Why Monochrome Matters in My Drawing Practice

jeannettesirois
Jun 28
4 min read

Updated: Jul 8

What Do You See When the Colour’s Gone?

An Analytical Study on Monochromatic Drawing and the Intrinsic Expression of Black and White

As an artist, I engage with color nearly every day. It’s where I work—selecting pigments, layering combinations to create believable skin tones, and adjusting the temperature of shadows. Color is intricate and evocative. It demands constant decision-making. However, sometimes, I step away from that complexity. Sometimes I need to return to the basics of drawing: line, value, edge, and form.

The Essentials of Monochrome

Working in monochrome distills my practice to these essentials. There is no searching for the right combination of hues or second-guessing undertones. The distraction of color is removed. What remains is the structure of the subject and the way light moves across it. The challenge lies in communicating an image’s weight and presence without relying on the familiar crutch of chroma.

Black and white photo of my studio with “Mortal Coil #2 Drawing” monochromatic studies.

Process and Materials

In my Mortal Coil series, this clarity matters. These portraits examine mental strain, pain, and fatigue. The stories they hold don’t need embellishment. They require space to exist without distraction. Black and white forces me to be direct.

Practically, monochrome requires a different kind of focus. I begin with a loose graphite sketch to map proportions. I am highly aware of proportion, setting up facial grids, working from the basics, and only mapping out on my good paper anchor lines—no shadows, no details, no highlights—just guiding lines, the absolute bare minimum. From there, I slowly build value.

The Approach to Drawing

I work with a limited set of pencils—usually a handful of grades from 2H to 9XXB—and often a few colored pencils in black and cool grays. I layer in thin, deliberate strokes, adjusting pressure rather than constantly switching tools. Every mark affects the tonal balance, so I move across the surface gradually as base layers are added, then hone in on one section at a time. Stepping back, coming forward, stepping back. Finding balance, rhythm, and intensity as I work.

Adding a base layer, then honing in on the details.

“Every line has to be earned. Every transition between values requires attention.”

The process is slower. There’s no pigment to distract the eye or help soften an area that feels unresolved. I spend more time observing the edges—where light meets shadow, where skin meets the background. I look for subtle shifts in value to define form, laying heavily into the textures. For instance, yesterday, I spent ten minutes studying a shadow under the eye. Not because I didn’t know how to draw it, but because I needed to understand what that small shift of darkness was doing to the expression. The whole work fluctuates between process, composition, balance, tension, and light versus dark.

“I learned early that drawing raw lines can unsettle, but softening them never felt true.”

These moments teach me to pay closer attention. With color, it’s easy to let hue carry the work. Despite demanding the same exactness and precision as monochrome, color can distract from the underlying elements. But in black and white, there’s nowhere to hide. You start to see how much tone alone can communicate. Holding onto that is what allows the tension in these drawings to remain honest.

Edges and Expression

I keep returning to the edges—not just where brightness drops off but where something in the subject feels like it’s slipping. The way the line under the eye drags lower than it should emphasizes something emotional within it. The small hollow above the temple and the tension of a mouth held closed are just a couple of the details I build with monochromatic pencils. They aren’t dramatic gestures. Yet, in monochrome, they get louder; you just seem to notice them more. A hard graphite line or a patch of darkness becomes the story itself.

The Emotional Undertones

Working this way has changed my approach to drawing. Every line must be earned. Every transition between values requires attention. I slow down and read the paper. The tooth of the surface starts to echo the texture of skin, the fatigue in the brow, and the quiet spaces around the subject’s gaze. There’s nothing romantic about it. It’s just deliberate, focused, and clear.

People often ask why I return to black and white when color has so much expressive potential. The answer is layered. Part of it is technical: monochrome is a discipline. It retrains my eye to see shape and light without relying on pigment. Another aspect revolves around control. Without color, I can define the emotional tone through contrast alone. More than anything, I draw this way to remember what my practice is built on: observation, patience, and the act of looking.

“It’s a kind of care. Not decorative, but intentional.”

Moments of Witness

There’s something grounding about the repetition of layering graphite or black pencil. Adjusting pressure, burnishing a dark corner, and lightening an area with a kneaded eraser create a slow dialogue between material and surface. This interaction becomes a kind of care—one that is not decorative, but intentional.

Mortal Coil exists in this space. These aren’t polished portraits. They are moments of witness. The deep shadows aren’t about drama. They signify honesty. They invite the viewer to stay longer, to look closer. To see not just a face but the weight behind it.

Monochrome helps me make that possible. It strips away what isn’t necessary and leaves the story intact. There’s something direct and unpretentious about that. I find myself returning to it, again and again.