaps catch the wind in a way that might weaken or even eventually uproot the tree, or perhaps even impact upon whatever is growing in its understory that has come to expect just “this” much light. How could a scientist unable to stroke ink into understanding get a sense of the particular ways that this or that plant has solved its problem? Only a careful sketching of multiple plants can slowly garner the sense of continuity within a given botanical offering to the point that once we’ve seen some part of it –be it the veins or undulations of its leaf- other parts of the plant cease to become entirely surprising, but instead begin to make sense as a part of the signature of that being. Nevertheless, like an unread poem by our favourite poet, the new parts still have their unique and unexpected charms, but we come to recognize them as clearly continuous with what we already know. And the same goes not only for its branching, its roots, fruits, flowers, anthers, etc. but also for its flavour, its colour, the way it rustles in and the sound it uniquely brings out from the breezes, its therapeutic values, etc. Obviously, to some degree there is a “connecting of the dots” going on here that is similar to what psychologists identify when they note that people will see a line going back and forth between alternately flicking dots, indicating our propensity to synthesize continuity). However, it is not merely this and nor should this be brought up as an objection to this sort of inquiry. The opposite is rather the case- when “getting to know” another human being we freely allow this sort of connectivity; in fact, coming to know and love the necessity of another’s evolving multidimensional melody, of who that person is “being” at that time, is an important part of what it means to love someone for who they are.
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