A few months ago, I decided to return to foundational technical practice. Specifically, I wanted to sharpen my color mixing accuracy, strengthen my compositions, and bring more discipline and thoughtfulness to my brushwork. My initial theory was simple: if I painted on tiny canvases, I could churn out dozens of studies quickly and accelerate my progress.
Drapery studies have intrigued me for as long as I can remember. Ever since I was a kid lying on the living room carpet turning the pages of a massive book on Michelangelo, I was fascinated by the drawings of folds and garments. So, that’s where I began. Searching for photos of wrinkled clothing, folds in sleeves, and creases in trousers, I was enchanted all over again by how light plays across fabric—how the sheen, the thickness of a fold, or the soft hang of a sleeve reveals the weight and material of the cloth. Mesmerizing!
After completing two paintings, I noticed that the texture of the canvas was interfering with the fine details I was trying to capture. I switched to smooth, gessoed clayboard. That solved the immediate technical problem and allowed for almost microscopic precision, but I quickly realized something surprising: I genuinely missed the tactile resistance and dialogue of painting on canvas.
Over six months of dedicated daily practice, those kinds of realizations kept happening. Not only did I gain a renewed appreciation for substrate textures, but I also learned that mixing exact colors on such a small scale is far trickier than it sounds. A speck of Alizarin Crimson the size of a few grains of sand can totally change a teeny smidge of white into flamboyant pink. So I came up with ways to make minute changes with color. And I slowed down.
I even became adept at custom-trimming my brushes down with scissors to get a fine point—before eventually discovering I could just buy extra-fine detail brushes!
Ultimately, the biggest discovery wasn’t technical at all. I realized that my desire to make good, thoughtful paintings far outweighs any urge to work quickly. As it turns out, a 4-inch painting takes almost as much time, care, and intention to complete as a full-sized piece.
While I set out to trade quality for speed, I ended up finding something much better: a deep love for the miniature format itself. Stepping into the studio to work on these little gems brings me immense joy. They make me happy—and that, above all, is the best lesson a studio practice can teach.
