Painting Outdoors Is Like Listening to Vinyl
I've got to be honest with you: Painting outdoors from life can be a pain.
The sun moves. The wind knocks over your easel. You're sweating through your shirt or freezing your fingers off. The light changes every 15 minutes, and if you're not ready, you'll miss the best part of the day.
So why do it?
Because just like vinyl records — the kind people say they love for their "warmth" or "authenticity" — painting from life isn't about convenience.
It's about connection.
It's about being present.
I've said this before: if you want to grow, you have to observe. Not just look — really observe. Painting outdoors trains your eye like nothing else. It forces you to stop chasing perfect reference photos and actually respond to what's in front of you.
You can't fast-forward the sun. You can't rewind the shadows.
And just like vinyl, painting from life makes you slow down and appreciate the process. It's not easy. You've got to pack your gear, drive out, pick your spot, fight the wind or the cold, and deal with whatever the day gives you.
But here's the thing — all of that becomes part of the painting.
I've told my students many times: your outdoor study isn't just a color reference. It's a memory. It's a real-time record of what you saw, what you learned, and what you were feeling in that moment.
Just like flipping through old vinyl in a dusty record shop, your plein air studies become time capsules. That 8x10 I painted off a dirt road in Montana — I still remember the way the late summer light hit the cottonwoods. The dry air. The subtle purple in the distant hills. That painting holds all of it. No photo ever could.
The Ritual of It
People talk about the ritual of vinyl — dusting it off, lowering the needle, listening to the full album without skipping. It's not efficient. But that's not the point.
Painting outdoors is a ritual, too. You wake up early, check the weather, drive out before the light gets harsh, set up, and start blocking in as fast as you can. That rhythm matters.
I've written before about consistency — how showing up regularly beats talent every time. This applies here. If you paint from life often enough, you'll train your eye, improve your color sense, and get faster at editing your scene.
Even the bad days teach you something.
Digital Is Easy. Growth Isn't.
We've all used photos. I use them. But photos don't teach you what light actually does. They lie — flatten values, kill color, and strip out the reflected light that makes a scene sing.
Painting outside exposes your weaknesses. You won't be able to dodge questions like:
Is your value range too narrow?
Are your colors too chromatic?
Are your shapes simplified or scattered?
This is why I advocate outdoor painting: not because it's romantic, but because it's honest.
My Best Advice?
Keep it simple.
You've read this before, but I'll say it again:
No more than 10 brushes.
Stick to a limited palette. (If you don't know it, go back a few posts.)
Paint small. 8x10, 9x12 max.
Don't chase the perfect scene — just paint.
Stop when the light shifts.
Don't try to make a masterpiece. Try to get something real. Something true.
Final Thought
You won't always walk away with a frame-worthy painting. But you will walk away with experience. And over time, that experience stacks up.
That's why we paint from life. That's why some people still drop a needle on a record when they've got Bluetooth in their car because it forces them to listen. Painting outdoors forces you to see.
So get out there. Let the light be your clock. Let the wind test your focus. Let the day surprise you. Because the more you do this, the more your work will speak — not just to others, but to you.
See you out there,
— Gabor
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