Scraping
The Life and Time of Thick Oil Layers
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I only clean my palette every two or three months. Over time, this has become a habit. To me, a palette is not just a tool for mixing colors — it is a living record. Every time I scrape off thick layers of paint, I can read the temperament of each color: which ones dry brittle, which never fully dry; some are powdery and heavy, others transparent and light. This knowledge is far more immediate than any theory in a book, because it comes directly from time, touch, and chemical reactions. Many people clean their palettes daily. I understand the need for tidiness, but in doing so, they miss the secrets accumulated over time. Every scrape brings a pang of heartache, as thick layers feel like fragments of creative memory being torn away. Yet it is precisely in this act that I realize something essential: oil paint endures because it dries slowly. Fully dried layers may appear stable, but they are fragile; in contrast, paint rich in oil resists the scraper, as if it retains its own vitality. These lessons did not come from books — they were taught by the paints themselves. “Fat over lean” is the basic principle, but the character of each pigment — its drying rate, oil content, particle size, transparency, and coverage — cannot be ignored. They determine how every layer will behave on the canvas. This batch of paints, purchased roughly between 2001 and 2004, sat in a store’s inventory for over ten years before coming into my hands for another twenty. In total, these pigments carry more than thirty years of history, long since becoming witnesses to time. Only a few colors dry completely; some have hardened like stone, others crumble upon opening the tube. Each state preserves a chemical memory and records my painting habits and mixing preferences. Compared with nineteenth-century paints crafted for recreating historical works, these pigments are more like a long-term field record, accumulated through daily practice. I also have my own method of preserving paint: I let it dry on the canvas rather than in the tube or on the palette. This way, the paint remains alive, and the heartache of waste is reduced. Every time I scrape the palette or use a tube, I observe carefully — its drying speed, the feel under the scraper, the thickness of the color, traces of mixing, even the hardness or crystallization inside the tube. Over time, these observations form a reference for my practice and record the interplay between pigment and time. The scraper presses gently against the thick layer, a slight force applied, and the dense blue slides across the palette’s edge, producing a soft rasp. In that instant, I can feel the life and history of the paint — it was once in the tube, it flowed and mingled on the palette, and finally settled on the canvas, leaving a trace of creation. Its resilience, fragility, transparency, and weight are all revealed in this motion, and in that moment of scraping, I am there with them.
