How I Build a Painting From the Inside Out
I can always tell when it’s been too long since I’ve created something; my body gives it away. I get restless, almost itchy in my own skin. Sometimes that looks like picking up my pastels, other times it’s baking something wild with my daughter, or making art out of whatever materials are on hand. Creativity is my lifeline, the thing that keeps me functioning as a whole human being. I say this dramatically, and it’s true: I am not myself if I’m not creating. Most often, inspiration starts with a scene that catches my eye, but the real magic happens once I’m standing at the easel. That’s when color begins to gather, when play starts to take over, and when the layers of pastel build something I couldn’t have scripted ahead of time.
People sometimes assume I paint from big emotions, but that’s not my way. When I’m sad or angry, I don’t want to tie that energy into my work; when I’m joyful, I want to share it with my family first. Painting, for me, is a neutral ground. It’s where my brain finally gets quiet, an extraordinary thing for someone with OCD and a constant parade of intrusive thoughts. When I paint, I’m not thinking about stories or wrestling with feelings. It’s just me, the paper, the color in my hand, and the freedom to play.
That doesn’t mean I walk in blind. I usually begin with a reference image as a loose anchor, though I rarely stick to it. These days I sketch big shapes, then tuck the photo away and let intuition take the reins. That freedom, trusting myself with color, letting things morph as they need to, feels like a homecoming after years of feeling tied to literal accuracy. Now, I choose tones and color schemes that bring me joy. Sometimes it’s a neon underpainting that no one expects. Most of the time, it’s sneaking purple into the shadows, because if you know me, you know I’ll find a way to get purple into everything.
I always begin with a toned paper, nothing scientific about the choice, just whatever feels right in the moment, whatever color I wouldn’t mind peeking through when all the layers settle. From there, I wash in a base with rubbing alcohol, sketch loosely, and start building from dark to light. Layer after layer, the painting grows character. I love how purples under trees can shift into blues, then greens, then lighter greens touched by sunlight. Color theory is in the back of my mind, but honestly, a lot of it is just play!
Of course, not every painting behaves. There’s always the messy middle, that stage where everything looks wrong and I have to decide whether to keep pushing or start over. Sometimes persistence pulls the painting through; sometimes it doesn’t. I usually give each paper two tries (yes, maybe that’s my superstition talking), brushing off pigment and re-toning when I can. Either way, that messy middle feels the most like me, teetering on a breakthrough so that everything will make sense.
When a painting begins to come together, I look for harmony. If I pull a particular hue into the sky, I’ll echo it in the foreground so the piece feels whole. I like to keep the subject detailed while letting other areas stay looser, fading in or out the way our eyes naturally do. It’s like depth of field in a photograph, or in life. Not everything can or should be in sharp focus.
And then, at some point, I start muttering to myself: “Oh, I don’t know.” That’s always my sign, I’m near the end. I work on the final marks, walk away, and let the painting breathe. I’ll live with it on my wall for a while before I call it finished. I need time to see how everything fits together, how it feels over days and weeks, not just in the heat of the moment.
When I finally share a piece, it always goes to my newsletter family first, then Instagram. By then, I’ve carried it with me long enough that it doesn’t feel like mine alone anymore. My hope is that when others see my work, they feel a kind of peace and presence, and also boldness. I want my paintings to connect with women who are ready to live intentionally, to choose beauty audaciously, to surround themselves with art that turns walls into windows.
At the end of the day, the thing that feels most “me” in every painting isn’t just the purple or the toned paper or the messy middle, it’s the play. The way I let myself build a painting from the inside out, layer by layer, risk by risk, until it becomes something worth living with. Just like family, just like business, just like life itself, it’s all in the layers.