Behind the Canvas: My Creative Process as an Original Painter

People often ask me: where does a painting begin? The honest answer is that it rarely begins where you'd expect. Not with a sketch, not with a colour palette — but with a feeling. A tension. Something unresolved that needs to find its way onto a surface.

This is a look behind the canvas at how I work — from the first impulse to the finished, framed piece that leaves the studio.

The Starting Point: Emotion Before Concept

I don't plan paintings the way an illustrator plans a commission. I start with a mood — sometimes it's the quality of light on a particular morning, sometimes it's a colour combination I've been carrying around in my head for weeks. I'll mix a few colours on the palette and see what happens when they meet on the canvas. That first mark is always the most honest.

This approach is especially visible in my abstract and textured works. Pieces like Aurora and Fluxion emerged from sessions where I was exploring energy and movement rather than depicting anything specific.

Materials and Tools

I work primarily in oil and acrylic on canvas. Each medium has its own character: oils are slow, forgiving, and luminous; acrylics are immediate and allow for bold, built-up texture. For heavily textured works, I use palette knives almost exclusively — the knife creates ridges, peaks, and striations that a brush simply can't replicate.

The physical dimension of a palette knife painting means it catches light differently at different times of day. A piece that looks one way in morning light transforms completely by evening. That aliveness is something I find endlessly compelling.

The Middle: Where Paintings Get Difficult

Every painting has a difficult middle. There's a point where the initial energy has been spent and the work isn't finished yet — it's in an awkward, unresolved state. This is where most of the real decisions happen. Do I push further into abstraction or pull back toward something more legible? Do I add more texture or let the surface breathe?

I've learned to sit with that discomfort rather than resolve it too quickly. The best paintings usually come from staying in the difficulty a little longer.

Knowing When It's Done

Finishing is its own skill. I know a painting is done when I stop wanting to change it — when I can look at it without immediately reaching for a brush. Sometimes that takes a day; sometimes it takes weeks of returning to the studio and deciding to leave it alone.

Once a piece is complete, it's photographed in natural light, varnished if appropriate, and framed. I choose frames that complement without competing — the painting should always be the first thing you see.

From Studio to Your Wall

Every piece in the Abstract, Flowers, and Textures collections has been through this process. When you buy an original from Mirasol Arts, you're not buying a reproduction — you're acquiring the actual object that was made, struggled with, and resolved in the studio.

That's what makes original art different. And that's why I make it.