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Once the underpainting is in place, the painting begins to come alive through colour. This is where decisions about balance, atmosphere and detail start to matter most, and where the image either begins to settle or starts to fight back. I tend to paint in relatively thin layers. Slow-drying thick paint, and certainly impasto, is not really my thing. The first colour layer covers the canvas, though some of the sienna may still show through, and it remains fairly undetailed. T

I once went on a cider-making course. The instructor stood up and said, in effect, that there is no single right way to make cider. Simply putting juice in a barrel and letting nature take its course would not necessarily produce a bad cider. But do exactly the same thing in another year and you might end up with something undrinkable, or vinegar. His point was simple: he could offer choices and steps which would reduce the chance of disaster. The same, I think, applies to oi

Tintagel, castle headland [oil on canvas, 40x40 cm] I’ve always been drawn to painting things that feel rooted in the real world. For me, that means places with character, memory, and a sense of presence — not anonymous scenes that could belong anywhere. When I choose a subject, I want it to feel specific. I’m not interested in painting a coastline that is simply “some rocks and some water.” I want the viewer to sense where they are. That might be the colour of the cliffs, th

Sidmouth, beach walk [oil on canvas, 50x70 cm] I’ve always believed that painting a seascape begins long before the first brushstroke hits the canvas. For me, it starts with careful observation, clear structure, and a willingness to let the painting develop rather than forcing it all at once. The sea is never simple. It shifts with the light, changes with the weather, and can look completely different depending on where you stand. That’s exactly why I begin with a notan — a