One of the questions I’m asked most often is whether I could recreate a painting that’s already sold. The short answer is that I don't. Not because I don’t remember what I did, but because that’s simply not how I paint.
I don’t begin with a detailed plan or a finished image in my mind. There isn’t a sketch tucked away in a notebook waiting to be copied onto a canvas. Every painting begins the same way—with a willingness to see where it wants to go.
In fact, the hardest part of painting for me is getting started. I still don’t particularly enjoy a blank canvas. It used to feel intimidating. Over time, though, I’ve learned that the solution isn’t to wait for inspiration. It’s simply to make the first mark. It doesn’t even matter what that mark is. Once something exists, I have something to respond to.
I even keep a canvas leaning against the wall in my studio. At the end of a painting session, I’ll wipe my brushes on it rather than throwing away the leftover paint.
Layer after layer accumulates over weeks and months. Ironically, those canvases often become some of my favorite paintings. They carry so much history that I could never have planned.
From there, the conversation begins.
I build layers, then scrape them away. I cover passages that I love, only to discover something even better underneath. Sometimes I remove paint just to see what has been hiding below the surface. Every decision creates the next one, and the painting slowly reveals itself.
It’s a bit like archaeology. Every layer uncovers another possibility.
There are moments when I’ll arrive at a color relationship or a passage that I absolutely love. Naturally, I think, I want to do that again. But I never can. The next painting has a different history. Different layers. Different decisions. Different surprises.
That’s what keeps painting exciting.
My years as an interior designer shaped the way I see color, perhaps more than anything else. I’m endlessly fascinated by how colors influence one another. Some of my favorite moments happen when I introduce an unexpected color into an otherwise quiet palette. It’s often subtle—a hint of something you don’t immediately notice—but when you do, it changes everything. I love those moments that make you pause for just a second and think, Oh… that’s interesting.
And yes, I talk to my paintings.
It sounds strange when I say it out loud, but it’s true.
I’ll stand in front of a canvas and ask, What do you need? What do you want?
I’m not expecting an answer, of course. The questions simply force me to slow down and pay attention instead of imposing my own agenda. More often than not, the painting tells me where it needs to go if I’m willing to listen.
People often imagine artists working with music playing in the background all day. Occasionally I do, especially if I need to quiet my own thoughts. Music has a way of keeping me from overthinking.
But most days, my studio is quiet.
I like hearing the brush move across the surface. The scrape of a palette knife. The sound of sandpaper. Those small noises are part of the rhythm of painting.
When I’m not in the studio, I’m usually still collecting ideas. You’ll find me with a stack of art books nearby or scrolling through Pinterest—not for decorating ideas, but for unexpected color combinations in fashion, textiles, and interiors. Inspiration has a way of appearing in places that have nothing to do with art.
Every afternoon, though, everything stops.
At two o’clock, it’s tea time. Not a quick mug while answering emails, but a proper pot of loose-leaf tea and my favorite china. It’s become a ritual I rarely miss. For a little while, the studio grows quiet. It’s a chance to reset before returning with fresh eyes.
Perhaps that’s the most important part of my process. Knowing when to stop.
People sometimes ask how I know a painting is finished. The truth is, I don’t know in the moment. I walk away. I leave it alone. Then I come back later with fresh eyes. If it still feels complete—if I still love it after a little distance—then I know it’s finished.
Every painting asks something different of me. Some fight back. Some unfold effortlessly. Some spend weeks refusing to become what they’re meant to be until one small decision changes everything.
That’s why I can’t recreate a painting that’s already been made. Once the conversation is over, it’s over. The next canvas is waiting to ask an entirely different question. I’m not trying to paint an idea. I’m trying to discover one.
Until next time!
Amanda