Work by the artist, 2024

Defining the artist’s eye

An artist’s eye is not simply the ability to see. It is the habit of noticing what repeatedly draws your attention — and choosing to respond to it.

At different stages of artistic development — early or late — many artists find themselves collecting: photographs, sketches, scraps of magazine pages, texture and colour notations. Consciously reacting to what interests or inspires you is an important part of artistic development. It sharpens attention and begins to reveal preference.

What often feels less clear is what comes next.

What follows is not invention, but distillation — the gradual refinement of what has already been there.

Literal beginnings

In many cases, the first response to source material is more literal. We try to translate what we see directly. There is nothing wrong with this. Every piece teaches you something. It helps filter your interests and refine what holds your attention.

A well-known example of this gradual shift is Piet Mondrian (1872–1944). Early in his career, he was absorbed by the structure of trees — the rhythm of branches against the sky. The motif stayed with him for years, but the form steadily simplified. By the time we reach the grid paintings — black lines intersecting with blocks of primary colour — the trees are no longer visible, yet the underlying rhythm remains.

The subject did not disappear. It was distilled.

Distillation results in different forms for different artists. For Mondrian, it was structural rhythm. For Mark Rothko (1903–1970), it became colour and atmosphere. For Giorgio Morandi (1890–1964), it was tonal restraint and spatial quiet. What remains is not always structure. It may be colour, tension, repetition, surface or scale — whatever element held the strongest pull from the beginning.

A personal turning point

A pivotal moment in my own work came when I encountered a derelict house during a short period at the École des Beaux-Arts in Toulouse. Three outer walls had been demolished. What remained were marks — traces of a stairwell, outlines of doors, fragments of patterned wallpaper clinging to exposed surfaces.

My early responses were overly literal and not especially successful. I was attempting to reproduce what I saw. Over time, I realised I was not just drawn to texture, but to the idea of fragments — partial histories, structures revealed through loss.

With a handful of poor-quality photographs, I returned to the subject repeatedly and began noticing similar spaces elsewhere. Years of sketching, layering and reworking followed before I understood how central this theme of deterioration had become. It was not a decision made in advance. It accumulated gradually through working.

The slow work of distillation

The development of a personal visual language is rarely dramatic or instant. For most artists, it takes years. Distillation rarely happens quickly. It often becomes visible only in hindsight.

In my own work now, what holds my attention most strongly are layers of time — surfaces that have accumulated change, weathering, removal and addition. The interest is not in the object itself, but in what has shifted.

These fragments are not copied directly. They are absorbed, layered and reworked until the source is no longer obvious — though its influence remains.

This is not about style as surface. It is about personal visual syntax — the structural habits that emerge through repetition. Even during periods when there is little time to make work, the habits of noticing and refining continue quietly in the background.

A few thoughts

Literal work is part of refinement.
Repetition is a form of investigation.
Distillation requires patience.

Questions to consider

■ What keeps resurfacing in your work — a colour, a surface, a structural rhythm, a mood? Try to identify three elements you consistently gravitate towards.

■ Are you still reproducing what you see, or beginning to translate what draws you to it? What feels like the strongest pull at the moment?

Untitled (Study), 2025. Mixed media on paper.

Competition Brief

The competition theme was Urban Landscapes: Imagine, Trace, Reveal. At the time, I was already developing a small series of works on paper inspired by urban archaeology — layered surfaces, architectural hints and fragments suggesting what had been removed or covered over. The pieces were built through painted, printed and found paper, combined with dry media and paint.

I rarely enter competitions. This one offered a useful constraint.

The principal requirement was a four-colour limit. I chose black, white, blue and yellow. The colours were not arbitrary; they echoed works in progress and gave me a workable range of warm and cool blues and yellows. What they removed was my usual habit of allowing small flecks of colour to peek through layered surfaces. That option was no longer available.

The brief did not interrupt my enquiry. It introduced a contained problem within it.

Unlike many life problems, this one was useful.

Adjusting the emphasis

My process did not change. I still began by gathering fragments — scanned textures, printed surfaces, reduced silhouettes, pieces of lettering — and testing their relationships. What changed was how much responsibility colour was allowed to carry.

With a restricted palette, colour could no longer compensate for uncertain placement. Blue and yellow had to carry structure. Black anchored or interrupted. White became active rather than passive space. Hierarchy depended more clearly on value, scale and proportion.

Working within a limit doesn’t automatically improve the work. What it does is make your usual habits easier to see. Without the safety of additional colour adjustments, compositional weaknesses become harder to disguise.

Filtering the fodder

There is always more material than can be used. The restriction made that surplus more apparent. Some fragments lost relevance quickly; without variation in tone and temperature they could not sustain interest. Others strengthened because they operated through shape and proportion rather than atmosphere.

The palette acted as a filter. It reduced the visual fodder. Some fragments simply couldn’t survive without tonal variation. Others strengthened because they operated through proportion and placement rather than atmosphere.

When an idea fails structurally

At one stage an arch motif appeared repeatedly. It related to the wider urban vocabulary of the series and I wanted it to remain. I know it will eventually find its place in another piece.

But in this composition it began to dominate. Other elements stopped speaking to each other because the arch insisted on being the focal point.

It was less a problem of drawing and more a problem of balance. Sometimes in painting you have to cover up a mark you love in order to let the whole settle. This was a similar moment.

I removed the motif, but that was only one possible solution. The point was not the arch itself; it was recognising that I was protecting an idea rather than strengthening the whole. Once that became clear, other options were possible.

What remains

I did not receive a mention. That is incidental.

What stayed with me was the usefulness of the constraint. It created a contained space in which to test direction without committing it fully to the wider series. This piece remains slightly separate from the others, and may not sit within the final body of work. But it allowed me to explore how drawn elements might operate within abstraction without overwhelming it.

From time to time, narrowing the conditions under which you work can expose where structure is carrying the composition — and where you are compensating. That is not a dramatic lesson. It is simply a practical one.

I documented the full process behind this project — from fragment gathering through structural refinement — here:

Urban Collage: Andalucía in Paint and Paper

Traced Memory, 2025. Mixed media on paper.

A few thoughts

Limits don’t create ideas from nothing, but they can reveal what you were already leaning towards.

Removing something you rely on can show you what is really holding a composition together.

A restriction can expose whether colour, material or motif is strengthening the work — or quietly compensating for a weakness.

Questions to consider

■ If your work begins to feel unfocused, what might happen if you temporarily removed one element you regularly depend on?

■ What single restriction — of colour, format or material — might reveal how your compositions are actually functioning?