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Where does fear of failure come from?

Sea Fog over Castine, Carol L. Douglas, 9X12, click on image for more details.

Fear of failure doesn’t come out of nowhere. It’s learned, layered and reinforced over time until it feels like part of our personalities. It isn’t and you don’t have to suffer from it.

At its core, fear of failure is about protection. One of the most important functions of the human mind is keeping us safe. However, when that extends to psychological safety, it can become counterproductive. Yes, we’d all like to be spared embarrassment, wasted effort or feeling like failures. Sadly, testing our limits in painting has the potential to trigger all these responses.

Some of us were praised for being good at art as children. Others, equally powerfully, were told we weren’t. We learned that art had a verdict attached to it—good (talented) or bad (you’d best take math classes instead). That kind of binary thinking helps nobody. Internalized, it means that every effort at art (or math) becomes a test of identity rather than an adventure.

Life doubles down on this. We try to avoid being wrong, because being wrong costs us something. We become careful. Then cautious. Then hesitant. That conditioning is always running in the background.

Deadwood, oil on linen, 30X40, click on image for more details.

Uncertainty intolerance

Uncertainty intolerance is our tendency to feel stressed, anxious or threatened when we don’t know what’s going to happen next. If you think you don’t do this, let me cancel your next flight and see how you react.

Often, things that don’t go according to plan are opportunities, not problems, but we still don’t like the feeling. Our brains crave predictability. Uncertainty is uncomfortable. It slows us down, urges us to control everything. Painting is full of moments of uncertainty, which is why we try to fix every passage before moving on. Overworking is more about resolving uncertainty than about seeking perfection.

Comparison

We’re constantly looking at others’ work online or in museums and galleries. It’s finished and polished. My messy middle can’t compare to someone else’s finished painting, so it’s easy to feel like I’m failing. The impulse is to force our paintings to a high level of finish way too early.

Fog over Whiteface Mountain, 11X14, click on image for more details.

Attachment

People don’t set out to get attached to outcomes—it happens gradually, almost invisibly, as meaning gets layered onto the whatever we’re doing. In painting, attachment forms when the work stops being a process and the final result becomes paramount.

When you spend hours on a piece, you naturally care about it and want it to turn out well. That’s good. But then a small, pernicious shift in mindset can happen: if this painting is good, I’m good, and if not, then maybe I’m not.

Fear of failure may not be a sign that you care too much; it can mean that you’ve tied your self-worth too tightly to the outcome.

Painters who move forward haven’t eliminated fear. They’ve changed their relationship to it. They expect things to go wrong. They build that into their process. A bad day of painting isn’t a verdict; it’s a data point.

Avalanche Country, 9X12, oil on archival canvasboard, click on image for more details.

You can’t fail if you aren’t trying something difficult and new. If you start seeing failure as a positive, you can ride with it. Painting will no longer be a referendum on your ability.

It helps when you’re working in a framework where failure is part of the process. A supportive learning space, by which I mean good classes and workshops, can make all the difference. If you want that kind of structure, feedback, and encouragement, consider joining one of my workshops, below. Learn to trust your decisions, simplify your process, and, most importantly, keep moving forward.

Registration is now open for workshops in 2026! Reserve your spot:

Can’t commit to a full workshop? Work online at your own pace:

Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters

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The persistent myth of talent

Best Buds, 11X14, oil on canvasboard, click on image for details.

Talent is the most persistent myth in painting. Every time I write that, someone tells me I’m wrong, that there are talented people and untalented people, and they can tell the difference. I’ve been teaching painting for decades and I can’t tell the difference, so how can they?

Who started the myth of talent?

The myth of talent is part history, part culture and part pop psychology.

Historically, painters were seen as skilled laborers, closer to carpenters than visionaries. But starting with the Renaissance and exploding with the Enlightenment, art became an intellectual discipline. Artists were recast as geniuses, people touched by divine spark. That shift elevated the role of art in culture, but it also planted the idea that great ability comes from an innate, almost mystical source rather than disciplined training.

Tilt-A-Whirl, oil on archival canvasboard, click on image for details.

With the rise of Romanticism and artists like William Blake and Eugène Delacroix, artists began to be seen as emotional, inspired or even tortured. As absurd as it seems in light of the Romantic painters’ careful training, creativity became linked with sudden bursts of insight, not steady work. Talent became seen as rebellion against discipline.

Pop psychology reinforces this. Although research in learning and performance shows that high-level skill is the result of deliberate practice, we still prefer the talent narrative and like to bad-mouth discipline. The ‘tortured genius’ story is more dramatic.

Progress

When someone is early in their art education, improvement is visible and clumsy. Later, their improvement becomes subtle and refined. By the time we notice an artist, they often appear fully formed. We miss the long, uneven path that got them there. Talent becomes a retroactive explanation.

For painters specifically, progress is often invisible. We don’t publish our failed sketches and paintings along the way. All you see on Instagram are our successes. It looks effortless.

In Control (Grace and her Unicorn), 24X30, click on image for details.

A useful excuse

The myth of talent is a polite fiction to explain why someone else is better, or why we’re not as good as we should be. I’d rather believe my friend is more talented than me than that he works harder than I do. It lets me off the hook. If talent is fixed, then effort is optional.

Inspiration may start a painting (and I have a hundred good ideas every week), but practice finishes it. Painters sometimes wait to ‘feel like it’ before they begin. That, to me, is magical thinking. It’s wanting a guarantee that what we try will work. But that’s backwards, and it makes for overly-cautious paintings. The more hours I spend in my studio, the more likely I am to succeed. The confidence to make a huge leap comes from surviving my inevitable disasters.

Ice Cream Stand, oil on archival canvasboard, click on image for details.

Psyching ourselves out

If you believe your ability is fixed, then every bad painting feels like a verdict. But when you understand that skill is built, mistakes become bumps in the road, or even better, the roadmap. Instead of telling yourself, “I’m no good” you start asking, “where am I going?”

Inspiration is a highly-unreliable lover. It shows up when it feels like it. Practice is there for you every day. It doesn’t require you to feel or be anything but true to yourself.

The myth of talent is comforting, but it’s also extremely limiting. It suggests a ceiling through which you can’t break. Practice blows that idea wide open. It replaces mystery with method, anxiety with action.

Registration is now open for workshops in 2026! Reserve your spot:

Can’t commit to a full workshop? Work online at your own pace:

Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters

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Monday Morning Art School: why most beginner paintings fail

Inlet, 9X12, oil on archival canvasboard, click on image for details.

Most beginner paintings don’t fail because of lack of hard work. In fact, the problem is often the opposite: too much effort in the wrong places. Careful rendering and earnest attention can’t fix a fundamentally-flawed painting.

Detail is seductive

I’ve only known one painter who could start from a single detail and work outward; even he doesn’t always succeed. Most artists end up floundering when they do that. Of course, when you’re new to painting, detail is seductive; it’s just so much fun to focus on the apple rather than the branch. But when you do that, you’re overwhelmingly likely to put that apple in the wrong spot or use the wrong values. And then, you’ll either get to repaint the whole thing or admit defeat.

There have been times when I’ve been tempted to ignore this rule, for example when storm clouds are rolling in. I have learned from sad experience that this never works.

Eastern Manitoba River, 6X8, oil on archival canvasboard, click on image for details.

Good paintings are built from big shapes, not tiny parts. If the underlying structure isn’t solid, no amount of detail will fix it. And painting any one area to completion without considering its relationship to the whole is a recipe for failure.

Learn the art of aggressive simplification. Use a big brush and don’t pick up its smaller cousin until all your shapes are blocked in. Take your glasses off while looking at your subject, or, if you’re cursed with perfect vision, squint.

Value is king

Color has three facets:

  • Value—how light or dark something is;
  • Hue—the position on the color wheel (i.e., red, blue, yellow, etc.);
  • Chroma—the intensity of the color.
Île d’Orléans waterfront farm, 8X10, oil on archival canvasboard, click on image for details.

You can play fast and loose with hue, but if you don’t have a good value structure, your painting will collapse. Value is the bones of all 2-D art.  

Beginner paintings often suffer from compressing the value range into a narrow band of midtones. The result is flat, muddy, and lifeless. That’s first an observational question, but it’s also an issue of design. The painter hasn’t considered whether there is an interesting pattern of lights and darks.

Start with a sketch limited to just four values. Make sure it’s attractive and interesting before you move on to paint. Then, establish your value range early and stick to it. Work the whole canvas at once, comparing constantly. Ask yourself: should this shape be lighter or darker than the one next to it? That simple question can transform your painting.

Step back frequently. If you can’t do that, use your cellphone to take a picture of your work in progress; that can sometimes give you the necessary distance. If you’re really in doubt, convert that photo to greyscale and see what it tells you.

Grand Canyon at sunset, oil on canvasboard, 9X12, click on image for more details.

You can’t fix a weak painting by adding more paint

No amount of detail or bravura brushwork can salvage a weak composition. Instead, stop and figure out what’s wrong. If you can train yourself to see big shapes first and organize your values with intention, your paintings will immediately improve.

Registration is now open for workshops in 2026! Reserve your spot:

Can’t commit to a full workshop? Work online at your own pace:

Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters

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How to buy a painting you’ll still find interesting in 20 years

Main Street, Owl’s Head, oil on archival canvasboard. Click on image for more details.

We artists and gallerists work hard to ensure buying a painting is easy. Yes, we’ll take your credit card; yes, we’ll pack and ship it.

Living with the painting you bought is the real test. I have a houseful of paintings myself; some have endured the test of time, others I hardly notice, and still others have quietly left the room. Even with a strong background in art I still make mistakes.

Sentiment plays a big role in art purchases

Sentiment is not a weakness. My house is full of portraits of people and dogs, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. A painting that’s tied to a memory, place or moment has staying power. That said, sentiment can work for you or against you.

At its best, sentiment deepens your relationship with a painting. Maybe you bought it on a trip or it reminds you of a landscape you love. Or, you met the artist and you clicked. Those layers don’t disappear. Twenty years on, they are a marker of who you were and what mattered to you at that time. That kind of resonance is impossible to fake.

Skylarking, 24X36, oil on canvas. Click on image for more details.

Sentiment can cloud your judgment

A common mistake is buying something solely because of what it represents, rather than its formal qualities. A great example is the multitude of bad paintings of lighthouses in this world. The problem isn’t the subject; it’s that they’re so emotionally-resonant and easy to sell that artists of all abilities paint them.

If the composition is weak or the values are muddy, you will find yourself disengaging over time. The emotional hook got you in the door, but it didn’t keep you there.

Paintings must stand on their own, with strong design, clear value structure and a sense of intention. They also need to speak to you personally. When those two things align, you get something rare: a painting that is both visually compelling and emotionally durable.

Drying Sails, 9X12, oil on canvasboard. Click on image for more details.

Paintings that last

Paintings based on trends tend to fade fast. Trends may carry a piece for a moment but can’t sustain long-term interest. Instead, look for work that has depth, subtle shifts in color and a sense of intelligent decision-making. These hold your attention because they don’t give everything away at once.

Strong paintings are built on good bones. Even if you don’t know the formal language of composition, you can probably educate yourself on the subject (starting with this blog). Does your eye move through the painting, or does it get stuck? Does it feel balanced without being static? Are there areas of definition and areas that aren’t spelled out? A well-designed painting will continue to engage you because your eye can travel it in different ways over time.

Paintings with clear, intentional light patterns read well from across the room but also reward closer inspection. That keeps them alive in your space.

The paintings that last are the ones that leave room for you. They suggest rather than insist. They allow your mood, your memory and your changing perspective to interact with them. In twenty years, you will not be the same person you are today. Your painting should be able to meet you there.

American Eagle in Drydock, 12X16, click on image for more details.

Finally, if you can (and it’s not always possible), walk away and come back. A painting that still pulls you in after a day or a week is worth serious consideration. The initial spark matters, but so does the slow burn.

Hey, painters!

If you’re ready to sharpen your eye and start seeing your paintings with more clarity, I invite you to join my Fresh Eyes Critique Zoom class on Tuesday evenings, 6-9 PM on April 14, 21 and 28. After that, you’re on your own for a few weeks, because I’ll be in the Cotswolds.

Registration is now open for workshops in 2026! Reserve your spot:

Can’t commit to a full workshop? Work online at your own pace:

Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters

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What good paintings have in common (it’s not talent)

Early Spring on Beech Hill, oil on canvasboard, Carol L. Douglas, private collection

People talk to you when you’re painting outdoors. I don’t mind, but sometimes people say strange things.

“I used to paint, but I had to get a real job.”

“That looks like so much fun!” (Especially comforting when you’re struggling.)

“You’re so lucky to have talent!”

Talent is a comforting lie. If someone else has talent and we don’t, we’re off the hook. But after decades of teaching and painting, I know that good paintings have very little to do with innate talent and everything to do with habits, decisions, and ways of seeing.

Early Spring, Beech Hill
Early Spring, Beech Hill, 8X10, oil on canvasboard, private collection.

Clarity of intent

Good paintings start with knowing what we want to say. That isn’t ideological; last week I was painting solely about the feathery tops of leafless trees.  Good paintings have subject and direction. They’re edited to support that.

They also share strong design. This is the quiet architecture underneath the painting. Beginners chase detail, but experienced painters simplify. They block in big shapes first, establish a clear value pattern, and make sure the composition reads from across the room. If it doesn’t work at ten feet, it ain’t gonna work at any distance.

Pine Tree State, 6X8, oil on archival canvasboard, click on image for details.

Value and edges

Good paintings have a clear range from dark to light, with intentional value groupings. The artist is organizing from the sketch forward. Whether or not a painting is detailed has nothing to do with this; all paintings start with value structure.

Good painters understand that lines direct the viewer’s eye. The lost-and-found edge is often more compelling than literal lines. Good paintings are soft where they should recede and sharp where they need attention.

Backing off the throttle

Restraint might be the hardest thing to learn. Good paintings don’t spell out everything. They leave space for the viewer to participate. At some point, the painter has to stop futzing and trust his or her own work. This is where experience—not talent—comes into play.

Good paintings are internally consistent. That doesn’t mean they’re boring, and there’s certainly room for surprises. But brushwork, color harmony, composition and the degree of finish all go together. There’s a unity of vision that makes the piece feel resolved. It doesn’t look like a collection of parts; it looks like a whole.

Walnut tree, stone wall, 8X16, oil on linenboard, click on image for details.

Bad passages can be repainted, but timid paintings never come to life. Confidence is earned. It comes from miles of canvas, from making and correcting mistakes and from sometimes overworking paintings. Painters who produce strong work are building on heaps and heaps of failure.

None of this is mysterious or requires magical talent. It requires practice, patience and a willingness to look honestly at your own work.

If you want to make better paintings, start paying attention to these fundamentals. Slow down. Simplify. Be deliberate. That’s the real common ground of good painting—and it’s available to anyone willing to do the work.

If you’re ready to sharpen your eye and start seeing your paintings with more clarity, I invite you to join my Fresh Eyes Critique Zoom class on Tuesday evenings, 6-9 PM on April 14, 21 and 28. After that, you’re on your own for a few weeks, because I’ll be in the Cotswolds.

Registration is now open for workshops in 2026! Reserve your spot:

Can’t commit to a full workshop? Work online at your own pace:

Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters

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Monday Morning Art School: how to start a painting

Île d’Orléans waterfront farm, 8X10, oil on archival canvasboard, click on image for more details.

Everyone is Polish on Dyngus Day

As all good Buffalonians (even those of us in exile) know, today is Dyngus Day. It has been called the Polish Sadie Hawkins Day, a celebration of the Baptism of Poland or the first real post-Lenten party. To me, it’s the first true sign of spring, and the perfect metaphor for beginning a painting: energetic, a little chaotic, and full of possibility.

Set the energy

If you’re as bleary as I feel, start with loud, perky music. May I recommend polkas?

Starting a painting can feel like looking at the far horizon. It’s exciting, but overwhelming. The way to keep from getting lost is to start simple, think big and be patient. Every successful painting begins not with detail, but with confident, broad moves that establish the foundation.

Marshes along the Ottawa River, Plaisance, 8X10, oil on archival canvasboard, click on image for more details.

Start by drawing

To start a painting successfully, start with drawing. No time spent with pencil or paper is ever wasted. You can do twenty loose, inventive, exploratory sketches in the time it takes to struggle through one flawed underpainting. These quick studies build confidence, sharpen observation and clarify your composition before you ever touch the canvas.

Toning (oils, acrylics and gouache only)

A warm or neutral wash knocks down the glaring white of gesso. (You’re not sealing the canvas; gesso is formulated to take paint.) Tone helps your eye judge values more accurately. From there, I draw my sketch in with paint; others use vine charcoal. I try to keep this loose and responsive while still honoring my drawing.

Cape Spear, Newfoundland, 8X10, oil on archival canvasboard, click on image for more details.

Less flailing, more looking

In a comment on Friday’s blog post, student Bonnie Daley noted that careful observation would also help in fishing. What if we committed to spending time looking before we cast our lines, metaphorically as well as physically? Careful observation is one of the most important painting techniques for beginners and professionals alike.

Study your subject until the complexity simplifies into two or three major value shapes. These large shapes form the structure of your painting. If they’re correct, everything else will fall into place.

The beauty of a more limited palette

A common trap for beginners is buying too many paints. Instead, use a limited palette of paired primaries with a few earth tones. This approach simplifies decision-making and creates natural harmony.

Think of color in terms of value and temperature rather than exact hue. That apple doesn’t need to be the perfect red; it needs to relate correctly to the colors around it. In painting, color is relational.

Athabasca River Confluence, 9X12, $696 includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Simple block-in, solid foundation

Once your drawing and big shapes are in place, block in shapes with broad color masses. If you keep the edges soft at first, you can tighten as you move along. Note how values and edges interact.

If you’re tempted to add detail now, put down your brush and dance another polka. Student Beth Carr reminded me of just how much Euan Uglow could say with almost no detail at all. Solid block-in reads beautifully without detail, but it’s important no matter how much refinement you want to do. What you place here determines how later layers will work. Once the big relationships work, you can enjoy laying in details and flourishes, if that’s your bag.

An unbiased eye

If you’re ready to sharpen your eye and start seeing your paintings with more clarity, I invite you to join my Fresh Eyes Critique Zoom class on Tuesday evenings, 6-9 PM on April 14, 21 and 28. After that, you’re on your own for a few weeks, because I’ll be in the Cotswolds.

Registration is now open for workshops in 2026! Reserve your spot:

Can’t commit to a full workshop? Work online at your own pace:

Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters

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Learning to see

Cowpath in Patagonia, 9X12, oil on Baltic birch, click on image for more details.

My husband and I are ramping up our daily hiking mileage in anticipation of Britain’s Cotswold Way next month. It’s my favorite way to visit a new place, and I hike for the same reason I paint: to slow down enough to actually see.

We spend a lot of time on the trail even when we’re not training—4.5 miles a day, through Erickson Fields Preserve and Beech Hill Preserve. (Maine, by the way, has the highest concentration of land trusts per capita of any state.)

Country Path, 14X18, oil on archival canvasboard, click on image for more details.

Being in the woods every day can be miserable, especially in hard winters. Then we complain about the footing, the north wind and the intense cold. But even cold days can be engaging. After more than a decade, I know these preserves intimately, but they are never boring. They demand attention with their uneven footing, the shifting light on the ocean and weather changes. There’s no multitasking and certainly no playing with your phone. If I want to stay upright, I have to watch where I’m going.

There are a thousand small events in the woods, and they require learning to see. Right now, the moss is turning emerald green and the tops of the trees are a warm smudge of swelling buds. Almost all the snow is gone. I look every day for the first shoots of ferns poking out from drifts of pine needles and leaves; it will mean the soil has finally thawed. But with that comes frost heave, which means roots and rocks where there were none before.

Path to the Lake, ~24X36, watercolor on Yupo, framed in museum-grade plexiglass, click on image for more details.

Painting asks for the same attention

In the studio or plein air, painting requires the same attention in learning to see. Painters who start relying on what they think they know end up being caricatures of themselves. Painting isn’t about what you think you see or know; it’s about what’s actually there.

What’s actually there is always deeper and more complex than what we expect. For example, shadows can be a surprising range of cools and warms, the combination of the absence of light and reflected color. Out my window the bare maples are are a million shades of blue-grey, with shifting edges and values in the rising sun. Just like on the trail, when I slow down and really look, the ordinary becomes complex and, more importantly, beautiful.

Slow down, you move too fast

Our brains are wired to be efficient, to compress information. It’s highly useful to recognize “Man-eating tiger” and follow that up with “Run!” That might be a lifesaver but is the enemy of deep looking. Painters constantly fight that biological imperative.

Successful painters resist that first read. They question spatial and value relationships, draw, think, look and draw again. They develop the habit of visual concentration.

Seeing clearly is difficult. We all have blind spots; we all fall back into shorthand. We can spend months or years repeating the same mistakes.

Beauchamp Point, Autumn Leaves, 12X16, oil on archival canvasboard, click on image for more details.

An unbiased eye

Good critique doesn’t tell you what’s wrong; it teaches you how to see differently. It slows you down in the same way a rocky trail does. It forces you to notice what you’ve been skipping over.

If you’re ready to sharpen your eye and start seeing your paintings with more clarity, I invite you to join my Fresh Eyes Critique Zoom class on Tuesday evenings, 6-9 PM on April 14, 21 and 28. After that, you’re on your own for a while, because I’ll be in the Cotswolds, looking.

Registration is now open for workshops in 2026! Reserve your spot:

Can’t commit to a full workshop? Work online at your own pace:

Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters

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All creativity starts with structure

Downtown Rockport, 14X18, oil on archival canvasboard, for more details click on the image.

On Monday, I reviewed outtakes from Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters, a go-at-your-own-pace painting class for people just starting with oil paint. I was looking for an explanation of the fat-over-lean concept for my current Zoom classes and I figured the easiest solution was to review what I’ve already said on the subject. I came away with two thoughts:

I liked my hair better when it was longer.

OK, given that my hair was wet in the left-hand photo, I still regret cutting it off.

More importantly, watching those videos reminded me of just how hard I worked to master talking to a camera. I can now reel off a short video without breaking a sweat. That wasn’t true when I started.

All creativity starts with structure

Painting and making videos feel like two very different disciplines. At their core, however, they demand the same habits of mind. That’s true of most creative disciplines. I recently showed some students a dress I designed and sewed. “Did you do sculpture in the past?” one asked. Not much, but they demand many of the same skills.

Creativity rests on structure. That’s as much about time management as anything. When we were making the videos, my daughter Laura and I laid out daily work paths. When I’m painting, I lay out a similar map.

An instructional video depends on clear sequencing: what comes first, what can wait, and how each step leads logically to the next. That’s true of painting too. In both cases, you’re guiding a viewer through complexity without letting them feel lost.

Heavy Weather (Ketch Angelique), 24X36, oil on canvas, framed, for more information, click on the image.

Ruthless editing

Laura and I recorded hundreds of hours of video for Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters. I draw relentlessly before I start a painting, and sometimes scrap projects that are going nowhere. If it doesn’t serve the purpose, it has to go—no matter how much time I’ve invested in it.

When we paint, we (hopefully) reduce the chaos of the visible world into shapes, values and color relationships. When I teach painting, I have to distill complicated ideas into digestible pieces. That’s why I ask my students frequently, “does that track?”

Pacing, timing and rhythm

Paintings develop in layers, each stroke building on the last. Move too fast and you mess up; move too slowly, and you lose momentum. Instructional videos demand that same balance. Linger too long on a point and your audience drifts; rush it and they’re confused. I got better at that over time.

The human touch

I haven’t figured out yet how to turn off Gemini’s stupid distillations of my emails. It can’t help being dumb; it’s a machine. Real art and real teaching require humanity and empathy. The painter must anticipate how a viewer will respond.  A teacher must anticipate where a student will stumble. The creator must constantly step outside himself.

Home Port, oil on canvas. 18X24. For more information, click on the image.

Imperfection is not failure

Nothing we do in this world is perfect. Furthermore, nothing ever gets learned by just watching videos or reading. Until you pick up the tools, nothing sticks (which is why there are exercises in Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters).

It’s easier to sit on the couch reading or watching videos about art than making art, because there’s risk in trying. As long as we only imagine ourselves as creators we don’t have to face our inevitable screwups. Yes, our early efforts are clumsy, but that’s not failure; it’s the process.

If you want to study with me

Experienced painters can take my Zoom class Fresh Eyes (Critique), a short, three-week session on Tuesday evenings in April.

Registration is now open for workshops in 2026! Reserve your spot:

Can’t commit to a full workshop? Work online at your own pace:

Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters

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Monday Morning Art School: critique is executive function for the artist.

Pink Carnation, 8X10, oil on Baltic birch, is heading out west for Courageously Created Fine Art Show & Auction, Washington State.

Executive function is a core concept in psychology. It means a set of mental processes and skills that allow us to manage tasks, regulate our emotions and achieve goals. These help us plan, focus and multitask.

Executive function is also a core concept in painting. It’s the ability to critique our work as we’re doing it. We secretly fear outside criticism. But without some way to measure ourselves against artistic principles, we repeat the same mistakes.

Each of us has experienced harsh or unfounded criticism. But harsh words have no place in formal criticism, which is a structured, time-tested tool for growth. (I became a happier person the day I forgave those people, but that’s another story, one of slowly learning to extend the same grace to others that I want for myself.)

Cottonwoods along the Rio Verde, 9X12, oil on archivally-prepared Baltic birch, , is heading out west for Courageously Created Fine Art Show & Auction, Washington State.

“Do you like this work?”

When we submit our work to thoughtful analysis, the question, “Do you like it?” becomes almost irrelevant. However, a strong negative reaction can mean something. The work may be objectively failing or it may prick others’ beliefs or values.

How can you set your ego aside to figure out which is happening? Ask how the work measures up against the elements of design and design principles. Once we learn to ask these questions while our work is in process, we have developed the ability to self-critique. This pulls us out of the haze of subjectivity.

These design elements and principles transcend style and preference; they are the bones of painting.

Blue and purple, Sedona, 11X14, oil on archivally-prepared Baltic birch, click on image for details.

What are the elements of design?

The elements of design are line, shape, color, form/mass, edges, texture, perspective/depth/space. No painting excels in every area; we are mere humans. However, each of these can be strengthened as we get better at critiquing our own work.

What are the principles of design?

The principles of design are pattern, dominance/emphasis/focal points, unity/variety, harmony, balance, contrast, and rhythm and movement. These are different from the elements of design because they operate on a sliding scale, where neither end is best. For example, serenity and energy are both beautiful, but each serves different goals. The question is whether your painting goals are met by your approach.

Fresh eyes

My Painting Clouds class sold out in 24 hours; its goal is easily understood. That doesn’t make it more useful than Fresh Eyes (Critique). Critique is for experienced painters who want to get better, who want to develop that inner voice that guides their painting.

Not all critique is useful, and that goes double for self-doubt. That is vague, overly personal and usually just plain wrong. Disciplined critique is specific, grounded in the elements of design and delivered with clarity, objectivity and respect. It identifies strengths as well as weaknesses. Knowing what works is just as important as knowing what doesn’t.

Cape Breton Highlands, 8X10, oil on archival canvasboard, click on image for details.

This is for everyone who’s ever asked me for private lessons

When you analyze someone else’s painting, you sharpen your own visual literacy. You begin to see patterns: what creates movement, what deadens a composition, how color relationships sing or collapse. You learn the language of art criticism. That transfers directly back into your own work. You become both painter and editor, creator and critic. You’re able to diagnose problems before they harden into habit. The shared experience accelerates learning in radical ways.

You’ll bring your own work to Fresh Eyes (Critique) and we’ll analyze it together. You’ll learn how to self-critique effectively, creating that executive function for painting. This is a short Zoom session (April 14, 21, 28) meeting from 6-9 PM, EST. If you’re ready to stop second-guessing and start seeing your work clearly, register now.

Registration is now open for workshops in 2026! Reserve your spot:

Can’t commit to a full workshop? Work online at your own pace:

Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters

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Two short Zoom painting classes coming soon

Hammerhead cumulonimbus cloud over Posse Grounds Park, 9X12, oil on canvasboard, private collection.

My daughter Laura had convinced me to not teach a short intersession class in late April, but then I realized I’d be away for six weeks total. (I’m off to do my annual hike before the summer season starts in earnest, this time in the Cotswolds.) I’m worried that six weeks is too long; students will want instruction and the camaraderie of a class and I won’t be there to provide it.

I’ve only got three weeks available so I’ve chosen two subjects that are suitable for a shorter session.

Fog over Whiteface Mountain, 11X14, click on image for more details.

Monday evenings, April 13-27, 6-9 PM: Painting clouds

Clouds are ephemeral, constantly shifting, and yet governed by perspective and structure. In this focused Zoom class, we’ll break clouds down in terms of value, color temperature, atmosphere, edges and movement.

You’ll learn how clouds form in the sky and how that affects how they look from the ground. We’ll concentrate on simplifying their complex shapes and building subtle transitions that give clouds weight and light. We’ll talk about how weather, time of day and perspective change what you see, and how to translate that into paint without fussing it to death.

This is not formulaic painting. It’s based on observing patterns in nature, editing, and confident brushwork. As always, you’ll get direct feedback, practical demonstrations and the benefit of working alongside a thoughtful, supportive group of your painter peers. All media are welcome and all sessions are recorded so you can revisit them anytime.

This short, 3-session class is designed to be a low-pressure way to sharpen your eye. Because of the shorter format, it’s also the perfect opportunity to give weekly Zoom classes a try.

If skies have been your sticking point, this is your way forward.

Sign up now and start painting clouds with clarity and purpose.

Teslin Lake, 8X10, oil on archival canvasboard, click on image for more details.

Tuesday evenings, April 14-28, 6-9 PM: Critique

Every artist eventually hits a wall where they can no longer see their own work clearly. Formal critique is the most effective tool we have to break through those plateaus—it isn’t about subjective likes or dislikes, but about the disciplined, systematic analysis of a painting.

In this Zoom critique class, you’ll bring your finished work and we’ll look at it together with fresh, objective eyes. We’ll cut through the noise and get to the core issues: composition, value structure, color relationships, and intent.

More importantly, you’ll learn to critique your own work in progress, rather than work yourself into a state of frustration because ‘something isn’t right.’

You’ll learn just as much from others’ work as your own. Seeing how different painters solve (or create) problems sharpens your judgment far faster than working in isolation. It’s a collaborative, thoughtful environment where honest feedback moves everyone forward.

Dawn along Upper Red Rock Loop Road, Sedona, 20X24 oil on canvas, click on image for more details.

Critique, by the way, is never about tearing work down. It’s about building your ability to assess, edit, and strengthen your paintings with confidence.

Students will bring work they’ve done on their own for analysis within the group. If you’ve never experienced a formal critique, this 3-session series is the perfect entry point. As a group, we’ll put our minds to the problems you’ve been struggling to solve alone. This shorter format is also an ideal way to test-drive a Zoom-based class.

Reserve your spot now and start seeing your work the way it really is—and what it can become.

Registration is now open for workshops in 2026! Reserve your spot:

Can’t commit to a full workshop? Work online at your own pace:

Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters