Learning to See: What Yuki Is Teaching Me About Painting

"The longer I paint, the more I realise that art is less about learning how to paint, and more about learning how to see."

There are days in the studio when everything seems to flow. The colours find one another almost effortlessly. A brushstroke lands exactly where it should. The painting quietly begins to breathe. Then there are other days. Days when nothing quite feels right. When I wipe away as much paint as I add. When I spend an hour adjusting something that no one else might ever notice. This painting of Yuki has been one of those teachers. Not because it is particularly difficult, although it certainly has its challenges, but because it refuses to let me rush.

Looking Beyond "Black"

If someone asked me what colour Yuki is, I imagine I would simply answer: "She's black."

But standing in front of the canvas has taught me something very different. Black is never simply black. Within her fur I have discovered warm chestnut browns, deep violets, smoky blues, soft greys and unexpected flashes of amber where the light catches individual strands. Every painting reminds me that nature is infinitely more generous with colour than we first imagine. Perhaps we miss so much simply because we stop looking too soon.

The Patience of Oil Paint

One of the reasons I continue to love oil painting is that it asks something of me that modern life rarely does. Patience. Oil paint refuses to be hurried. Layers are built gradually. Edges soften over time. Colours deepen as they settle. Sometimes I think the painting knows where it wants to go before I do. My role is simply to keep listening.

Close Enough to Notice

The Close-up Figures series began with a simple question. What happens when we move closer? Not physically. Emotionally. What happens when we spend long enough with a face that we begin to notice the smallest changes of light? A slight tilt of the eyes. The softness around the nose. The rhythm of individual hairs. When viewed from across a room, Yuki is clearly a cat.

But from only a few centimetres away, the painting becomes something else entirely. It becomes shape. Texture. Movement. Abstract passages of colour. Painting this close reminds me that beauty often lives inside the details.

The Quiet Company of a Cat

Anyone who has shared a home with a cat will understand that they ask very little of us. They simply exist alongside us. Sometimes sleeping in a patch of sunlight. Sometimes watching birds through the window. Sometimes appearing beside us in the studio without making a sound. Their quiet companionship has a calming presence that is difficult to describe.

Perhaps that is one of the reasons I wanted to paint Yuki. Not simply to record what she looks like today, but to preserve something of that peaceful presence. Long after the painting is finished. Long after this particular summer has passed.

What the Painting Still Needs

The canvas beside my easel is still unfinished. There are passages of fur waiting for more depth. The transitions around the nose still need to soften. The whiskers have yet to appear. Some shadows need to become richer. Other areas need more light.

It would be easy to hurry these final stages. But experience has taught me that paintings reward patience. Often the smallest adjustments make the greatest difference.

Lessons Beyond Painting

It is funny how often painting mirrors life. We are all works in progress. We think we should have everything figured out. That we should already know exactly where we are going. Yet perhaps growth happens in layers, just as it does with oil paint.

Some layers remain visible. Others quietly disappear beneath those that follow. Yet each one contributes to the finished whole. That thought brings me comfort. Not only as an artist. But as a person.

Until Next Time

Yuki is still watching me from the easel. Tomorrow I shall return to the studio and continue our quiet conversation. I still don't know exactly when the painting will tell me it is finished. But perhaps that uncertainty is part of the joy.

Until next time,

SG