Now that September is just around the corner, you may have some watercolor supply shopping in mind. Perhaps you’re thinking about expanding your palette, trying a new color, or even switching brands. I wanted to talk to you about something that I think could be really useful before you do.

It’s something I’ve been meaning to write about for quite a while because, when I first started painting with watercolor, it caused me quite a bit of frustration.

Hopefully, I can save you from some of that frustration.

Why doesn’t my mix look like theirs?

I’m sure this has happened to you at some point.

You see another artist making a color mix that you love. You take note of the colors they’re using, buy the same ones, or ones that seem equivalent, and try to reproduce the mix yourself.

But it doesn’t come out the same.

Your mix has a different hue.

Maybe it’s a little more violet, greener, warmer, duller… It just doesn’t quite look like the one you saw.

And you start wondering if you’re doing something wrong.

This used to frustrate me quite a lot when I was starting out.

Until I realized that, in many cases, the problem wasn’t the way I was mixing the colors, but the paints I was using.

The name of the color doesn’t tell you everything

Watercolor manufacturers use names for colors that we all recognize: French Ultramarine, Burnt Sienna, Yellow Ochre, Quinacridone Rose…

These names make it easy for us to identify a color quickly.

But there’s something important you should know:

Two watercolors having the same name does not necessarily mean they are made with the same pigments.

Each manufacturer may use a different combination of pigments to create a color that we know commercially by the same name.

And this may seem like an insignificant difference.

Until you start mixing.

A very clear example: Burnt Sienna

Burnt Sienna is a good example of this.

Daniel Smith’s Burnt Sienna is formulated with certain pigments, while Winsor & Newton’s uses different ones.

Burnt Sienna - Daniel Smith => PBr7

Burnt Sienna - Winsor & Newton => PR101

If you apply the two directly onto paper, you may already start to notice some differences.

But now let’s do something different.

Let’s mix them with Winsor & Newton French Ultramarine.

In the mix at the top, the result is a fairly neutral grey. In contrast, the mix at the bottom clearly leans towards blueish violet.

And we’re talking about two colors that, when you see them separately, can seem almost interchangeable.

The difference may be very subtle when we apply the paint directly onto paper.

But once we start mixing it with another pigment, that small difference becomes much more noticeable.

And that’s the key.

This is why pigment codes are so important

If you read my previous article about watercolor pigment codes, you’ll remember that those little letters and numbers you find on the tubes tell us much more than the commercial name of the color.

📃 [Link to Article]

That’s why, before buying a watercolor, especially if you’re trying to reproduce another artist’s colors or mixes, check which pigments it contains. Remember that two paints can have exactly the same name and still behave differently.

But wait, there’s something else

We might think the solution is very simple:

“Okay. I just need to find two paints that contain exactly the same pigment, and that’s it.”

Well… not necessarily.

Even when two manufacturers use the same pigment and the same pigment code, there can still be small differences between their watercolors.

The paint formulation, pigment concentration, grinding, binder, and other factors can give two watercolors slightly different characteristics.

We’re not necessarily talking about huge differences.

In fact, they may be almost imperceptible when you look at the colors separately.

But once again, when you start mixing them with other colors, those small differences can become much more noticeable.

So even if you see that two watercolors share exactly the same pigment code, don’t assume they will behave exactly the same way.

So, what should I do when buying watercolors?

My advice is simple.

Look at the pigments in the paint before you buy it.

Especially if it’s a color you’re going to use frequently for mixing.

And if you’re not sure which brand is right for you, experiment.

Buy small amounts from different brands, make some tests, and mix the colors with one another.

I can assure you that you can learn a huge amount by doing something as simple as creating a small mixing chart.

And there’s another option that I think is really useful:

ask.

If you see an artist whose mixes you love, don’t be afraid to ask them exactly which brand of watercolors they use.

That information might be exactly what you need to understand why a mix that works perfectly for them isn’t giving you the same result.

So, if you’re preparing your palette for September, remember:

the name of a color is only part of the information.

Look at the pigments.

Experiment.

Compare brands.

And above all, don’t get frustrated if a mix doesn’t come out exactly like another artist’s.

You might not be doing anything wrong.

You might simply be using a different paint.

And if someone had explained this to me when I started painting, I probably would have saved myself quite a few hours wondering what the hell I was doing wrong.

I hope you can save yourself those hours.

Wish you a lovely afternoon,

Ander V.

The hierarchy was established in European academies during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Oil painting was considered the medium of “great art”: historical, mythological, and religious scenes, commissioned portraits, large permanent works destined for salons and palaces. Watercolor, by contrast, was associated with travel sketchbooks, botanical studies, and above all with preliminary studies for the “real painting.” It was fast, portable, and inexpensive. And for precisely those reasons, it was considered inferior.

There was also an element of class and gender. Watercolor was the medium taught to young women from wealthy families as a social accomplishment, something decorative that complemented embroidery or piano lessons. It was never intended to train professional artists, only to entertain amateurs. Meanwhile, oil painting remained the domain of guilds, academies, and institutional commissions, in other words, the territory of men who earned a living through painting. The label of “minor art” did not simply describe a technique. It described who was allowed to be considered a serious artist.

And yet, some of the greatest painters in history proved through their own work that this hierarchy was entirely artificial. Turner created watercolors of breathtaking atmospheric ambition that remain unmatched today, capturing light and storms with a freedom that oil painting of his time could barely achieve. In his later years, Sargent spent his summers painting watercolors purely for the technical pleasure of it, far removed from the commissioned portraits that paid his bills. Winslow Homer found in watercolor an immediacy that oil could never offer when painting the sea and the light of Maine. None of them treated watercolor as a rehearsal. They treated it as the place where they were truly willing to experiment.

Ironically, the very reason watercolor was considered a “lesser” medium is exactly what makes it so difficult. It offers very little room for correction, at least not in the way oil or acrylic does. There are no opaque layers to hide a mistake and no easy way to repaint an area without leaving visible traces. Every brushstroke is a decision you have to commit to. That demands a level of control over value, water, and timing that many oil painters, accustomed to gradually building an image, would have struggled with. Speed was never the medium’s limitation. It was, and still is, its greatest technical challenge.

That old hierarchy has gradually faded, but more slowly than many people realize. Even today, in many galleries and art fairs, oil painting is still perceived as the “serious” medium, while watercolor is often associated with hobbies or illustration, even though those boundaries have long since disappeared.

Contemporary watercolor artists are taking the medium into territory that would have seemed impossible just a few decades ago. Julia Barminova paints water and light across marine surfaces with a fluidity that only watercolor can achieve, precisely because the medium itself is water interacting with water.

Janet Pulcho, meanwhile, paints flowers on a monumental scale with a level of detail and luminosity that one would normally expect from oil painting, yet she achieves it through transparent washes that no other medium can truly replicate.

Both artists paint as though the technique itself is what allows them to go further.

The longer I spend with a brush in my hand, the more convinced I become that this supposed limitation, the inability to correct mistakes and the need to make quick decisions, is exactly what gives watercolor a sense of life that oil painting, despite all its possibilities for correction, sometimes cannot match.

If you’re interested in understanding not just how things work, but why, Patreon is where I explore these ideas in much greater depth. This week we’re looking at how to create shadows filled with light in a balcony scene, with the goal of turning shadow from something that simply represents darkness into a space that continues to breathe with color.

Visit Patreon

Have a wonderful afternoon,

And the curious thing is that it was not always this way.

When I started painting, black was one of my favorite colors. In particular, I used Neutral Tint a lot, an incredibly practical color that allows you to create an entire range of grays, from a barely perceptible tone to a deep black with very little effort.

It was convenient. Too convenient.

Every time I needed to darken a mixture, it was there. Every time a shadow was not strong enough, I turned to it. It became the quick solution to almost any problem involving tonal value.

And that was precisely the problem.

Before continuing, a small clarification if you are just starting out with watercolor: when I talk about black, I am also referring to gray. You can get both from the same pigment. The difference simply lies in the amount of water in the mixture. With more water, you get gray, and with more pigment, you get a more intense black.

The great risk of always having gray available

Over time, I realized that having a ready made gray makes it very easy to fall into a trap: darkening by adding gray instead of building shadows with color.

The result is usually the same.

The watercolors begin to lose their luminosity. The colors stop vibrating. The mixtures become heavy, and muddy tones begin to appear, making the painting look dull.

Some time ago, I published an Instagram reel explaining this concept. Take a look at the difference:

It is not that the version above is wrong. It simply dulls the painting and takes life away from something that could be much more vibrant and convey much more.

Shadows are not simply darker colors.

In nature, they are full of temperature, nuances, and small variations. There are warm shadows, cool shadows, reflections of other colors… Even when the tonal value is low, they are still full of life.

That is why it is not always worth pursuing the deepest black.

In general, it is more interesting to achieve a rich gray than a perfect black.

The day I removed black from my palette

Years ago, I decided to completely eliminate any ready-made black or gray.

Not because they are bad, but because I wanted to force myself to mix.

And it was one of the best decisions I have ever made in watercolor.

Without a convenient gray, every shadow requires a little more thought: what colors can I combine? How can I cool down this mixture? What happens if I add a complementary color instead of gray?

Little by little, you begin to discover grays full of personality.

Slightly violet grays. Bluish grays. Warm grays.

Grays that retain the richness and nuances of the colors they have been mixed with.

The change seems small, but it completely transforms the painting.

The paintings gain depth, richness of color, and a much greater sense of light.

And, almost without realizing it, those muddy colors appear less and less often.

So... should black be eliminated?

Not necessarily.

As I said at the beginning, this is a very personal opinion.

I believe that a ready-made black or gray can be very useful tools for small final details: an absolutely dark accent, a cable crossing an urban scene, a narrow gap, a balcony in shadow…

But personally, I try not to use them in washes or as a quick solution for darkening mixtures.

I prefer every shadow to retain some color. Because for me, that is where much of the magic of the painting lies.

I hope this reflection has been useful to you and, above all, that it encourages you to experiment with other colors instead of always turning to black to darken your mixtures.

Do you want to learn how to mix shadows with much more color?

If you want to go deeper, on Patreon we explore precisely these kinds of decisions that make the difference between a correct watercolor and a watercolor full of life.

We analyze real mixtures, study applied color theory, practice creating vibrant grays without resorting to black, and watch the entire process from beginning to end as we paint.

If you want to take your watercolors to the next level, I will see you inside Patreon.

👉🏻 Go to Patreon

That’s all for today :) Wish you a wonderful day.

Sincerely,

Ander Watercolor

And like always happens to me when I see something like that, my head starts working on its own. Before I even notice, I’m already thinking about how I would paint it. What the framing would be. What I’d leave out and what I’d include. What colors I’d use for that light...

The problem is that traveling with other people, with a shared plan, at a pace that isn’t only yours, makes it really hard to stop and paint for hours. You can’t tell the group “wait for me, I’m going to sit here for two hours with the watercolors.” And by the end of the trip, all I had drawn was the hotel where we were staying. Barely anything else.

For a while that frustrated me. I had all of Ordesa in front of me, one of the most spectacular landscapes I’ve seen in years, and I had barely picked up my brushes. I felt almost guilty, like I had wasted the opportunity.

A frustration with a clear origin

I’ve been turning this over for a while, and I think that frustration comes from a flawed approach from the very start.

When I think about painting on a trip, my head automatically imagines a very specific scenario: several free hours, no rush, good light, a comfortable spot to sit, silence. Basically the conditions of my studio, just moved to a nice landscape. And that scenario almost never happens when you’re traveling with other people, with an itinerary, with a schedule you don’t fully control.

The problem isn’t how the trip is planned. It’s the expectation I carry with me before I even start.

If I wait for that perfect moment, chances are it will never come, and then I go home feeling like I failed at something that was never really up to me.

The expectation was the real obstacle

Almost every trip, no matter how packed the itinerary, has gaps. Dead time waiting for a train, a rest after lunch, a long conversation over the table that stretches on. Those gaps exist almost always, even if they look nothing like the ideal scenario we carry in our heads.

That’s exactly where you need to pull out your brushes. Not when everything is perfect, but when a real gap shows up, however small. Thirty minutes are enough for a quick sketch. Five minutes are enough to jot down some colors and a composition, or even just an idea you can develop later at home if you want.

The mindset shift is simple to explain but not so simple to actually internalize: stop looking for the perfect moment to paint, and start making use of the moments you actually have.

Not aiming for the masterpiece of your life

Here’s the point that, I think, really changed how I see this.

Pulling out your sketchbook in the middle of a trip with the intention of making a great piece is, almost always, the wrong approach. And I’m not saying that out of pessimism, I’m saying it from experience.

You’re going to be uncomfortable, probably sitting on a rock or standing while holding the sketchbook in one hand. Being outdoors will dry the water on the paper much faster than you’re used to, so you’ll have less time to work. You don’t have your table, your controlled light, your usual working routine.

With all of that working against you, the odds of that sketch becoming the best piece you’ve ever made are, honestly, low. And that’s fine.

Pulling out your brushes during a gap in the trip has a value that has absolutely nothing to do with the final result. It connects you to the place you’re in in a way that looking around and taking a photo never does. It forces you to really observe: the direction of the light, the actual colors, the shapes your brain normally simplifies when it’s only glancing past. It activates your senses. It forces you to stop, to be fully present, without rushing (and without checking your phone). Just you and what’s in front of you.

When you’re done, you pack up your materials and continue on with the trip. That pause has already done its job, no matter how the paper turned out.

Change the goal

Instead of chasing the “great piece” every time you open your sketchbook, think in terms of sketches. Use the sketchbook for what it was originally designed for: making sketches. Getting the hang of painting outdoors, which is a different skill from painting in the studio and one that only gets trained by practicing it. Use those gaps to experiment with positions: sitting, standing, leaning against a backpack. Try limited palettes that force you to decide quickly. Try small formats that can be resolved in just a few minutes.

Each one of those quick sketches teaches you something you wouldn’t get by staying home. How your paper reacts to wind. How your perception of color changes with shifting natural light. How you manage when you don’t have everything under control.

And if there’s really not even a gap to pull out your materials, there’s something you can always do: take photos. A trip like this is the perfect moment to build up reference material. Let’s not waste that opportunity. Later, at home, with time to spare, those photos become the starting point for future watercolors.

And here’s the most important part of all: a trip isn’t really about painting. It’s about enjoying time with the people you’re with. If a moment comes up, pull out your brushes and make the most of it. And if it doesn’t, that’s fine too, there will be another mountain, another valley, another chance. The sketchbook can wait. The company can’t always.

Don’t let a hobby you love so much become a source of frustration just because you didn’t come home with the perfect piece.

To wrap up

Ordesa left me with a single drawing. But it also left me with this reflection, which will probably serve me better in the long run than ten technically perfect sketches.

Next time I travel with the idea of painting, I’m not going to look for the ideal moment that probably won’t come. I’m going to make the most of whatever gaps show up, without expecting every stroke to be memorable, without loading my passion with the pressure of having to prove something.

If you’ve ever felt that frustration of not having painted what you wanted during a trip, tell me about it. I’d love to know how you all deal with it, and I’m sure I’m not the only one this happens to.

By the way, this week on Patreon we’re putting into practice, on video, the concepts we covered in previous weeks. A full exercise, step by step and in color, of a Mediterranean village. If you want to see all that theory applied on paper, it’s up on Taller.

--> Link to Patreon

I wish you a wonderful start to summer. See you soon.

Best,

Last weekend I was in Seville for a wedding. The day before, I found a bit of free time and went to paint at Plaza de España. Midday. 35°C. In the shade, but still 35°C.

It wasn’t the ideal moment. The light, the time of day, and the temperature were not what I would have chosen. But it was the opportunity I had, so I pulled out my sketchbook and got to work.

Sitting on the ground with sweat running down my back, I was reminded of something we almost never talk about: painting outdoors comes with an entire layer of difficulty that has nothing to do with technique.

What Really Makes Outdoor Painting Difficult

When we paint at home, in the studio, sitting in our chair with everything within reach, the only variable is watercolor. The paper, the brush, the color. That’s it.

Outdoors, it’s different. You sit wherever you can, sometimes on the ground, sometimes standing up, with the light constantly changing, the sun shifting, or the shade moving faster than you’d expect. Your body is uncomfortable, and when your body is uncomfortable, it affects your mind.

Suddenly someone stops behind you to watch. Someone asks a question right when you’re focused on a color mix. Someone simply walks by and, before you realize it, you’re thinking about what they’re seeing instead of what you’re painting.

None of this is a technical problem. It’s physical and mental. Yet it has a huge impact on the final result, because a mind that isn’t fully present can’t make good decisions on the page.

The good news is that most of these situations can be anticipated. Here are a few things that have helped me and that will hopefully help you as well.

1. Know Your Palette and Keep It Simple

The fewer decisions you have to make on the spot, the less friction you’ll experience. Arrive with a rough plan for the scene: the colors you’ll use, a general idea of the composition, and the overall approach.

The goal isn’t to eliminate spontaneity completely. It’s to reduce the number of decisions your brain has to make once you’re in the middle of the work. If you already know the tools you’re working with, all that’s left is to enjoy the process and paint.

2. Avoid Peak Hours

People are distracting. Much more than we think.

Painting under the midday sun at Plaza de España sounded like a terrible idea on paper. And yet, at that hour there were very few people around. That gave me a sense of calm and complete freedom to focus on what I was doing.

If you have a choice, look for quieter moments. It’s not just a matter of comfort. It’s essential if you want your attention to stay where it needs to be.

3. Find the Setup That Works for You

We all have our own habits when it comes to painting, and we like our tools arranged in a certain way. The only way to discover your ideal setup is to test it outdoors.

Go out and experiment with different configurations. Try a large mixing palette or a small one. Use a drawing board to support your sketchbook. Maybe try a lightweight easel. There is no right answer, only the setup that makes you feel in control of your space, even when you’re sitting in the middle of a busy square.

In my case, I brought only a landscape A5 sketchbook, a pocket watercolor set, and a small travel kit with three brushes, a mechanical pencil, and an eraser. A very limited setup, but more than enough for a single sketch.

4. Control the Urge to Rush Before It Controls You

Being out in public, exposed, with people around you, creates a sense of urgency almost without you noticing.

You want to finish quickly. You want to stop feeling observed. You want it to be done already.

And that urgency is the enemy of watercolor, a medium that needs time, patience, and layers that dry at their own pace.

Whenever I notice that nervous feeling creeping in, I stop and take a breath. I look at the scene for a moment without painting, simply reminding myself why I’m there in the first place.

If someone comes over and asks a question, I answer calmly. More often than not, instead of breaking my concentration, that brief pause helps me regain it. It reminds me that there is no real hurry. I’m there because I want to be.

Learning to manage that urge to rush is probably the hardest part of painting outdoors, and also the most important. Your palette, your schedule, and your setup all help. But if your mind is racing, none of that is enough.

In Conclusion

Painting outdoors will always come with these challenges. The difference between being frustrated by them and handling them well comes down to anticipating them and remembering, whenever the urge to rush appears, that there is no real hurry.

With time, all of this stops feeling like an obstacle and simply becomes part of the process. And once you get used to those initial discomforts and learn to work through them, you discover that painting outdoors is, quite simply, one of the most rewarding experiences there is.

There’s More

If you enjoy this newsletter and want to go a little deeper, I’ve created a new Patreon tier called Fundamentals.

Every month, I write an in depth article about pigments, color, technique, composition, perspective, materials, and more, with a level of detail that doesn’t fit in this newsletter.

This month’s article is a guide to how I approach color and temperature to capture scenes like this one. It focuses on the mixture I use for surfaces with that distinctive warmth so characteristic of southern Spain. Take a look:

See full article on Patreon→

Thanks for reading, and see you in the next one.

Best,

Interestingly, there is something I see in almost every student who starts painting with watercolors. It has nothing to do with technique or talent. It has to do with fear.

That fear becomes obvious almost immediately in the way they paint. Instead of making a confident brushstroke, they use lots of small ones. Instead of using a large brush, they choose a smaller one because it feels easier to control. They go over the same area again and again, trying to fix every imperfection.

I think part of the problem is that many beginners approach watercolor as if it were simply about placing color on paper. But watercolor is water. It needs to flood the paper. You have to think in terms of washes, wet surfaces, and pigments flowing into one another. You need to wet the paper and dare to work with water, rather than merely depositing small amounts of color while trying to maintain absolute control.

It’s a completely understandable attitude, but it usually produces the opposite effect from what we’re aiming for.

Watercolor Punishes Excessive Control

The more we try to control every detail, the stiffer the result tends to be. Watercolor paintings that feel fresh and natural almost always have one thing in common: they were painted with a certain degree of confidence, accepting that not everything would turn out exactly as planned.

I also see this fear in the way people use their materials. Many students try to save pigment, keep their best sheets of paper for “when they’re more advanced,” or feel uncomfortable every time they use expensive supplies for practice exercises.

And it’s true: watercolor paper costs money. Pigments cost money. This entire hobby costs money.

But paper is not meant to be saved. It’s meant to be used. Paint is not meant to remain untouched in the palette. It’s meant to be consumed.

It’s difficult to improve when every practice session feels like a potential waste of materials. Learning involves making mistakes over and over again, and those mistakes inevitably consume paper, water, and paint.

You can’t improve while trying to protect yourself from every mistake.

Every sheet of paper that ends up in the trash is usually buying experience for the next one.

However, the most limiting fear rarely appears on the paper itself. It usually appears in the way we talk about ourselves.

I hear it frequently in phrases like, “I’m not good at painting,” “I don’t have talent,” or “I’ll never reach that level.”

The reality is that it may very well be true that today you don’t paint as well as you’d like. But that doesn’t mean much. Nobody is born knowing how to control moisture on paper, mix colors, or build an interesting composition. These are skills that are learned.

Sometimes we act as though our abilities have already been defined, as though we’ve reached a final version of ourselves. Yet experience shows the opposite. We are far more adaptable than we believe and capable of learning much more than we imagine.

What’s more, this way of thinking doesn’t appear only in painting. I hear it constantly in all kinds of areas. “I’m shy,” “I’m clumsy,” “I’m stubborn,” “I’m not good with crafts.” We say these things as if they were traits assigned to us on the day we were born and there were nothing we could do about them.

Personally, I strongly disagree with that idea. Not because I believe we can become anything overnight, but because I have seen too many people change skills, habits, and behaviors that they themselves considered an unchangeable part of their personality. I am one of them.

Maybe today you’re not good at painting. But that doesn’t mean you’re “a person who can’t paint.” It simply means you still have a lot to learn.

Don’t Forget to Enjoy It

It also helps to remember something we often forget: this is supposed to be enjoyable.

It’s easy to finish a painting session thinking only about everything that didn’t turn out the way we wanted. The color mixtures that didn’t work, the effect we still can’t achieve... If we always focus on what we’re lacking, it will feel as though we’re never making progress.

Try paying attention to what you’ve learned as well. Maybe today you gained a better understanding of how water behaves. Maybe you made a more confident brushstroke than you did last week. Maybe you experimented with a new color combination.

All of that counts.

Improvement in watercolor rarely happens all at once. It usually comes through the accumulation of small lessons that, when viewed individually, seem insignificant. Enjoying the process is precisely about that: appreciating how far you’ve already come instead of obsessing over what you haven’t achieved yet.

The next time you sit down to paint, try doing something different. Use a slightly larger brush. Load more pigment than usual. Use more water. Make fewer brushstrokes. And above all, allow yourself to ruin a sheet of paper if necessary.

Confidence doesn’t appear once you already know how to paint. It appears when you accept that, for a while, you’re going to paint mediocre watercolors so that you can paint good ones later.

And that process, uncomfortable as it may sometimes be, is exactly the path followed by every watercolor artist you admire.

Wish a wonderful afternoon.

Sincerely,

One of the most frustrating things about watercolor is finishing a piece you absolutely love… only to see the paper end up full of waves, taking away that professional or premium look you really wanted it to have.

Especially when working on cotton paper and using a lot of water, it’s very difficult to prevent the paper from warping.

For a long time, I thought it was simply part of the process, but over the years I’ve found ways to greatly reduce that effect and get both sketchbooks and individual paintings to dry much flatter.

Cotton fibers absorb water, expand unevenly, and those typical waves appear. Some areas receive more moisture than others, the paper deforms…

The good news is that there’s a VERY simple way to minimize it.

And you don’t need any special tools.

The method

Once your painting is completely finished and completely dry, turn the sheet over and dampen the entire back side.

Important: the moisture needs to be distributed evenly. Don’t soak specific areas and avoid creating puddles. Exactly the same way you would if you were preparing the paper for wet-on-wet watercolor painting.

After that, close the sketchbook and place weight on top of it.

And when I say weight, I mean real weight.

In my case, I usually use:

• a stack of books,

• and on top of that, a heavy toolbox.

Now, lower your eyes to the same level as the sketchbook and check that the pages are being pressed tightly together and that the sketchbook looks completely flat again. This is important, if not, it means there isn’t enough weight.

Now it’s time to wait.

The paper needs several hours to dry because it’s no longer exposed to open air.

I normally do this in the morning before leaving for work, and when I come back home 8 or 9 hours later, it’s ready.

And the difference is huge.

If you work with loose sheets instead of sketchbooks, the process is exactly the same.

The only difference is that you can place the paper between two rigid surfaces: plastic, PVC, acrylic, or any non-porous surface.

You can also use thick cardboard, although it’s not ideal because the cardboard itself absorbs moisture and may warp.

The idea is still:

1. dampen the back side,

2. press the paper between flat surfaces,

3. place weight on top,

4. and wait until all the moisture disappears.

Simple, but it dramatically changes the final finish of a watercolor painting.

The importance of choosing good paper

Although this technique helps a lot, there’s one thing that makes a huge difference: the paper you use.

Cotton paper is still the best option for watercolor. Not only because it absorbs water much more evenly, but also because it handles this flattening process far better afterward.

In addition, the heavier the paper weight, the less it will tend to warp.

Thin paper deforms very easily and is much harder to return to its original state. On the other hand, heavier papers maintain their structure much better and respond far better to this pressing and drying technique.

So if you want to improve the final finish of your watercolors, keep in mind that the paper you choose also changes the result.

If you’d like to dive deeper into how to choose good watercolor paper, I have a full video on my Patreon dedicated entirely to that: types of paper, differences between cotton and cellulose, paper weights, and which ones I recommend depending on each person’s painting style.

You can watch it here → [How to Choose Watercolor Paper]

I wish you a wonderful afternoon.

Sincerely,
Ander Watercolor

Whether you’ve been painting for years or you’ve just started, you’ve probably wanted (and tried) to paint water.

We’re naturally drawn to it. The sea, a calm lake, a river… they have something hypnotic about them. And in our minds it seems simple: a few brushstrokes, a bit of blue… and done.

But as soon as you begin, reality hits.

Water is frustrating, and surprisingly, it’s more difficult than it first appears.

We try to paint water as if it were just another object. But water has no shape of its own. It’s not a cup, not a mountain, not a tree. Water is movement and reflection.

And there’s something else.

When you paint water in watercolor, an interesting paradox occurs: the medium and the subject are the same. You’re using water to represent water.

What at first seems like a disadvantage becomes a huge advantage once you understand it. Because no other medium can capture that fluidity, those transitions, and that natural feel in quite the same way.

When you master it, the results are especially powerful.

That’s where it’s worth insisting.

Today I want to help you change your approach.

1. Ripples

Water ripples are constantly moving. They don’t stay still long enough for you to analyze them calmly. That makes drawing them from life confusing. You can’t fix a clear shape, and you end up improvising.

The result is usually an artificial, unconvincing pattern.

So here’s something simple: take photos. Lots of photos.

Not one or two, many.

When you have a quiet moment, go back to them. Observe them without rushing. Start looking for patterns: how shapes repeat, which direction they follow, how the ripples group together.

Pay special attention to perspective.

This may seem trivial, but it’s exactly the kind of information you need to internalize to paint with intention.

As I’ve mentioned before, to paint well you first need to know how to observe. And with a subject as constantly changing as water, using photos isn’t cheating, it’s a tool.

In fact, in this case, it’s one of the best ways to learn to see what’s really happening.

2. Reflections

This is a point that blocks many people.

Because when you look at water, you don’t see water. You see trees, boats, buildings… all reflected and distorted.

A useful trick: forget the reflected object for a moment and focus on the shape. Is it a vertical stain? Does it break into segments? Does it stretch? Does it have a defined shape, or is it more blurred?

In completely calm water, reflections tend to be more vertical and continuous. In moving water, they break apart and deform following the pattern of the ripples.

That combination (vertical reflection + distortion) is what creates credibility.

3. The color of water

Here we need to dismantle a deeply rooted idea.

Water does not have a fixed color.

Most of the time we see it as blue, yes, but not because it is blue, but because it reflects the sky. And here’s something key: the sky is not a flat color. It has a gradient.

It’s usually darker at the top and becomes lighter as it approaches the horizon. That change is subtle but essential to apply in your paintings.

And water inherits that behavior.

If you’re painting an open scene, you’ll notice that the water closest to you tends to have a darker, more saturated tone (look at the photos you took). As it moves away, the color lightens and softens, just like the sky.

However, if you’ve been reading this newsletter for a while, you might sense that something even more important is at play: value (lightness or darkness).

Volume and depth don’t come from color, they come from tonal value.

In the end, that’s what builds the sense of depth and gives realism to the ripples. The next point is related to this concept.

4. The relationship between tonal values

This is where a watercolor of water either works… or completely falls apart.

If you paint the water too dark, you lose that sense of lightness and transparency that defines it, and the result becomes artificial. But the opposite mistake doesn’t help either: you might get the general value of the water right, and still ruin the whole piece by adding a reflection that’s too dark. This often happens when painting boats, trees, or buildings reflected in the water; that poorly adjusted contrast breaks the coherence of the entire scene.

There’s also a key aspect that is often overlooked: the ripples themselves. For them to work, there must be a clear difference between the crest (the part receiving more light) and the lower area (where the shadow appears). If that difference isn’t well defined, the ripple flattens and loses meaning.

In the end, everything comes down to relationships. You’re not painting isolated elements, you’re adjusting each tonal value in relation to the others. When this balance is achieved, the water begins to have volume and naturalness.

All of this isn’t about memorizing rules.

It’s about learning how to look.

The next time you have water in front of you (sea, river, even a puddle), don’t think (or stress) about how to paint it. Just observe:

• What shapes are the ripples taking?

• What color does the water have? Does it change with distance?

• Where are the strongest contrasts? Is there any gradient?

When you start asking these questions, something changes. You begin to truly observe.

And without realizing it, that way of seeing is already making you a better painter.

If you’re interested in this topic and want to go deeper, I’ve prepared a complete guide where I break down these concepts (reflections, ripples, color…) along with a video tutorial in which I paint a scene of a sailboat at sea, explaining every decision.

It’s available on my Patreon:

👉 Go to Patreon

No magic formulas. But with a method.

Thanks for being there. I wish you a lovely afternoon.

Sincerely,

Artificial intelligence is already here and it’s making its way into our field.

The internet is filling up with accounts showing supposed watercolors created by artists… who don’t actually exist. What’s surprising isn’t just that, but the comments: people enthusiastically congratulating a piece that was never painted by hand.

Today, if you’ve trained your eye a little, you can still tell many of these images apart. But it’s getting harder and harder. And that points in only one direction:

There will come a time when it will be practically impossible to distinguish them.

In fact, not even the platforms themselves are clear about it. The tools that label content as AI-generated are already making mistakes and even flagging real artwork as artificial.

And this is where I ask myself an interesting question.

When photography appeared in the 19th century, what did artists of the time think?

Until then, painting was the only way to capture reality in a lasting form. Suddenly, a technology emerged capable of doing it with an unmatched level of precision. A photographic portrait surpassed (in realism) any painting.

It must have been a moment of uncertainty. Even fear.

But painting did not disappear.

Artists continued to receive commissions. They kept creating. And in fact, art evolved. It found new paths. New forms of expression that didn’t compete with reality, but interpreted it.

Today, we are still here.

And watercolor too.

Because there is something in painting, and especially in watercolor, that goes far beyond the final result.

We live in the age of immediacy. AI can generate any image you want in a matter of seconds. Whatever you imagine appears. No waiting. No mistakes. No process.

But I believe art is not about that.

Art goes precisely in the opposite direction.

It’s about learning.

About making mistakes.

About repeating.

About enjoying the journey.

In a world where everything happens instantly, painting becomes almost an act of resistance.

A way of spending your time with intention.

Of slowing down.

Of coming back to the present.

And also of stepping away from the crowd.

While most people consume, scroll, and generate images in seconds, you can choose a different path: stop, observe, and create.

Watercolor is, in that sense, an opportunity. An opportunity to disconnect from the digital world and step away from the noise.

To return to the manual, to the handcrafted.

To do something with your own hands, without shortcuts.

If you’ve ever painted outdoors, you know this well: you’re not just depicting a place. You’re connecting with it. That moment becomes imprinted in your memory in a way no generated image can replicate.

AI can generate images.

But it cannot give you the process or the experience.

It cannot replace what it means to create something with your own hands.

Ultimately, the future is uncertain. I don’t know if, in a few years, most people will still want to create with their hands, with time and effort, when they have a tool just one click away that can do it in seconds.

I don’t know if the world will move toward immediacy… or if there will be a return to authenticity.

What I do know is this:

I choose to paint.

I choose process over quick results.
I choose to make mistakes, learn, and try again.
I choose to create something that is not only seen, but felt.

And if you also feel you need to pause, disconnect, and do something real with your hands…

then this path is for you too.

Thank you for being part of this community.

I wish you a wonderful afternoon.

For quite a long time, I ignored it completely. It wasn’t until about a year later that I began to understand that it wasn’t about seeing less, but about seeing better. Since then, it has become one of the tools I use almost every single time I paint.

Squinting at your reference image isn’t just about vaguely “focusing on what matters.” It’s actually a very effective way to simplify visual information and force yourself to pay attention to what really builds a strong painting: shapes and values.

Reducing noise to draw better

This has probably happened to you more than once: you have a reference image in front of you, and instead of helping, it overwhelms you. There are too many details, too many small shapes, too much information competing for your attention. You’re not quite sure where to start or what actually matters.

When you squint your eyes, most of that secondary information almost completely disappears. The details fade away, and what remains are the big shapes, the main masses that truly structure the image. This allows you to focus on proportions, on relationships between elements, and on the overall coherence of the scene without getting distracted by what’s secondary.

In fact, you could say that what you see in that state represents most of what makes a painting work. Everything else is still there, but it stops being a priority. And that gives you a very clear direction on where to place your energy.

Light over color

The real shift happens when you move from drawing into color. This is where it’s very easy to get lost, because color is incredibly appealing, but also very misleading. It constantly makes you doubt: is this green too cool, does this red feel off, should I add more saturation?

However, when you squint your eyes, not only do the details disappear, but color naturally loses its dominance. Our eyes are far more sensitive to light than to color, so what starts to stand out clearly are the tonal values: where the light is, where the shadows are, and how they are organized.

And this is crucial, because a painting works primarily because of its values, not its colors. You can choose a beautiful palette and still end up with a painting that doesn’t hold together if the values are off. On the other hand, when the values are well resolved, even simpler or less accurate colors can work surprisingly well.

Squinting gives you exactly that advantage. It helps you make much more accurate decisions about the structure of light in your painting.

It’s possible that at first you won’t see much benefit. It can feel uncomfortable or even pointless, simply because you’re not used to looking this way. But like any tool, it improves with practice. Over time, you start recognizing values more easily and carrying that clarity into your painting,even when you’re no longer squinting.

That said, this isn’t about working half-blind. It’s about using this as a quick decision-making tool. Before placing a brushstroke, you look at your reference, slightly squint your eyes for a moment, and ask yourself: what value does this area actually have?

If you want to take this further

If you feel like your watercolors aren’t quite working and you’re not sure why, in many cases the issue isn’t color, it’s how you’re interpreting light.

That’s exactly what we focus on in depth on Patreon. We go through clear value studies, real examples, and step-by-step exercises designed to train your eye and help you understand what’s going wrong and how to fix it. The goal isn’t just to improve a single painting, but to develop a skillset you can rely on every time you paint.

If you’re interested in taking your watercolor work more seriously and moving away from pure trial and error, you can check it out through the link.

Wishing you a great week,
Ander V.

See full tutorial in Patreon

If you’ve ever tried to paint vegetation, you’ve probably noticed this: green is a surprisingly difficult color to get right.

And if your watercolor greens look artificial or overly intense, it’s not a coincidence.

There’s a reason for that.

Our eyes are especially sensitive to the wavelengths we perceive as green. For thousands of years, being able to distinguish subtle variations in green was crucial for recognizing plants, food, or changes in the environment. As a result, our visual system became exceptionally good at detecting nuances in this part of the spectrum.

This leads to an interesting consequence when we paint:

we immediately notice when a green feels off, artificial, or too intense.
A poorly mixed green stands out more than most other colors.

There’s another challenge as well. Greens straight from the tube rarely resemble what we see in nature. They tend to be too artificial or overly saturated.

In real landscapes, on the other hand, greens are almost never a single tone. There are always subtle variations: slightly warmer, slightly cooler, influenced by surrounding colors.

That’s why many painters prefer to build their greens by mixing other colors rather than using a pure green.

For example, there is evidence that artists like Claude Monet or Paul Cézanne constantly explored variations within greens in their landscapes, combining yellows, blues, and other hues to create vibration and naturalness.

Something similar happens in watercolor.

Green shadows tend to work better when you mix yellows and blues with different temperature biases.

Small variations in the mix can completely change the result.

Mini experiment

To explore green for yourself, try creating your own color matrix:

• Take the yellows you have (ideally both warm and cool ones)

• Do the same with your blues

• Mix each yellow with each blue and observe the different greens you get

Compare these greens with each other, and also with the ones from your tubes:
Which ones feel closer to natural greens? Which ones look too intense or artificial?

If you look at the image, the green in the lower part appears artificial and unnatural, while the ones in the upper area feel much more believable.

This exercise helps you understand something key: color temperature gives you a clear way to decide which greens to use in each scene and which combinations to avoid if you don’t want them to look artificial or dull.

That’s why, in the study I’ve uploaded on Patreon this month, I focus specifically on that aspect: not just what to mix, but how to use those mixtures in real watercolor paintings.

It includes:

• yellow and blue scales (from cool to warm)

• specific combinations between them

• applied examples in landscape painting

If you want to go deeper into this and start gaining real control over your greens, you’ll find it there.

Link to Patreon

Thanks for reading.

All the best.

There’s something I constantly notice when I look at beginner watercolor paintings, and it reminds me of how I used to work when I was starting out.

Most paintings are done almost entirely on dry paper.

Details, layers… everything very controlled.

And it makes sense. Painting on dry paper is much more predictable. You know exactly where the pigment will fall and how far the brushstroke will go.

However, if you always paint this way, you’re missing out on a large part of what watercolor can really do.

The true power of this medium lies in the wet-on-wet technique.

The gradients you can achieve and the way pigments blend together are very difficult to replicate with other mediums.

That’s why this newsletter is a small defense of wet-on-wet.

I have a feeling that many people avoid using it for two reasons:

The first is lack of control.

If every time you try to work wet-on-wet you end up with unwanted blooms or the pigment runs everywhere, it’s normal to avoid it. But by doing so, you’re also missing out on one of the most magical aspects of watercolor.

The second reason is a bit more curious: not knowing when to use it.

An easy way to think about it is this:

If an element has no hard edges or shouldn’t be the main focus, it will probably work better wet-on-wet.

Practical examples

In the example on the left, I painted the mountains on dry paper, which created clear, defined edges. You can see perfectly where each mountain starts and ends. While it works, I think the scene would have been stronger and more believable if I had painted them wet-on-wet, so the focus would have shifted more naturally to the little house and the tree.

In the example on the right, the background suggests a mountainous area but shows very little detail. This directs attention toward the gas station and the car, the truly important elements in the scene. This approach adds incredible depth to the overall composition.

Another example is the clouds:

In the example on the left, the cloud and its inner shadows were painted on dry paper. This gives a more aggressive look and clearly draws the viewer’s attention to that area. I don’t think it’s a mistake, but it’s important to know where the eye will go when using this technique.

In the example on the right, the clouds were painted wet-on-wet, which brings more harmony and cohesion to the piece without stealing focus from what really matters: the bridge.

If you want to dive deeper into this technique, yesterday I published a full tutorial on Patreon, fully subtitled in English, where I explain it step by step with 8 practical exercises: gradients, clouds, soft backgrounds, and landscapes.

View the full tutorial on Patreon

Thanks for reading this far!

See you in two weeks :)

Best,

There’s a habit I return to every time I go to Madrid: getting lost in El Rastro on Sundays. No rush. It’s a place that’s strange and fascinating in equal measure. An improvised museum of things that were once important to someone and that today wait for a second chance on a folding table.

Between old furniture and books underlined by strangers, there’s something that always catches my eye: the sheer amount of life accumulated in the form of objects. Odds and ends, mostly old. Material remnants of decisions, hobbies, fashions, and routines that, over time, stopped making sense to the people who once kept them.

The last time, I came across something that made me stop. A box full of old consoles, Game Boys, and early digital cameras. Today they’re sold as vintage. Not so long ago, they were part of my everyday life. I played with them. I devoted hours to them. They entertained me, absorbed me, made me lose track of time.

And that’s when something hit me.

All that time invested left no trace.

There’s nothing I can point to and say, “I made this.”

From the PlayStation, all that remains is a blurry memory of screens I tried to get past.
From the Game Boy, the feeling of having killed entire afternoons.
From those early digital cameras, the photos probably don’t even exist anymore: they were lost with the computer from back then, like so many things we lose when we don’t yet know that one day we’ll want to keep them.

This isn’t a critique of playing, or resting, or disconnecting. It’s something else.

It’s the feeling of having poured energy into something that, over time, became invisible even to me.

And that made me a bit sad.

Because they were pastimes that left no trace. Hobbies that were consumed in the moment and then evaporated. They didn’t build anything I could come back and touch years later. They left no mark in the physical world that could return me to who I was back then.

In an increasingly digital world, it makes more and more sense to return to hobbies that leave a trace. Activities where hand and mind turn time into something tangible through learning. Something that exists outside the screen and outside memory.

Woodworking.
Plastic arts.
Ceramics.
Drawing.
…

Any form of creating with your hands.

Not because they’re better hobbies, but because they give us something that fast consumption doesn’t: the feeling of having created instead of just having passed through. The experience of watching something that didn’t exist begin to exist because of you. Even if it’s imperfect. Even if it isn’t beautiful. Even if it only has value for the person who made it.

I like to think that in a few years I’ll be able to look at something I created and smile. To look with tenderness at what my mind back then was able to imagine using its hands. To remember not only what I made, but who I was when I made it. What worried me. What moved me. What was hard for me.

Creating leaves a trace of ourselves in time.

And there’s an image that always comes back when I think about this. Every time I open my sketchbook and come across the pencil drawing of the Colosseum, I’m instantly taken back to that moment. Around me, tourists laughed, spoke different languages, enjoyed their holidays. I was there, sitting, observing, trying to capture with a pencil a scene I knew would disappear in minutes.

That drawing isn’t a masterpiece.

It’s not hanging on any wall.

But it exists.

And it exists because I was there—present—creating instead of just looking.

Sometimes I think that’s what all this is really about: choosing, when we can, to leave a small trace instead of disappearing completely into the consumption of moments that don’t come back.

Thank you.

This week on Patreon

In this week’s article, we look at how to build your watercolor palette from scratch: which colors to choose and what elements to take into account so it doesn’t lack anything.

Perfect if you want to stop guessing and start painting with more intention and confidence.

Link to Patreon

In the next newsletter, we’ll return to watercolor, focusing on a particularly tricky color: why it often gets muddy, how to use it without dulling the rest of your painting, and what tricks you can apply so it works in your favor instead of ruining your piece.

Thanks for being here and for continuing to create with your hands.
Talk very soon 💛

Best,

I practiced a lot, read tons of books, and signed up for online academies. I followed many artists on Patreon, some of them real references for me.

Over time, I began to truly understand what I was learning from them. Seeing watercolor through other artists’ eyes opened my mind and gave me new ideas.

However, there was something that kept repeating itself, both in books and in the words of so-called experts. A kind of unwritten dogma, defended by old-school gurus, who dictate (with surprising confidence) how this medium should be used.

According to them, legitimate watercolor is fluid and suggestive. Quick washes, light brushstrokes, no excessive detail.

Working with more control, layers, precision, even approaching a language closer to oil painting, seems to be automatically pushed into a lower category. As if those works were less valuable. As if, if you don’t paint that way, you’re not a good watercolorist.

And honestly: this mindset irritates me.

Because art is not mathematics. It’s not a closed system of rules that must be followed to get a correct result. Art is, precisely, the territory of curiosity, exploration, and searching.

A space where you can experiment without asking for permission.

And I’m speaking from my own background: I come from engineering, where there is a correct way to do things, where everything is analyzed, calculated, and optimized to find the right solution.

That’s exactly why I found in art a place to improvise and feel free, without having to approach everything analytically the way I do for 8 hours a day.

This might be one of the reasons why you also enjoy painting.

So today I want to defend something very simple, but very powerful:

work with watercolor in your own way.

This doesn’t mean ignoring others or painting inside a bubble. Quite the opposite. Learning from others is probably one of the best ways to grow. Observe, study, try things out. Keep what moves you and discard what doesn’t resonate with you. Incorporate techniques that fascinate you and let go of those whose results don’t represent you.

Nothing you try is wasted time.

What’s dangerous is not learning from masters, but allowing some of them to become judges. Letting their discourse make you doubt yourself, limit you, or feel like you’re painting “wrong” when, in reality, you’re simply exploring your own language.

Don’t let these gurus intimidate you when you paint.

And by the way, there are also great artists who broke these “rules” and created their own path. Thierry Duval is a perfect example. A true master:

So my recommendation today is to join this small form of resistance: step away from the noise, the labels, and the categorical statements.

This is not about meeting other people’s expectations.

This is about expression.

This is about exploration.

This is about finding pleasure and meaning in what you do with your brush.

Watercolor doesn’t need permission to be what you want it to be.
And neither do you.

One more thing…

I opened my Patreon page just a little while ago 😊
And you’re among the first people to know about it.

It’s a space for those of you who want to explore watercolor with me in a deeper, dogma-free way: full processes, guided exercises, real decisions (with successes and mistakes), and content I don’t share on social media.

The Patreon costs around €15 per month (VAT included) and gives you access to all of this.

All the videos on Patreon are subtitled in English, and all the articles are written in both Spanish and English.

I’ve prepared a short video where I explain clearly what’s inside and who it’s for (English subs):

I’ve been preparing this launch for weeks, and I was especially excited to tell you here first, before saying anything on social media.

LINK TO PATREON

PS: If you’re going to subscribe and you have an iPhone, do it from a browser (desktop or Safari). If you subscribe through the Patreon iPhone app, Apple adds and keeps an extra commission.
Once you’ve subscribed, you can use the app without any problem.

Thanks for being part of this project. I’m excited to see you there.

Those drawings appeared without asking permission. They moved straight from mind to paper—directly, impulsively, without prior reflection. Drawing was a natural extension of thinking.

Many years later, when I started playing around with watercolor, I repeated exactly the same pattern. Playing with pigment, testing mixes, wetting the paper without a clear idea. Painting simply for the pleasure of seeing what would happen.

And it was necessary. That stage helped me lose my fear, understand the material, accept mistakes, and enjoy the process without expectations.

But over time I’ve reached a clear conclusion, and I’m increasingly convinced of it:

your work doesn’t begin when you wet the brush. It begins much earlier.

Watercolor doesn’t forgive improvisation. Time works against you, water is in control, and mistakes can’t always be corrected. You can improvise, yes—but improvising without structure usually ends in frustration.

That’s why I plan today. And I recommend that you do too.

Before thinking about what to draw, there are questions that need answers:

Who is the protagonist of the scene?

Where do you want the viewer’s eye to rest?

What do you really want to convey?

Calm, silence, peace?

Or tension, drama, agitation?

These questions are the foundation of any good composition. Without them, everything else is decorative.

Once you’ve placed the elements of your scene in pencil, the second phase of decisions begins—and this is where it’s easy to fail.

How do you reinforce that emotion through color?

Are you looking for drama with strong contrasts or more striking colors?

Do you need harmony, using analogous color ranges and warm light that envelops the scene?

Do you want the viewer to feel cold, distance, calm, or introspection?

Color isn’t just beautiful. It’s narrative.

If you need to highlight a specific element without the rest stealing the spotlight, watercolor also gives you tools:

control of values, background simplification, intelligent use of complementary colors, desaturation…

None of this happens by accident.

Everything is decided before touching the brush.

Watercolor seems spontaneous. And in part, it is.

But works that truly work are almost never the result of chance.

Remember this:

your work begins long before you start painting.

Plan. Decide. And when everything is clear, then… let the water improvise.

Thanks for reading this far.

We live connected. All day, all the time. From phone to computer, from computer to TV, and back to the phone. Reels, series, videos, notifications. A screen always in front of us.

And it’s easy to forget, but it wasn’t always like this.

When was the last time you spent two or three hours doing something without checking your phone? Fully focused. In silence. Without interruptions. It doesn’t happen as often as we’d like.

The way we entertain ourselves has changed: now it’s passive. We watch things, we let ourselves drift. It entertains us, but it dulls us. And above all, it empties us.

You notice it when you do the opposite.

When, for example, you sit down to paint.

Painting with watercolors feels different.

It’s not just a hobby. It’s a completely different way of spending time. It’s entertainment, but active. It forces you to be present. To focus. To use your hands.

To make mistakes and try again.

And in that process there’s a kind of satisfaction that doesn’t feel like watching a series.

Because you’re not consuming. You’re creating.

And you can see the result right in front of you.

It doesn’t matter if you’ve been painting for years or if you’ve never held a brush in your life. Watercolor is an imperfect medium. The water does its part, and you do yours.

You learn to let go of control.

You learn to accept mistakes.

You learn to look more carefully (as I talked about in the last newsletter).

And progress shows quickly: sketchbooks fill up, pages improve, your hand becomes more confident. It’s a slow, steady kind of learning—but deeply rewarding.

And you hardly need anything: a brush, paper, color, and a bit of time.

That’s what a hobby like watercolor offers:

a moment just for you, without rush or screens.

A space to focus, learn, enjoy, and watch something beautiful come out of your own hands.

And if you’re interested in starting—or continuing to learn—I talk a lot about that here.

I share materials, techniques, ways to practice, and mistakes to avoid.

And very soon, there will be much more.

Thank you for your support.

There are no doubts or nuances. Color is identified quickly and applied without hesitation. And this is not a mistake: it is the purest and most intuitive way to begin painting.

Curiously, when we start painting watercolor as adults, we often return to that very same point. Our eye is still untrained and, even though we may have more technical control, our paintings tend to be filled with intense and saturated colors.

The result: eye-catching drawings, yes… but not very believable.

This doesn’t happen because we don’t know how to paint.
It happens because we haven’t yet learned how to observe.

At first, our eye works in a simple way. Blue is blue. Green is green. Gray is gray. We paint what we know is there, not what we actually see. That’s why our early works often resemble children’s drawings in a way: pure, vibrant colors with little or no mixing.

But when you begin to truly observe, something changes.

Is the sky really just blue?

If you pause for a few seconds, you’ll notice that the sky is almost never a flat color. On a clear day there is an obvious gradient: darker at the top and gradually lighter toward the horizon. But what’s most interesting is not only the change in value, but the change in color.

At the top, the blue often leans toward ultramarine.
In the middle, it becomes more cobalt.
And near the horizon, a soft cerulean appears—almost white.

Nothing is pure. Everything is mixed.

And this same phenomenon repeats itself in everything around you.

A stone in a park looks gray… until you really look at it. Then the nuances begin to reveal themselves: ochre, raw sienna, burnt sienna, amber, cool reflections, bluish touches. Even within a single stone, multiple colors, values, and temperatures coexist. What first appears dull is, in reality, a subtle web of variations.

This is where a key realization emerges:
reality is mostly built from muted, desaturated colors—but far from being poor or monotonous, they are full of nuance, delicate transitions, and chromatic richness.

Over time, your eye trains itself almost without you noticing. You begin to see nuances where before there were none. And perhaps most importantly, you start to realize that most of the colors around you are not bright or loud.

What you once called yellow is now beige, ochre, or a broken yellow.
What was once red is now burnt sienna.
And what was simply blue—you now recognize as cobalt, ultramarine… or a softened mixture.

This is where watercolor takes a real leap forward.

When you begin to mix colors, mute them, and desaturate them, your paintings transform. By reducing intensity, by slightly “dirtying” the color, by moving away from pure pigment, your work becomes far more believable and closer to reality.

Fewer clean colors.
More mixing.

Just because a roof has reddish undertones doesn’t mean it is red, and just because a shadow appears bluish doesn’t mean it is blue. This can be seen in the lower right drawing, where this mistake results in a less realistic depiction of the little house. By working with color mixtures and combining warm and cool tones, however, a much more realistic version emerges.

Muting color does not mean draining life from a painting. It means giving it truth. It means painting what you actually see, not what you think should be there.

Watercolor doesn’t just teach you how to paint better.
It teaches you how to see better.

And when you learn to see the world as it truly is—full of soft, muted tones rich in nuance—your watercolors begin to breathe with reality, depth, and emotion.

That is the path.

Thank you for being here. Wishing you all the best for 2026.