From Acrylic Familiarity to Watercolour Wonder: Letting Go of Control
For years, my artistic world was built on the confident foundations of acrylic medium that offered certainty, control, and a layered depth that rewarded persistence and precision. Portraits came to life through careful brushstrokes, and landscapes unfolded across my canvas like orchestral scores, each layer adding emotional and visual resonance. Acrylics, for all their vibrancy and adaptability, rarely pushed back. They cooperated, responded well to overpainting, and allowed for revisions. They were dependable companions.
And then came watercolours.
I didn’t expect to be lured in by something so unpredictable. The very notion of embracing chaos felt counterintuitive to everything I had honed over decades. But that unpredictabilityelusive, wild, and brimming with character what first piqued my curiosity. It was as if I had been painting in structured prose, and watercolour offered me poetry. With every wash and every unexpected bloom, I found myself confronting an entirely new philosophy: less about mastery and more about surrender.
Naively, I thought the transition would be simple. More water, gentler pressure, slower drying timeshow complicated could it be? But I quickly discovered that watercolours have their rhythm, a language that doesn’t tolerate force or familiarity. My instincts, honed by years of acrylic work, betrayed me repeatedly. The water bled in directions I hadn’t planned. Colours mingled like strangers at a wild party, refusing to stay in their assigned spots. Puddles formed, edges feathered uncontrollably, and entire compositions dissolved into unintended abstraction. And yet, beneath that chaos, a kind of freedom began to emerge.
I was learning to let go. Watercolours didn’t need to be tamedthey needed to be heard. Each painting became a conversation rather than a construction. I started to cherish the imperfect edges, the water stains that resembled old postcards, the granulation that mimicked moss on stone or twilight mist on hills. These effects couldn’t be forced; they had to be invited. Slowly, I stopped fighting the medium and began collaborating with it. The unpredictability became not just tolerable, but intoxicating.
And with a new medium, inevitably, came a new obsession: tools. Not merely functional, the objects of watercolour felt ceremonial. My studio filled with textured, cold-pressed papers that begged for gentle washes. Porcelain palettes gleamed like scientific apparatuses. New brushes arrivedmop-tipped, dagger-edged, fine-tipped detailerseach promising a new kind of stroke, a new gesture. Gathering these tools wasn’t just preparation; it was part of the ritual. The joy of anticipation mingled with the thrill of discovery.
As my collection of materials grew, so did my fascination with pigmentsespecially green. But not the flat, synthetic greens of student sets. These were nuanced, layered, emotionally expressive hues, and three in particular transformed the way I understood this entire part of the spectrum.
The Power of Three: Cascade Green, Phthalo Turquoise, and Undersea Green
It was during one of my many exploratory forays into professional pigment lines that I stumbled across a curated green palette inspired by the renowned watercolourist Jean Haines. The trio Cascade Green, Phthalo Turquoise, and UnderseaGreen wass described as complex, expressive, and atmospheric. Intrigued, I gave them a try. What followed was nothing short of a transformation.
My first experiments involved impressionistic studies of the Victorian countryside as summer crept toward its zenith. The dry golden fields, the eucalyptus trees that whispered history, the heat shimmering across distant hills, all came alive in a way I hadn't experienced with acrylics. Cascade Green and Undersea Green stepped in as the silent architects of my foliage, offering hues that weren’t just green, but living, changing shades that carried emotional weight. They didn’t simply depict treesthey suggested age, weather, and memory.
Phthalo Turquoise, however, stole the show. With its jewel-like luminosity, this pigment transformed both sky and water. When diluted, it delivered a crystalline transparency that felt tropical, even in temperate scenes. Blended with French Ultramarine, it yielded depths perfect for lakes, streams, or cloud shadows. It was versatile in a way I hadn’t anticipated in washes, ethereal in glazes.
Cascade Green quickly became a favourite for its inherent drama. As it dried, it split beautifully into slaty blue and viridian green, creating natural textures and tonal variation perfect for the shadows in leafy studies or the play of light on garden foliage. I noticed this especially during a study of garden roses' favourite variety, painted from life and memory. The leaves came alive with internal separation, a chromatic ballet I never expected. The background was a cool harmony of Phthalo Turquoise and Green Gold, while the flowers bloomed with Quinacridone Rose and Quinacridone Pink colors I now treat like dear old friends.
Undersea Green, though initially elusive, found its purpose in the waning days of the season. A single fallen leafbruised and curlingbecame its canvas. Here, the pigment’s dusky undertones and granular finish told the story of time passing, of seasons shifting. The golden warmth of Quinacridone Gold and the cooler tones of French Ultramarine played across the textured surface of the paper, as if nature herself had brushed it in. It was a moment of alchemy. I saw how a pigment could communicate more than color could evoke atmosphere, emotion, even nostalgia.
In a companion piece, I depicted an ancient oak, its summer canopy dense and whispering. Once again, Cascade Green and Undersea Green did the heavy lifting. The acorns that hung from its branches were rendered in gentle combinations of Yellow Hansa Light, Rich Green Gold, and Burnt Sienna Light coppery tone I discovered in a specialty collection and now reserve for earthy details. Even the beetle, nestled in bark, was glazed in thin layers of the same tones, giving it a subtle shimmer and life.
What surprised me most was how these three greens began to influence even my smallest illustrations. One whimsical piecefeaturing my dog Jimmy lounging beneath gum treesrelied entirely on this palette. Undersea Green grounded the scene with weight and shadow. Cascade Green animated the middle distance with flickering foliage. Phthalo Turquoise added an almost magical quality to the air, giving coolness to shaded areas and a gentle echo of evening mist.
These colours didn’t just fill space. They anchored the emotion of the scene. They became mood, rhythm, and story.
Building a Personal Palette: The Chromatic Soul of Nature
As I continue down this path, watercolour has stopped feeling like a detour and started to feel like a destination. My workbench is now home to a growing anthology of greens and blue-greens24 half-pans and counting. Each colour is chosen for its emotional tone, its capacity for layering, and its capacity to surprise me. But at the heart of this evolving collection remains the Jean Haines Trio.
These three shades are more than staplesthey’re signature voices in my visual storytelling. They allow me to move between realism and abstraction with fluidity. They give me the tools to depict morning fog, coastal dunes, wind-rustled ferns, rain-darkened soil, and the mysterious hush of dense undergrowth. And they have changed the way I approach colour altogether.
Green is no longer just green. It is light and shadow, presence and absence, breath and heartbeat. It is what defines a place as living. With these pigments, I’m able to express the secret life within every tree, the hush between hills, the dance of water against stone. And as the seasons shift, so too does the way I use themsometimes bold and assertive, sometimes so diluted they feel like memory itself.
Even the act of selecting a green has become intentional. Cascade Green for untamed hedgerows and drama-laced foliage. Phthalo Turquoise for atmospheric depths, reflections, and mystery. Undersea Green for the secrets of the forest, the last whisper of autumn, the quiet melancholy of fallen leaves.
In watercolour, I have found not just a new technique, but a new language. One that values imperfection, honours spontaneity, and rewards patience with luminous unpredictability. I now understand why so many artists become devotedalmost evangelicalabout the medium. Watercolour doesn’t just depict a world. It creates one.
This journey from acrylics to watercolour hasn’t been linear or neat. It has been filled with missteps, surprises, and revelations. But with every painting, I find myself more at home in this watery, pigment-rich world where colour flows like thought and green, in all its shades and complexities, becomes the beating heart of my creative voice.
The Mysterious Chemistry of Watercolour Pigments
There’s something inherently poetic about the behavior of watercolour pigmentsespecially those that refuse to conform to artistic precision. Where oils brood and acrylics comply, watercolours remain defiant and free-spirited. Their unpredictability is not a flaw but a feature, a kind of alchemy that happens quietly between paper, water, and pigment. Among the most evocative examples of this phenomenon is the enchanting trio often associated with Jean Haines: Phthalo Turquoise, Cascade Green, and Undersea Green. These aren’t just pigments; they are personalities. Each one seems to hold its mood, its internal logic, and its way of responding to your hand and the environment around you.
These colours don’t simply fill space on the page. They travel. They granulate. They whisper, shout, and shimmer depending on how they’re approached. In many ways, they behave like sentient collaborators in the artistic process. Each reacts not only to your brushstroke but to each other, the moisture in the air, the slope of the paper, even the time of day. This responsiveness gives rise to effects that can’t be replicated by any synthetic process or digital filter’s nature unfolding in slow motion through pigment.
Jean Haines, a master of expressive watercolour, often champions the emotive potential of letting pigments lead the dance. Her chosen trio embodies this philosophy perfectly. They invite experimentation rather than control, and they reward patience with moments of quiet magic. Together, they form a palette that is both rich and versatile, capable of capturing the emotional complexity of landscapes, botanicals, and abstract impressions alike. Let’s explore these three hues not merely as materials, but as dynamic, living elements in the evolving story of your painting.
Phthalo Turquoise – A Luminous Force of Nature
If there is a showstopper among this trio, it is Phthalo Turquoise. It radiates clarity, like sunlight hitting glacial waters. There's a brightness to it that feels nearly electricala vibrancy that doesn’t sit passively on the paper but glows from within. Even when used in the most diluted state, it remains potent, shifting gracefully between delicate washes and bold statements depending on the artist’s intent.
This pigment, a blend of PB15 (Phthalo Blue) and PG36 (Phthalo Green), brings together two highly saturated, transparent colours. The result is a cool yet assertive turquoise that feels both expansive and intimate. It offers an extraordinary range from the piercing clarity of arctic meltwater to the moody depths of stormy seas. It’s so responsive that it behaves differently under changing environmental conditions. A humid day allows it to diffuse gently, while in drier air, it sharpens, creating edge effects that add drama and intensity.
Technically classified as a staining pigment, Phthalo Turquoise can be tricky to lift once it's settled, making intentionality essential. However, this very quality is what makes it a favorite for layering. It interacts richly with both warm and cool tones, tempering siennas into duskier shadows or cooling down vivid florals with a single glaze. When glazed over earth tones or delicate pinks, it adds atmosphere without suffocating detail. This capability allows the artist to create compositions that feel cohesive yet multidimensional.
What makes Phthalo Turquoise truly exceptional is its emotional range. It can serve as a base for skies and oceans, but also elevate florals, shadows, and even architectural forms. Its shimmering coolness can be harnessed to suggest distance, memory, or melancholy, while in concentrated applications, it feels bold and immediate. In every context, it responds to the artist’s touch with clarity and grace, creating a sense of space that breathes.
Cascade Green – Nature’s Quiet Drama
At first glance, Cascade Green may appear modest, slightly dull, mid-tone green. But within moments of application, its secrets begin to unfold. This is a pigment with internal weather. Composed of Phthalo Green and Ultramarine Blue, it is chemically designed to separate on the page. The heavier Ultramarine Blue sinks into the paper’s valleys, while the Phthalo Green floats above, creating rivers of granulated texture. The effect is entirely organic and wonderfully unpredictable, like moss growing on stone or light filtering through foggy forest canopies.
Cascade Green is not a colour you use when you want precision or uniformity. It is a storyteller, a narrator of natural complexity. Each stroke seems to mimic the randomness of the natural, which-covered bark, deep forest undergrowth, shifting shadows on rolling hills. Its utility in landscape painting is almost limitless. Trees, distant hills, rocks, and rain-drenched soil all benefit from its nuanced interplay of tones.
But its magic doesn’t stop there. In more abstract compositions, Cascade Green behaves like a background voice that suggests form without fully revealing it. This ambiguity is useful for artists who lean into suggestion rather than declaration. It provides mood, context, and a kind of painterly "weather" that grounds a painting even when the subject is loose or dreamlike.
What elevates Cascade Green above other earth-toned greens is its ability to interact with other pigments without losing its integrity. Layer it beneath transparent yellows and it blooms into springlike vitality. Pair it with warm reds or oranges, and it adds a layer of visual tension. Cascade Green doesn't demand attention, but it often becomes the element that ties a composition together. Its granulation serves not just as a texture but as a languagequiet, earthy, and beautifully imperfect.
Undersea Green – The Introvert with Depth
Undersea Green is perhaps the most unassuming of the trio until you get to know it. Straight from the pan, it may seem muted or even muddy, but this color reveals itself gradually, like a secret whispered across time. Composed of French Ultramarine (PB29) and Quinacridone Gold (PO49), Undersea Green possesses a complex duality. It's cool granulation and warm undertones don’t fight for dominance; they coexist in a kind of soft, slow-motion dance.
This pigment excels in moments transition, literal and metaphorical. It mirrors seasonal shifts, capturing that quiet moment when green leaves begin to turn, or when daylight slips into twilight. In botanical works, it thrives on the edges of decay: autumn foliage, seed pods, mossy bark. It’s a pigment that doesn’t shout, but speaks volumes. There’s an emotional maturity in Undersea Green, something reserved, meditative, and richly human.
Its granulation is subtler than Cascade Green’s, but just as effective in creating texture. Used in thin washes, it provides atmosphere without intrusion. In concentrated areas, it adds earthy weight and resonance. When layered, Undersea Green becomes deeply expressiveone moment mossy and cool, the next sunlit and ambered. It’s especially powerful when allowed to bleed into other colours during wet-in-wet techniques, giving rise to ghostly transitions that evoke shadow, memory, and place.
The pigment’s real strength lies in its restraint. It doesn’t demand attention, yet its absence is felt immediately when removed from the palette. It complements other colours rather than competes with them, making it invaluable in complex compositions. Whether you’re capturing dusk on the riverbank or the final breath of summer in a cluster of fading leaves, Undersea Green adds something irreplaceable emotional undercurrent, a sense of grounding.
An Ever-Expanding Conversation in Colour
When used individually, these pigments each tell compelling stories. But together, they become something even more profound. They converse on the page, each responding to the presence of the other with subtle shifts in temperature, tone, and rhythm. Phthalo Turquoise leads with energy and illumination. Cascade Green follows with complexity and texture. Undersea Green closes the loop, anchoring the composition in earth and shadow.
Their compatibility is remarkable because they are similar, butalso because they are different in complementary ways. In nature, colours are rarely present in isolation or purity. They bleed into one another, overlap, and evolve in ways that defy formula. This trio mimics that very essence. They invite you to explore edges, to lean into unpredictability, and to discover new relationships in each painting session.
They also play beautifully with other staple pigments. Whether blending with Green Gold for luminous foliage, Burnt Sienna Light for grounding midtones, or Quinacridone Burnt Orange for autumnal glow, these three work with openness. There’s no territorial behavior in this palettejust a generous willingness to adapt, shift, and evolve.
As I continue refining my green-and-blue-green set, I find that few colours offer as much versatility and emotional range as Phthalo Turquoise, Cascade Green, and Undersea Green. They don’t just decoratethey express. They don’t merely supportthey participate. And most of all, they invite you to trust the process.
In their granulation, in their shifting personalities, and in their interplay with water and paper, these pigments embody what makes watercolour such a beloved and unpredictable medium. They don’t strive for perfection. They reflect nature’s own languageimperfect, wild, and alive. To paint with them is to step into a conversation with light, water, and earth. It is to let go of control and embrace discovery.
And perhaps that’s the greatest lesson these colours teach usnot just about painting, but about presence. About watching. About listening. About becoming attuned to the small, quiet transformations that turn pigment into poetry.
The Personal Evolution of a Green-Centric Watercolour Palette
It started with something humble. Just a few paints. A small palette. A sense of manageable curiosity. But like many creative journeys, what began as a simple experiment soon transformed into a deep, immersive exploration path paved in pigment, instinct, and memory. What unfolded was not merely a collection of colours but an evolving visual memoir: a 24 half-pan set devoted entirely to greens and blue-greens. This wasn’t just about painting landscapes. It was about understanding the hues of nature through the lens of a self-taught eye, and slowly curating a palette that felt more like a personal archive than a set of tools.
Watercolour introduced a shift in perception I hadn’t expected. My early days were spent with acrylicsgreens were just another colour on the spectrum, pleasant but functional. But something happened when I picked up my first watercolour brush. Green came alive. It revealed nuance: the granular whispers, the shifting warmth and coolness, the ability to be both murky and radiant. It became a universe in itself.
A pivotal moment in this evolution came with the discovery of the Jean Haines Trio by Daniel Smith. Phthalo Turquoise, Cascade Green, and Undersea Green formed the foundation of my chromatic awakening. These weren’t just beautiful pigmentsthey were a new language. Phthalo Turquoise wasn’t merely a bold blue-green; it was luminous, versatile, and emotionally charged. Cascade Green felt like an entire scene painted with a single stroke, its granulation offering mystery and natural drama. Undersea Green whispered rather than sang, but in its subtlety, it carried profound resonance.
Each of these paints did more than performthey spoke. And once I learned to listen, I wanted to hear more dialects. I started searching, comparing, layering, and learning. Green became not a category, but a spectrum of feeling and season, from sunlit sap to brooding forest floor.
From Foraging to Form: Building a Thoughtful, Expressive Palette
Creating a watercolour palette is not unlike tending a garden. Some colours are showstoppers; others are workhorses. But each must coexist, each must contribute. I approached the task slowly, adding shades only when they had earned their place. Green Gold and Rich Green Gold were among the first additions, drawn from a Daniel Smith dot card. Their transparent brilliance immediately struck a chordreminiscent of both brittle summer grasses and early spring shoots. These weren’t neon or artificial; they carried the warmth of an Australian paddock, dry and alive all at once.
From there, the hunt widened. I branched into other linesSchmincke, Holbein, Winsor & Newtoncurious to see how different brands translated the complexity of green. I found that names could deceive. Viridian from one manufacturer was dull and flat; from another, it shimmered with restrained energy. Cobalt Green might behave as chalk in one set and as moss in another. It was not enough to trust the label. You had to swatch. Watch the paint dry. See it in dilute washes and dense mixes. Only then could you begin to understand its true nature.
This careful comparison taught me that a balanced palette requires more than colour diversity needs emotional range. I wasn’t collecting greens. I was collecting moments: storm-heavy eucalyptus leaves, late-summer lichen, the dusty olive of an old tree shadowed by dusk. Each addition had to earn its keep not by name, but by utility and resonance. I needed colours that could transition from vivid spring gardens to moody wetlands with grace. Duplicates, even if subtly different, were swapped out. Harmony was the goal, not just variety.
Perylene Green quickly became one of the deeper voices in the collection. It could almost pass for black when massed, but in a wash, its earthy depth revealed hidden undertones of wet bark and mossy decay. Jadeite Genuine joined soon after, bringing wild unpredictability. Its granulation made it a visual experience; the two strokes looked the same. Meanwhile, Sap Green added the necessary vitality. It was the youth of the palette, echoing fresh leaves and morning dew, its transparency allowing light to shine through even in layered passages.
Not every experiment was successful. Some paints were fleeting flingsHooker’s Green Dark clashed too much, others simply faded under scrutiny. Some I removed and later returned to, their personalities better understood after time and testing. Paint, I found, can be as fickle and revealing as memory itself.
Even the arrangement of the pans became a deliberate act. A good layout isn’t randomit’s choreography. The flow of colour temperature, the transitions from shadow to light, cool to warm, all needed consideration. I placed blue-leaning greens near the anchor of Phthalo Turquoise, and the earthier, muted tones near Undersea Green. In this configuration, I wasn’t just setting up a paletteI was staging a conversation, where each colour supported or challenged its neighbour.
Beyond Colour: Memory, Emotion, and the Slow Art of Seeing
To someone outside the world of watercolour, all this care over green might seem obsessive. But to those who paint, it becomes clear: watercolour is not a passive medium. It’s a collaborator. Every pigment behaves with a mind of its own, influenced by dilution, paper texture, brushstroke, and time. And so, building a green-blue palette wasn’t just a technical exercise. It became an emotional and perceptual practice.
Phthalo Turquoise, ever the shape-shifter, continues to surprise me. It cuts through a composition with icy brilliance, yet plays well in mixes. Quinacridone Rose produces smoky purples. Blended with Green Gold, it yields luminous, seaborne tones. It’s both bold and quiet, a rare combination. Cascade Green, with its fractal granulation, creates instant atmosphere. It does the work of a whole landscape in one sweeping stroke, especially when painting mossy rocks, cloud-covered hills, or watery reflections.
Undersea Green remains my trusted neutralizer. Its brown undertones mellow bolder hues, making it indispensable for shadowed areas and organic textures. I reach for it instinctively when sketching trunks, ferns, or anywhere I want a sense of quiet detail. There’s a groundedness in this colour that makes it invaluable.
But beyond technique, these paints have become emotional triggers. A mix of Sap Green and Phthalo Turquoise recalls the dam on our property after a rainstormbrackish, alive, and still. Cascade Green with Perylene Maroon evokes the quiet rustle of autumn vines. These aren’t just pigments; they are touchstones, keeping moments alive in a visual form.
There’s one more crucial component that shaped my understanding paper. The same green can behave like an entirely different entity depending on the surface it meets. On cold-pressed paper, granulation is enhanced, offering texture and depth. Hot-pressed paper gives flow and luminosity, emphasizing clarity. Rough paper, meanwhile, makes even the softest green feel robust, lending a velvety density that Undersea Green thrives on. It taught me that colour doesn’t live in isolation responds to its environment, like any living thing.
What I’ve created, and continue to refine, isn’t a fixed set. It’s a breathing, evolving entity. The green-blue palette mirrors not just nature, but my growing awareness of it. A tree, I now understand, is never just green. It’s a mosaic of greens, shifting with time, light, and weather. Thanks to this process, I’ve learned not just to paint more accurately, but to see more clearly. The greens I mix are not mere representations, a re interpretations, emotions in suspension.
This is slow art. There’s no rushing the understanding of a pigment. Some take months to reveal their full potential. Others surprise you on the first use. But all of them contribute to a deeper, more personal kind of artistry. A palette, after all, is more than a set of colours. It’s a self-portrait in paint. And as long as I keep painting, it will keep changing with the seasons, with my skills, and with my way of seeing the world around me.
The Quiet Revolution of Watercolour: How Three Green Pigments Transformed My Artistic Journey
When I first opened the small pans of Phthalo Turquoise, Cascade Green, and Undersea Green, I had no idea that these three pigmentsmodest in appearancewould go on to reshape my entire approach to painting. What began as a moment of experimentation, prompted by a restlessness I couldn’t quite name, has evolved into a profound transformation of both technique and perspective. These three colours, often referred to collectively as the Jean Haines Trio, have not only deepened my connection to the natural world but also guided me into a new way of seeing, painting, and simply being present with the world around me.
For years, my medium of choice was acrylic. Its reliability and predictability were comforting. I could work in layers, correct mistakes with ease, and control every aspect of a composition. But in time, that very control began to feel limiting. There was a stiffness creeping into my work, over-reliance on precision that, ironically, dulled the emotional impact of the scenes I sought to capture.
Watercolour came into my life like a storm, unpredictable, unruly, and full of surprises. It didn’t care about my plans. It didn’t wait for me to get comfortable. It flowed wherever the water wanted to take it. It vanished unexpectedly, burst forth without warning, and reacted to my paper and environment in ways I couldn’t predict. And in that chaos, I found a freedom I hadn’t known I was missing.
From the moment I dipped my brush into Phthalo Turquoise and let it touch a wet surface, I was mesmerized. It was like watching light pour across the paper. It moved with a kind of sentient elegancegliding, pooling, dispersingalways changing, never static. It painted skies that felt infinite, oceans that shimmered with translucence, and shadows that hinted at unknown depths.
Cascade Green introduced a new language of texture and tone. Its unique granulationthe way it breaks apart into distinct layers of blue and greencreated effects I couldn’t replicate with any other pigment. It reminded me of coastal cliffs, oxidized minerals, or the hidden intricacies of bark and stone. Every time I used it, it revealed something new. It became my go-to for portraying the layered complexity of nature, whether I was capturing moss-covered branches, river rocks, or the subtle tonal shifts of distant hills.
Undersea Green arrived more quietly. At first, it seemed almost too subdued, too soft to command attention. But over time, I came to value its quiet strength. It offered grounding, a sense of rootedness. I used it to bring weight to compositions, to whisper instead of shout. It became the language of twilight leaves, damp forest floors, and ancient trees weathered by time. Unlike brighter greens, it never overpowered a scene, never settling into it like memory.
These three pigments began to influence not just what I painted, but how I painted. I found myself stepping away from exactitude and leaning into impression. I no longer needed to define every petal or branch. Instead, I focused on atmosphere, light, and mood. Watercolour taught me to let go, to embrace the unpredictable, and to trust the medium itself to tell part of the story.
Embracing the Flow: A New Relationship with Colour, Nature, and Time
There’s a peculiar humility that watercolour instills. Unlike acrylic or oil, where corrections are part of the process, watercolour requires presence. You can’t force it. You can’t outsmart it. You must learn to move with it. And that rhythmof observing, pausing, respondinghas found its way into every corner of my practice.
These days, painting has become more of a conversation than a construction. I let the pigments lead. I respond rather than dictate. The moments I used to dreadunintended blooms, backruns, colour bleedshave become my favourite parts of a piece. They inject a life that no amount of planning could replicate. They feel honest, alive, and real.
Phthalo Turquoise still astonishes me. When used in high dilution, it feels like painting with liquid light. Yet it can just as easily morph into a stormy sea when paired with deep siennas or moody greys. It’s a pigment of extremesclarity and complexity in one. When skies need depth or water demands movement, I reach for it without hesitation.
Cascade Green has taught me to love unpredictability. Its granulation often reveals colours I didn’t know were there. It pulls apart like sediment in a stream, like ancient stone revealing its layers. It doesn’t just paint foliage because it does. It mimics the randomness of nature, the beautiful imperfections that make a scene believable.
Undersea Green, meanwhile, is my anchor. It gives weight without heaviness, presence without demand. It captures the essence of the in-between: the spaces where shadow meets substance, where growth meets stillness. It’s the tone of dusky ferns, riverbed stones, and leaves that have weathered more than one season.
Together, these colours have changed how I observe the world. I now see not just trees, but the blue tinge of leaves before a storm. I notice the reflection of bark in puddles, the subtle blush of decay in a fading bloom, the silver cast of morning mist. I don’t just look anymoreI witness. And that shift has brought an intimacy to my work that I never expected.
This change didn’t come from technique alone. It came from letting go of the idea that I needed to control every outcome. It came from trusting the paint, the water, and the moment. It came from realising that imperfection is not a flaw, but a feature. The beauty of watercolour lies in its transparencynot just in pigment, but in process.
The Language of Green: A Palette That Speaks of Place, Season, and Soul
There’s something profoundly symbolic about green. It is the colour of life, of beginnings and endings, of cycles and stillness. It’s not a singular hue but a full spectrumwarm, cool, bright, muted, fleeting, and eternal. When I built a palette centred around greens and blue-greens, I didn’t just expand my colour range gpermitted myselfto explore more deeply the landscapes and botanicals that had always whispered to me.
Each pan became more than a pigment. It became a memory. A walk under eucalyptus trees heavy with scent. A hillside after rain. The edge of a pond reflecting overgrown grasses. The Jean Haines Trio remains at the heart of this palette, not simply because of their beauty, but because of their versatility and voice. They adapt. They surprise. They grow with you.
Watercolour has become less about reproducing a scene and more about translating its essence. I no longer aim for botanical accuracy as much as emotional truth. I want to capture the rhythm of a breeze, the hush of a shaded glen, the electric stillness before a downpour. These pigments allow thatthey don’t impose; they interpret.
And they’ve taught me patience. Watercolour isn’t a medium for haste. It demands stillness. Reflection. You must wait for the water to settle, for the pigment to dry. You must slow down, and in doing so, you begin to see more. You begin to feel more.
I often think of these greens as voices. Phthalo Turquoise singsclear, crystalline, vibrant. Cascade Green murmurstextured, layered, poetic. Undersea Green speaks in tonesearthy, grounded, wise. Each time I reach for them, I feel that familiar spark of anticipation, the thrill of possibility. I may know what they can do, but I never know exactly what they will do. And that’s where the magic lies.
To those beginning their journey into watercolour, I offer this: choose colours that speak to you, not just those that seem essential. Let them become companions. Let them teach you. Paint what you love, not to master it, but to experience it differently. If the world of green calls to you as it did to me, start with pigments that have room to grow with you. The Jean Haines Trio is an ideal beginning because it limits you, but it also opens doors.
In the end, watercolour has given me more than a technique. It has offered me a practice of presence. A way to honour the fleeting, the flawed, the beautiful moments that often go unnoticed. These greens have become more than part of my palettethey are part of how I see, how I feel, how I move through the world. They are not just colours. They are companions on a journey that, like the medium itself, is beautifully unpredictable.
