As I've moved between a few different paintings this month - some from life, some from reference, and some from imagination - I've found myself reflecting on the idea of style and how it manifests over time in an artist's work. I doubt most people think about "painterly style" in any conscious way day to day, but for me, it's an undercurrent I return to constantly.

When I was working in design and illustration, I'd often have to switch styles to meet the needs of different projects. Now, with painting, the shift is more internal - moving between gesture and precision, between thick passages of opaque paint and thin veils of color. Each painting demands something different. And yet, even with those differences, I notice something familiar running through the work - a through-line that seems less about technique and more about temperament. So, while there may be styles, is there also a Style - something deeper, something that transcends subject matter or medium?

When you're starting out, especially as a young artist, you copy a lot. Sometimes consciously, sometimes not. You see something that moves you and try to replicate it. You borrow palettes, compositions, brush handling. It's a kind of visual scavenging - useful, necessary even. Over time, though, the eye sharpens. You begin to see not just what you like, but why. That blue is too cold. That figure's gesture feels stiff. Why is there so much detail here when the focal point is over there?

Eventually, you steal less because you don't need to. You're not reaching for a reference - you're reaching for a reaction. You've started to accumulate preferences. Maybe it's a certain brush you always reach for when you're blocking in. Maybe it's the way you underpaint - the quick wipe-away marks or the scumbled edges you always leave just a little rough. These things become habits, yes - but also fingerprints.

And in time, that's what style becomes. Not a decision, not a brand, but a residue - the build-up of countless small decisions and preferences. A painter's style might show up in their edges, their compositions, their color harmony. It might even be less visual and more visceral - how the work makes someone feel, what kind of silence it holds.

That idea makes me grateful for the winding path I've taken. For the time spent learning not just painting, but illustration, life drawing, digital work, and even typography. I was warned, as many artists are, not to spread myself too thin. "Find your niche." "Master one thing." And while there's some wisdom in that, there's also loss.

Some of the most influential lessons in my painting life didn't come from painting at all - they came from things like observational drawing, or watching how a designer thinks about space and rhythm. Style isn't just visual; it's sensibility.

So what makes an artist's voice recognizable? Not just their subjects or their tools, but their way of seeing - and re-seeing - the world. Their opinions, their quirks, their evolving relationship with the medium.

Which brings me back to the sketchbook.

Sketchbooks, for me, are less about polish and more about exploration. They're places where I give myself permission to be curious, to change course, to follow a thread. Since much of my finished work is done in oil and often on canvas, my sketchbooks fill slowly. But that slowness allows them to show growth - they become a record of choices, hesitations, and breakthroughs. Below is a flip-through of the latest one I've filled. If anything catches your eye, let me know - I'd be glad to share more.