Painting in Public (and Learning to Trust the Ugly Phase)

Last week, I spent a week at the Winter Gardens Pop Up Shop in Sheffield. Alongside the usual displaying my artwork in the hope of sales, I did something that pushed me well outside my comfort zone: I painted in public.

Now, that might not sound like a big deal, especially for someone who will quite happily get up on stage and perform in a musical theatre show. But here’s the thing: I never really know how a painting is going to turn out when I start it. I don’t have a neat, predictable process where I can guarantee a polished result at every stage. It’s messy, uncertain, and at times… genuinely quite ugly.

So the idea of people watching that unfold in real time? Slightly terrifying.

The myth of the “finished” painting

One thing that became very clear, very quickly, is that the untrained eye has absolutely no idea when a painting is finished.

I don’t mean that in a condescending way - it’s just not something most people have ever had to think about.

People barely read signs on my display (which honestly is standard and as a former teacher, I'm not surprised), and despite the fact that I was:

• wearing an apron
• holding a paintbrush
• actively painting

…people still asked my brother if the work was his.

So you would think that a half-finished painting, sat on a table surrounded by paints, brushes and water, might suggest that it’s not done yet.

But apparently not!

At one point, I had someone express extreme surprise when I said the painting wasn’t finished, even though the tiger’s muzzle had absolutely no paint on it.

It was a bit of a realisation. People don’t see what I see. They’re not looking for structure, or layers, or whether something has been resolved yet. They’re just taking in the overall impression. Which should be reassuring, really.

But standing there, mid-process, it didn’t feel reassuring. Instead, it fed straight into that underlying worry about people seeing a painting in its “ugly phase” and assuming that’s the final result.

The ugly phase is real

Every painting goes through it.

That awkward middle stage where nothing quite works yet. Colours feel off, shapes look wrong, and the whole thing feels like it’s teetering on the edge of disaster.

Normally, I keep that private. My mantra is "trust the process". When I'm in my own space, where no one is watching me question every decision, I can handle it.

Doing that in public is a different experience entirely.

Because now, people are watching, seeing the wonky shapes and unfinished sections and the bits that don’t make sense yet.

And the voice in my head says:

“It looks rubbish and this is what they think you’re capable of.”

Even though you know it isn’t.

A false sense of security (and then… the tiger)

The lion, Guardian of the Pride, went really well. It lulled me into a false sense of security, thinking “maybe this isn’t so bad.” It came together smoothly, I felt in control of it, and I started to relax into the whole painting-in-public thing.

And then I started the tiger.

At first, it was fine until I hit a wall - the nose. (It's always the nose!)

I just could not get it right.

No matter what I did, it just wouldn’t sit properly. And, frustratingly, when I took a photograph it looked fine, but in real life I just couldn't bear to look at it.

You know that point where you stop making progress and start making it worse? That was where I was.

It’s one thing having that moment in your own studio, where you can step away, have a cup of tea, come back to it later. It’s another thing entirely when it’s happening in front of people.

I didn’t enjoy that part.

I didn’t enjoy that it wasn’t working, and I really didn’t enjoy that it wasn’t working where people could see it. At one point I took it round the back to try and sort it out in private, which probably tells you everything you need to know about how well I was handling the whole “trust the process” mindset in that moment.

After that, I more or less refused to look at it for the rest of the day.

(Which, if you paint, you’ll know is also part of the process.)

Questioning my life choices...

What actually goes into a painting

Something else that came up again and again over the week is how little people realise what actually goes into a painting like this. There’s this underlying assumption that you just… paint it. That it comes together fairly quickly, fairly easily.

I wish that were the case.

In reality, the process is slow, layered, and intentional:

• I start with the background, so the subject doesn’t end up looking like it’s been stuck on top, and so you don’t get those harsh outlines around the edges.
• Then I paint the eyes, because if they’re not right, the whole thing feels off.
• After that, I block in the basic colours and shapes.
• Then comes the layering - building up fur and colour so that subtle tones show through and create depth.
• And finally, I refine everything: finer fur details, whiskers, deepening shadows, brightening highlights, pushing the contrast until it really comes to life.

It takes a lot of time.

When I told people the lion took three days, I had a few “oh, is that all?” reactions, which was slightly baffling. Three days of painting is not a quick job - that’s three full six-hour days of constant work. It might not sound like much when you say it like that, but in practice it’s a lot.

The value conversation

And then, of course, there was the question of price.

One man asked how much it would go for and suggested £20, which I initially assumed was a joke. It wasn’t. He then followed up with £100, which was also… not correct.

The finished piece is £750.

Saying that out loud before it was finished did feel like a bit of a risk, mainly because I didn’t know exactly how much time it was going to demand. But I did know the size — A1 is not small — and I knew how much work was going into it. The materials, the hours, the experience behind it… all of that adds up, even if it’s not immediately visible from the outside.

I think that’s probably the biggest takeaway from the whole experience.

People aren’t seeing what I’m seeing when I look at a painting in progress. They’re not analysing the same details or noticing the same “problems”. And while that should take some of the pressure off, it doesn’t completely remove that discomfort of being seen mid-process.

So, what did I learn?

I still don’t particularly enjoy people seeing the ugly phase. I still get frustrated when something isn’t working. And I will, apparently, still try to hide a painting if it’s really testing me.

But most people aren’t judging you as harshly as you think - they don’t even see what you see. You are always your own worst critic.

And I do trust the process. Even when it looks like it’s going wrong, it usually isn’t — it’s just not finished yet.

The lion got there.

The tiger will too. Even if you have to take it out the back for a bit first.

Eventually.