New Collection Process: Studio Notes

I don't plan collections the way a brand plans a seasonal drop. In my studio, a collection usually announces itself after the fact: five or six canvases stacked against the wall that suddenly share a palette, a scale, or an obsession I didn't know I had. The new collection process, for me, is less about curation and more about repetition—painting the same question over and over until the answer starts to look like a body of work. Lately that question has been about close-range blooms and the way animals hold a gaze. Two very different subjects, but both force me to slow down and render something that feels alive at arm's length.

How a New Collection Process Starts

A new collection usually starts with one image I can't stop looking at. It might be a photo I took on a walk, a commission reference, or a color note from a previous painting. I pin it to the studio wall and make small studies: thumbnail sketches, acrylic swatches, and sometimes quick digital collages to test value structure. If the study still interests me after three days, it earns a canvas.

The early phase is quiet and a little boring from the outside. I mix the same color three different ways. I paint the same petal shape at four scales. I take reference photos under morning light and afternoon light to see which shadow temperature reads as true. But this repetition is where the collection finds its rules. By the time I move to finished pieces, I know the palette, the scale range, and whether the work wants a smooth ground or a textured one.

If you want to see how these rules show up across finished work, my portfolio traces the same questions in different moods.

From Single Study to Group of Paintings

A finished piece often becomes the seed for a larger set. Take Plumeria On A Red Branch. It is a small square canvas, and the bloom fills almost the entire surface. A heavy red-brown branch enters from the right and forks underneath the flower. The five petals each turn a slightly different way, so the flower feels dimensional even though the composition is essentially flat.

What pulled me into making more work from this study was the color problem. The petals are white at their outer edges and pull inward through cream to a hot yellow-orange throat. That gradient is what gives the flower its depth. Painting it once taught me the value shifts, but painting it again—at different sizes, against different backgrounds—let me push the same problem further. A single canvas became a way to ask: how much warmth can a white petal hold before it stops reading as white?

This is the heart of the new collection process. One painting answers a technical question; a group of paintings lets me ask the next question. Sometimes the next question is about surface—how thick can the paint get before the bloom loses its delicacy? Sometimes it is about ground—what happens if the branch is cropped differently, or absent entirely? Each variation becomes a record of the decision I made at that moment.

Originals and prints that come out of these studio groupings land in the shop.

Commission Work That Feeds the Studio

My studio practice and commission work run on parallel tracks, but they trade tools constantly. The Pet Portrait Process project is a good example. It contains progress photos, videos, and reference photos for certain pet portrait commissions. Those commissions push me to render fur direction, eye wetness, and the specific tilt of a head under a deadline. That pressure is useful; it keeps my brushwork honest and my color mixing fast.

When I return to studio paintings after a run of portraits, I bring those skills with me. The way I build up a pet's eye translates surprisingly well to the throat of a flower—both need a soft edge that still reads as a hard form. The way I mix a warm shadow for golden fur shows up again when I am trying to keep a white petal from going chalky. Commissions keep the hand warm, and they often surface a color combination or a textural move I would not have found on my own.

Process videos for both commissions and studio work go up on my YouTube channel. If you are curious about starting a pet portrait or another commission, the commissions page has the details.

When a Group Becomes a Collection

A cluster of paintings only becomes a collection in my mind when they share more than subject matter. The real test is whether I can line them up and feel a conversation happening. That conversation might be a limited palette, a repeated canvas size, or a formal problem carried across several pieces. If I can name the thread in one sentence—"white petals against warm grounds" or "animals holding still for the camera"—then I know I have a collection and not just a pile of recent work.

I document this phase in studio notes more than anywhere else. It is where I write down what worked, what flopped, and what I want to try next. These notes become the backbone of any future proposal or exhibition text, especially when the work is headed toward a hospitality or residential installation. For trade or large-scale inquiries, I shift into a more formal proposal format with process images, provenance, and specs, but the thinking starts in those casual notes.

If you want to follow the studio notes as they happen, you can join the studio-notes list.

The new collection process never really ends. One finished canvas leads to three questions, and those questions lead to the next group of paintings. If you want to see where this thread is going, the portfolio is the most current record. Finished originals, prints, and studio stickers are available through the shop.