Monica Bergquist
- Anna Lilli Garai
- Sep 26
- 5 min read
Monica Bergquist works with acrylic and ink on canvas and paper, creating layered, process-driven compositions. Her series often begin with a single gesture, like pouring ink or spreading gesso, followed by a slow build-up of texture, color and line. Based in Finland, she sees painting as a way to slow down and stay present. Natural rhythms, daily routines and shifts in light often shape the direction of a work. Her “Flow” series grows through repetition, careful looking and subtle changes from one piece to the next. Many of her paintings are made over long periods of time, with pauses between layers that give space for observation. She often works on several pieces at once, letting them speak to each other in the studio.
Q: Your "Flow" series uses water collected from rivers like Yellowstone and Clark Fork. What did bringing that material into the paint change for you?
A: Using water collected from rivers like the Yellowstone and Clark Fork brought a profound shift to the "Flow" series. It created a physical and symbolic link to the landscapes I was engaging with, grounding the work in a specific place and moment, and memories with special people. The water itself, carrying traces of minerals, silt, and organic matter, contributed to the characteristics of the paint, introducing variation and a subtle collaboration with the natural world.
This gesture moved the work beyond representation. The paintings didn’t just depict the river, as they hold it within their structure and composition. That presence made the process feel more like a dialogue, as it shaped attention, respect, and a desire to listen. The act of collecting the water became its own kind of ritual, a way of entering into a relationship with the river and land before even beginning to paint.
It also brought an environmental dimension to the series. The rivers aren’t neutral sources as they carry histories, ecologies, and vulnerabilities. Including waters in the work directly from sources surrounding me invites reflection on the ways we’re connected to these systems, and on the responsibilities that come with that connection.
Q: You often work at the edge of order and chaos. How do you sense when a painting has found its balance?
A: That’s a deep and poetic question, and I’m not sure of the exact answer, but suspect it lies in intuition.
Working at the edge of order and chaos means you're letting intuition guide you about as much as intention. For me, I start with intention and let intuition guide. In my work, balance doesn’t mean symmetry or traditional harmony. Instead, it happens when tension, contrast, or even dissonance are held in a way that feels resolved within the parameters of the piece or body of work.
In this way, the resolution doesn’t tame the chaos per se, but rather houses it, and I need to be content living in that house (at least momentarily). That’s when the work feels finished, even if only for a while.
Q: Science and art are both part of your background. How do those two ways of thinking meet in your process?
A: Science taught me to observe closely, to ask questions, and to trust the process of not knowing. That mindset carries over into my art. I often begin with structured curiosity, drawing on methods or “recipes” to initiate the fluid stages, combining latex, acrylic paints, and mediums with varying amounts of water that have proven successful in the past, while intentionally leaving space for discovery. Each piece originates from an intention or hypothesis, but the work itself evolves intuitively, guided by curiosity rather than fixed outcomes. Where science seeks clarity through experimentation, art welcomes ambiguity and emotional resonance. In my practice, the two meet through disciplined exploration of frameworks that support unpredictability. The analytical and the intuitive don’t oppose each other, as they exist side by side as parallel ways of sensing and shaping the world.
Q: In "Bitterroot," you said the painting ended up resembling a fish. Do surprises like that often happen in your work?
A: Yes, surprises like this happen in my work. It’s one of the things I love most about my process. Especially with this series, where I use layers of poured paints and strategically mist aerosol paints, there's always a level of unpredictability. With "Bitterroot," even though I started with a trout-inspired palette, I hadn’t planned for it to resemble a fish. However, once I had the initial composition, it made sense, and I leaned into it.
In the other paintings in this series, I built up multiple layers using transparency in the base, so you can see what came before.
This creates a depth and movement that develops over time. But with "Bitterroot," something about that first layer just felt finished. I misted some aerosol paints for texture and realized it didn’t need anything else. It’s quieter than the others in the series, much like the river, so instead I focused more on contrasting textures (i.e., smoother hand-painted areas alongside the reptilian texture from the aerosol, and shiny juxtaposed with matte) rather than adding more color or complexity.
Q: Grief and healing have shaped your return to painting. How has that energy stayed present in what you make now?
A: Grief comes in waves. Even years after my mom's death, I still get sudden jolts, or moments where it feels like I'm understanding the news for the first time. I can’t believe she won’t be calling to congratulate me on my first art show in 20 years.
At the same time, I’m not sure I’d even be answering these questions about returning to art without this monumental loss as a necessary catalyst.
Her absence forced me to look inward, to remember who I was, and to reimagine a future that made space for my passion. Art became not just a return, but a way forward. It feels like the thing I’m meant to do, and I’m grateful to be back on the meandering journey. Nora McInerny said, “We don’t ‘move on’ from grief. We move forward with it."
Q: Being both an artist and a Mom, you talk about walking a tightrope between freedom and structure. How does that tension play out in the studio?
A: As both an artist and a Mom, the tension between freedom and structure feels constant and automatic, like breathing. In the studio, that push and pull shows up in how I manage time, energy, and creative flow. Motherhood demands a certain level of structure, including managing schedules, responsibilities, and being present for others. However, art thrives on the freedom of wandering thoughts, intuition, and exploration. So when I’m in the studio, I have to carve out a kind of sacred space within all that structure. Sometimes I only get short, focused bursts, and I’ve learned to make the most of those times. At other times, I find freedom within limitation. Knowing I only have an hour can sharpen my focus and demand productivity, whether or not I'm in a flow state. I’ve also found it minimizes the halting voices of perfectionism. Because who really cares? There are days when the tension feels like a burden, and others when it feels like a gift. Being a Mom has deepened my empathy, my patience, and my capacity for noticing small, beautiful moments. All of this helps feed my art and soul. It’s also rejuvenating and exhausting. The challenge isn’t to eliminate the tension, but to move with it, just like grief, and to let it shape the work in unexpected and inspiring ways.
