Monika Edgar

About Monika Edgar

My paintings seem to emerge from my childhood and the experiences I had growing up in Lithuania, a small country on the southeastern edge of the Baltic Sea. I remember our black and white TV, gray skies, peeling stucco buildings and long spells of rain in the summer. I remember brown wool school uniforms we had to iron every other day, mandatory parades and Soviet movies about World War II. Those of us that longed for color and sunshine sketched, listened to The Beatles and sewed or crocheted clothes. My mother was an opera singer and I would sit in the balcony between hot stage lights and watch her sing arias from Madam Butterfly down below on the bright, almost neon-color stage filled with Japanese style decorations. I think the painting "The Moon Door" has something to do with Puccini…. My father created his own world of poetic cinema in feature films he directed for "little and big children." There was an episode in one early film Grazuole (The Beauty) about a broom that started blooming. Hence, my painting "The Blooming Broom," forty years later…

"Hiding" in my parents' townhouse (built by the Germans in 1915, pocked with bullet holes from WWII), I had my curtains drawn most of my childhood, reading fairy tales in dim light. There was a very clear distinction between the "inside" and the "outside". In our homes we were safe, protected from the gray world outside. We obsessed with the past (the times before the war) and dreamed of the future without propaganda. There was a longing for escape and conflicting feelings of love for one's country and hating the regime at the same time. When outside, my friends and I made sure to avoid the new sections of the city—cookie cutter blocks of flats and rows of buses—and instead, roam in "Senamiestis", the old part of town from the mid-13th century. The textures in the walls of my medieval home city of Vilnius fascinated me. I used to meander down narrow cobble stone streets, from courtyard to courtyard, peeking in churches, sometimes unable to resist the temptation to open old creaky gates to see old ladies hang clothes on a rope and little boys play with rocks on mossy pavements.

Today, in Colorado, I am still working on getting used to the mountains and the lack of rain. But there are moments here that remind me of going into the woods with my grandfather "to whistle and look for golden pheasants." The streaks of sun amongst the trees and the sounds of birds above stayed with me. If I capture that and similar memories in my paintings, it makes me happy.

I believe that when we make honest marks, whether it is on paper or canvas, in stone or clay, we map the present moment. Art can be a tool for self-inquiry. Painting helps me bridge the distance between where I was before and where I am now, geographically, physically, spiritually. Making peace with what is can be an indispensable first step in moving forward. Whenever that is transmitted to the rest of the world, there is healing. In that sense, art is "acupuncture" for the earth.

I grew up with images by Albrecht Durer, Hieronymus Bosch, Van Gogh, Salvadore Dali, but the iconographic images of the Lithuanian primitive wooden sculpture and sacral art remain closest to my heart. I use acrylic simply because I like to wash my brushes with water. I also like to experiment with oil crayons, ink-resist technique, hand-made papers and fabric, silver and gold leaf, found objects, plaster as well as ink transfers and mono prints. It's a thrill to see paintings emerge out of the white space, effortlessly, as if I was only an observer. Ironically, my paintings take a long time to complete, as I use multiple, sometimes, difficult layers to arrive at my destination. This can take weeks, months, occasionally even years.

EDUCATION
BA, Vilnius University | English Language & Humanities | Minor in German
MA, Connecticut State University | English & American Literature
Associate Degree Program in Graphic Design, Colorado Institute of Art
BA Visual Arts Certificate, Naropa University