By Jeff Dillon | June 17, 2025 | All Posts
How a single night sky taught me patience, presence, and why every mark matters
I started this painting on a calm day in the studio, the kind where time moves slowly and the light stays steady. These days, I usually paint every day from mid-morning into the late afternoon, when the light is more consistent. I keep the blinds angled to soften the brightness coming through the windows. Natural light can sometimes feel too strong, and that affects how I see and work with colour.
Sometimes I paint in silence, but more often there’s something playing in the background. It might be music, a podcast, or a film I’m not watching so much as listening to. I avoid anything with a lot of action or heavy dialogue—I prefer something that lets me stay in my own rhythm. What I listen to depends on my mood and how long I’ve been in one creative zone. But once the brush starts moving, the rest tends to fall away.
#295 – “Stars Over Lake Louise”
Painting by @jeffdillonfineart
Original Size: 36″ x 48″, Horizontal, Ratio: 3:4, Completed June 2025
This painting developed slowly over the course of four weeks, once the concept had settled. In the early stages, it was coming together too brightly. I was trying to capture the subtle glow of a full moon that sits just out of view. That kind of light is difficult to express. It has a presence that gently illuminates the entire landscape, casting form and depth without showing itself directly. But the canvas kept drifting toward daylight. I spent hours trying to find the right balance, muting tones, deepening the blues, and allowing shadows to form more naturally. Once the sky finally shifted into night, I knew the stars would follow.
I had always known they would be the final part.
There’s a misconception that stars are easy to paint. A flick of white paint and you’re done. But that would have completely missed the feeling I was after. This wasn’t meant to be a decorative night sky. It had to carry weight. It had to feel real, like something you could step into.
So I painted them one at a time.
The stars alone took five hours. I used several brushes with different tips, depending on the size and softness I needed. Not all the stars were white. Some leaned ivory or warm yellow. Others had cooler tones—soft violet, pale blue, hints of grey. I used touches of teal, and even added a small orange-toned star to represent Mars. I studied reference skies from remote places, where you can really see the full range of light and temperature. Each star pulses differently. I wanted the canvas to capture that quiet complexity.
The challenge came in making it look natural. We tend to place things in patterns without realizing it. As I worked, I caught myself spacing stars too evenly. I had to keep working areas until they felt unstructured and believable. Nature has a beautiful kind of chaos, and capturing that quality takes a lot more intention than people might think.
Even the reflection on the lake had to be handled carefully. The stars above are strong, but their presence on water is softer and more subdued. If I mirrored them too boldly, it would flatten the illusion. I painted them with restraint, just as they appear in real still water, faint and shimmering.
What I kept coming back to was a feeling I know well. I walk at night often. There is something about the end of the day, when the world slows down and the light disappears. During those walks, I look up. More than once, I’ve seen something unexpected—a faint satellite drifting overhead, a shooting star, the moon, a planet, or just the stillness of a clear sky. That sense of peace is something I return to, and it often finds its way into my paintings.
We live in a time where people are always looking down. Down at our phones, our feet, our schedules. This painting is a quiet reminder to look up. To pause. To let the day end gently. If the work holds any message, it is that calm is still out there, waiting to be noticed.
Every mark in my work is intentional. That doesn’t mean everything is preplanned, but I stay present with each decision as it happens. Even the mistakes have value. They are part of the process and often teach me more than the parts that go smoothly. Intention leaves a trace. It is like a fingerprint, my fingerprint, specific to me, and while most people may not see it directly, I believe they can feel it in the finished work.
I know a painting is done when I can no longer add something that would meaningfully change it. I have either resolved the challenges or accepted them. When that moment comes, I let the work go and move on to the next canvas, carrying the lessons forward.
Thank you for being here and sharing in this journey with me. If you’re enjoying what I’m sharing and want to see more, consider following or subscribing to my Substack for free, or becoming a paid subscriber to help support my art and stories. You can also visit www.JeffDillon.ca to see more of my work.
© 2025 Jeff Dillon Fine Art
