Painting Seascapes: My Approach to Building a Painting from the Ground Up

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 small thumbnail sketch that helps me work out the basic shapes and value structure before I commit to anything larger. A strong composition is everything. Sometimes a tiny change in viewpoint can completely transform the energy of a scene.

I’ve learned, sometimes the hard way, that I have to stay detached from the subject. It’s easy to fall in love with a view and paint it exactly as it appears, but that can lead to awkward compositions. I still remember one painting where a fence I included too faithfully ended up looking like a giant “no entry” sign. It was a good reminder that a painting has to work visually, not just emotionally.

Once I’ve settled on the composition, I focus on value. To me, value is one of the most important parts of the entire process. If the darks and lights are wrong, the whole painting can lose its sense of depth and atmosphere. This matters especially in seascapes, where subtle shifts in tone often do more work than bold colour ever could.

I usually develop ideas through studies, sometimes from plein air painting and sometimes from what I think of as a reverse plein air approach. If I can’t paint on location because the weather is against me or the site is too difficult to work in, I’ll take the experience back to the studio and rebuild it from memory while the colours and feeling are still fresh.

When I’m ready to paint, I usually sketch the scene out in charcoal and sometimes strengthen the drawing with India ink. I prefer working on fine linen with gesso because I want the surface to respond to the brush instead of fighting it. A rough canvas can make detail feel forced, and I’d rather let the painting unfold cleanly and naturally.

I always begin with a solid underpainting, often in raw umber, before gradually building up the colour in layers. I like this slow approach because it gives the painting time to breathe. Seascapes especially benefit from layering, since water, sky, and shoreline all need space to evolve into something convincing. I’m not trying to cover everything in heavy colour right away. Instead, I build toward the final intensity step by step.

I also prefer working with oils in a way that suits the rhythm of the painting itself. I don’t rely heavily on quick-drying mediums unless I’m experimenting, and I tend to use lavender

oil, linseed oil, and stand oil depending on the stage I’m at. For me, the materials should support the process, not dominate it.

Painting in layers also gives me a practical advantage: it forces pause. After a while, you stop seeing the work clearly, and stepping back becomes essential. Letting the painting dry gives me time to reset my eye and return with more clarity. That pause is often where the painting improves most.

In the end, I usually know a seascape is finished when the structure feels right, the values hold together, and the surface has enough life without becoming overworked. Five or six layers might be enough, or it might take more. What matters is that the painting feels resolved.