On painting weather, not weather reports

I used to think the west asked for accuracy — the right grey, the right edge of a harbour wall. It doesn’t. It asks you to stay long enough that the colour shifts while you are still mixing.

What I take to the island

Three greys, a warm dark, and a cheap notebook that swells in the rain. The panels are small because the wind is not. I work from the car if I have to, and from the verge if the light is decent. Nothing in the kit is precious except the time.

The sketches are not the paintings. They are a way of remembering temperature — how cold the blue was at four, how the umber went green after the shower.

The sketches are a way of remembering temperature — how cold the blue was at four.

Back in the studio

Studio days are slower. I scrape more than I add. A canvas that looked finished on Achill often looks too sure on the wall in Galway. I leave the scrape marks. They are the only honest record of having been there in weather, not in a photograph.

If you are supporting the studio, you already see the process notes. This is the longer version: why the work looks quieter than the place, and why I keep going back anyway.