People often ask me what draws me to oil paint. The honest answer is: time. Oil paint dries slowly, and that slowness is everything. It means I can go back into a mark while it is still wet, soften an edge, lift a highlight, reconsider a shadow. The painting stays alive on the canvas for days, sometimes weeks, and I stay in conversation with it.
I first began studying painting seriously in the early 1980s, after moving from Iceland to California with my family. I took evening classes at the Art Center in Pasadena before going on to study at Otis/Parsons College of Art and Design in Los Angeles. Those years were formative — not just technically, but in terms of learning to think about what a painting is trying to do. The discipline of working from observation, of understanding materials before trying to transcend them, has stayed with me ever since.
The canvas
I work on stretched cotton or linen canvas, primed with gesso. The surface matters enormously — the grain of the weave catches the paint differently on every layer, and that texture becomes part of the finished work. I prime in several thin coats, sanding lightly between each, until the surface has just the right amount of tooth.
Colour and palette
My palette is deliberately limited. I tend to work with a warm white, yellow ochre, burnt sienna, a deep earth red, and one or two blues — usually ultramarine and a cooler prussian or cerulean. From those I can mix almost any colour I need, which keeps the work harmonious. Unexpected combinations interest me most: the blue-green note inside a warm terracotta shadow, the near-grey that reads as violet in certain light.
Building layers
Oil painting is a layered medium. I usually begin with a thin underpainting — often in a warm brown — to map out values before any colour goes down. Then I build up gradually, working fat over lean (more oil in later layers, less in early ones) to ensure the paint film stays stable over time. Each painting might go through ten or fifteen distinct sessions before I consider it finished.
When is it done?
I have learned to let paintings tell me when they are finished, rather than deciding myself. There is usually a moment when something clicks — a quiet recognition that the work has found its balance. If I keep painting past that moment, I undo it. Knowing when to stop is perhaps the hardest skill in painting — and one that only comes with years of practice.
If you would like to know more about my background and practice, you can read more on the About page. Questions about materials or a specific work are always welcome through the contact page.