There’s a young maple along the parking lot at my church that flames into color before any other tree. It’s blazing now. The purple asters and goldenrod are out. My friend Pam has been sending me pictures of the White Mountains in absolute brilliance. Autumn is on the march here in New England.
There’s a reason artists chase light and color across the globe. Each place has its own color palette, dictated by climate, geography and season. Standing at my easel in coastal Maine in October, I’m looking at a vastly different spectrum than when I’ve painted in the tropics. Every painting journey is unforgettable, but for entirely different reasons.
New England fall colors are a symphony in warmth
In New England, autumn turns the landscape into a fiery pageant. Maples ignite in scarlet and oranges blaze against the golden yellows of birch and beech. Add a backdrop of deep green pines, blue water and a high, cloud-dappled sky, and you’re looking at bold color harmonies.
The air itself feels different right now. It’s crisp, dry and crystal-clear. The sunlight is warm, and the shadows deeply cool. It’s no surprise that painters flock to plein air painting in New England in the fall.
Compare that to two other places I’ve painted in the past:
The Bahamas are all about light and water
In the Bahamas, the story is water and atmosphere. The colors are softer and cooler. Turquoise shallows melt into ultramarine depths, while the sky often feels like one vast dome of blue, often with theatrical cloud formations. The warmest colors are the sand and the atmospheric effects of sunrise and sunset.
Palms and mangroves are the dominant species, and the understory can have high chroma. However, compared to New England, foliage is unimportant—it’s the sea and light that matter. Heat and humidity often create haze that changes the nature of color. There’s more white in every mixture, to catch that blinding sunlight bouncing off the water.
Malta is earth, stone and light
Malta (where I was in April) is, by contrast, a study in warm neutrals. The island’s limestone cliffs and stone houses reflect the honey-colored glow of ochre. The built environment, including carved wooden balconies, trim and doors, provide slashes of crimson, green or cobalt. There are extensive fruit trees and gardens. In the shallows, there may be a hint of Caribbean turquoise, but the blue of the Mediterranean is deeper and more inscrutable. Still, as with the Bahamas, the light is cooler. They’re closer to the tropics.
It’s a painter’s reminder that subtlety can be just as compelling as fireworks.
Still, they all use the same pigments
I never change my pigments when I travel, whether to Argentina, Europe, Australia, or—as I’ll do next month—at the 21st Sedona Plein Air Festival. My landscape palette is also the same palette I use for interiors, figure and portraiture. That is because my palette is designed to give me as much flexibility as possible. If someone suggests you need a specific paint for a specific place, thank them and go elsewhere.
Why this matters to painters everywhere
Color isn’t just decoration—it’s the emotional underpinning of a place. Traveling to paint teaches us not only new subjects but new ways of seeing. It forces us to expand our color sense and understand how light transforms every surface it touches. Each place changes the way you work.
That’s why plein air is endlessly fascinating: no two places, and no two seasons, ever speak in the same color language.
Come experience Maine’s autumn palette for yourself
My October Immersive Workshop in Rockport, Maine puts you right in the middle of New England’s most brilliant season. We’ll paint outdoors, study the shifting fall light, and capture the fiery color harmonies that make this place so extraordinary. Spaces are limited—learn more and reserve your spot here.
What a wonderful, generous piece. I love how you frame color as the “emotional underpinning” of place and then prove it with three distinct worlds: New England’s blazing maples set against cool, crystalline shadows; the Bahamas’ luminous water and dome of sky where whites lift every mixture; and Malta’s honeyed limestone and disciplined, warm neutrals punctuated by painted doors. The through-line—that the palette stays the same while your eye adapts—feels both liberating and instructive. It pushes us to chase light, not tubes. Your observations about air (dry vs. humid), altitude, and seasonal clarity read like a field manual for plein air painters who want truer color and stronger value structure. The paintings you reference make the theory tangible, and your closing invitation to Maine in October lands perfectly: study the light, let the season speak, and the color will follow. Inspiring, practical, and beautifully written.