There’s something brutal and beautiful about painting. Whether it’s on a glowing screen or stretched canvas, I chase the same thing: mood, weight, atmosphere—the stuff that hits you in the gut before your brain has time to name it.
I came back to art after a long time away. When I did, I found digital painting waiting for me like a loaded weapon—precise, flexible, and dangerous in the right hands. It didn’t replace traditional work. It sharpened it.
I use Procreate like a battlefield. Layers let me test lighting, push shadows, explore compositions I wouldn’t dare try with real paint—at least, not right away. I can rip it apart, rebuild it, over and over, without wasting time or materials. That kind of freedom forces you to be bold. You stop being afraid to ruin it, and that fearlessness starts to bleed into traditional work too.
When I painted Death Dealer, I wasn’t just copying a Frazetta vibe—I was creating something of my own. It was done digitally, but every stroke was rooted in the same fire that burns when I’m holding a real brush.
I treat digital painting like I would oil on canvas. I start loose. Messy. Sketch out the bones of the thing. Then I build up the form—first values, then color, then details, all in layers like armor. I don’t rely on tricks or filters. I use textured brushes that echo charcoal, bristle, even dry paint. Every move is intentional. Every edge matters.
There’s no magic in the tech. The magic’s in the choices.
Digital teaches discipline. It forces you to study how light falls, how shadows shape form, how to control edges with surgical precision. You zoom in far enough, you start to understand how a single brush stroke can make or break the mood.
And all of that knowledge carries over. When I pick up a real brush, I already know what works. I’ve tested it. Failed. Adjusted. I don’t hesitate the way I used to.
Digital painting isn’t a shortcut. It’s not a cheat code. It’s a crucible. And when you step out of it and return to the traditional world, you’re stronger, sharper, and more fearless than you were before.
It’s not either/or.
It’s both—and together, they make you dangerous.
Add comment
Comments