Christof's Art Newsletter

There’s a constant movement in the studio—stepping forward, stepping back, reaching across the canvas, scraping back areas that don’t work. It’s not just a visual activity; it’s a physical engagement with the surface.

One of the most important shifts in my development came through training, not in technique alone, but in observation. Learning to see relationships—between colour, form, movement, and space—completely changed how I approached painting.

For me, the studio is a place of uncertainty. It’s where ideas don’t quite work yet, where decisions are made and unmade repeatedly. There’s paint on the floor, half-resolved canvases leaning against walls, and a constant sense that something could go wrong at any moment. That unpredictability isn’t a flaw—it’s essential to the work.

You’re buying something you’ll live with. Something that shifts depending on light, mood, and time of day.

It starts as a feeling—unclear, unresolved. Through colour, movement, and structure, I try to give it form.

I’ve taken paintings back almost to nothing more times than I can count. It’s uncomfortable, but necessary.

It’s the imperfections that hold your attention. A mark that doesn’t quite resolve, a colour that pushes too far—these are the moments that create tension.

Every material I use—thick oil, thin washes, scraping tools—behaves differently. It resists, moves, and reacts in ways that shape the final outcome.

There’s always more you could do—another layer, another correction, another adjustment. But at some point, more becomes too much.

There’s always a moment where the work stops cooperating. What started clearly becomes awkward, resistant, unresolved. That’s usually the point where most people try to fix things quickly.

A painting is never just one moment—it’s many moments layered over time.

The first mark is always the most dangerous.

There’s nothing to hide behind—no structure, no composition, no safety net. Just instinct and commitment. That’s why it matters so much.