Without white, however, much of the painting we know today would be almost unimaginable. It allows colours to breathe, softens contrasts, gives form its shape, and often changes the character of a colour mixture more profoundly than any other paint on the palette. Yet, paradoxically, white remains one of art's most overlooked colours.

As the lightest of all colours, white plays a crucial role in the depiction of light. Light is one of the most powerful compositional tools in painting. It directs the viewer's eye, creates atmosphere, and gives a painting depth. For good reason, it is often central to the interpretation of a work of art. Yet white itself rarely attracts much attention. It is neither emptiness nor merely a background. White not only affects brightness but also changes the character of every other colour – and, in doing so, shapes the light within the painting itself.

Our brains never perceive elements in isolation, but always in relation to their surroundings. Our eyes instinctively search for orientation, contrast, and focal points. A single red dot on a white surface immediately draws our attention. Place that same dot in a densely filled composition, and it is far more likely to go unnoticed. This is one of the roles of white space: it separates, connects, and organises without demanding attention itself.

Many works reveal the artist's urge to fill every empty area. And sometimes, a composition genuinely calls for that. More often, however, a strong composition emerges precisely because something has been left out. Less is more. White space requires restraint. It means trusting the image.

Leaving areas deliberately unpainted is by no means a modern design concept. In East Asian ink painting, the untouched paper may represent light, mist, water, or simply the space between things.

The same principle extends beyond painting. In typography, white space makes text easier to read. In architecture, open spaces give buildings presence. And in music, tension and rhythm often arise not only from the notes themselves but also from the pauses between them.

The Many Facets of White

Anyone who has ever tried to paint a room has probably discovered that choosing a shade of white is surprisingly complicated. Brilliant white, ivory, cream, off-white, warm white or cool white – suddenly there are countless variations of a colour that, at first glance, hardly seems to vary at all.

Painting is no different. There is no single white here either. Some whites appear warm and soft, others cool and crisp. A subtly muted white can feel calmer than a brilliant titanium white. Often, the difference only becomes apparent when it is placed alongside other colours.

But white differs not only in how it looks. The various shades are also based on fundamentally different pigments. In painting, three white pigments are particularly important.

Lead White 

For centuries, lead white was the most important white pigment in European painting. Artists valued it for its warm tone and its exceptional handling properties.

As early as antiquity, and certainly by the Middle Ages, it was known that people who worked with lead could become seriously ill. There were reports of colic, paralysis, and other health problems. Yet lead white remained the dominant white pigment in European painting for centuries because there was simply no equally effective alternative. Other white pigments, such as chalk, gypsum, and bone ash, lacked both opacity and strength.

Today, lead white is rarely used in artists' materials and has largely been replaced by safer alternatives.

Zinc White

Zinc white became commercially available in the 19th century. It was non-toxic, less opaque than lead white, and behaved differently as it dried. Pure layers of zinc white can also become brittle over time, increasing the risk of cracking in some paintings. For these reasons, many artists were initially reluctant to embrace it.

Its transparency, however, makes it particularly well suited to subtle transitions and delicate glazes.

Titanium White

By the mid-20th century, titanium white had become the standard white in artists' paints. Today, it is the most widely used white pigment. It is highly opaque, lightfast, and generally considered non-toxic. It brightens colours very quickly, making it ideal for creating strong contrasts. At the same time, however, it can cause colour mixtures to lose their luminosity more readily.

Today, titanium white and zinc white are the only white pigments commonly found in professional artists' paints. Lead white is produced by only a handful of manufacturers for specialist applications and is subject to strict regulations.

Alongside these, there are various mixed whites, created by combining titanium white and zinc white or by adding tiny amounts of other pigments. Some artists also keep Buff Titanium on their palette. Made from a naturally occurring titanium mineral, it produces a warm, beige-toned white that is particularly well suited to landscapes and skin tones.

More generally, artists often temper white with a touch of ochre, grey, blue, or another colour. The result appears more natural and allows light to feel more convincing. Pure white is therefore often reserved for the brightest highlights.

Incidentally, the white pigment used in a painting can also provide valuable clues about when it was created. Art historians, conservators, and authentication experts can often estimate a painting's age from its pigments. If titanium white appears in a work supposedly painted in the 18th century, it is a strong reason to look more closely.

White in Art

The significance of white becomes most apparent where artists either place it deliberately at the centre of their work or use it so subtly that it almost goes unnoticed.

Sometimes white appears as nothing more than a tiny highlight, adding a touch of brilliance to an object. At other times, it spreads across an entire painting as mist, snow, or light itself. It can define form, dissolve contours, make colours appear warmer or cooler, or even become the subject of a work of art in its own right.

In painting, light is rarely simply white. More often, the impression of luminosity arises from the interplay of light and shadow, transparent layers of paint, and carefully placed highlights.

As early as the 15th century, Jan van Eyck mastered these techniques with remarkable skill. His paintings often appear to glow from within, despite containing very few areas of pure white. This luminous quality is particularly evident in works such as The Virgin of Chancellor Rolin and the Ghent Altarpiece, whose colours still possess extraordinary depth and brilliance today.

Much of this effect stems from van Eyck's painting technique. He began with a light-coloured ground, often white or pale grey, followed by a monochrome or only lightly coloured underpainting. Over this, he applied numerous thin, transparent glazes. Light could pass through these layers, reflect off the pale ground beneath, and emerge tinted with colour. The result was an exceptional sense of depth and luminosity.

The brightest passages in his paintings are often those where the glazes are thinnest—or absent altogether—allowing the pale ground or the underlying lead white to shine through most strongly.

Johannes Vermeer, by contrast, created his brightest highlights by deliberately applying opaque lead white. These final highlights were often added at the very end of the painting process. In works such as Girl with a Pearl Earring and The Milkmaid, he frequently reserved pure white for tiny points of light: the gleam of a pearl, the reflection on a metal jug, or daylight falling across fabric and walls.

Precisely because these highlights are used so sparingly, they draw the viewer's eye almost irresistibly.

Finally, in the work of J. M. W. Turner, white seems almost to lose its physical presence. Mist, sea spray, clouds, and sunlight merge into one another, dissolving solid forms. White no longer merely depicts light – it becomes atmosphere itself. In paintings such as Snow Storm – Steam-Boat off a Harbour's Mouth and The Fighting Temeraire, light no longer appears to fall upon objects but seems to fill the entire pictorial space.

Turner mixed white generously into his colours, creating the luminous, airy palette that characterises his later works. He often worked wet into wet, allowing him to lift paint with a cloth, sponge, or dry brush while it was still wet, or to scratch delicate lines into the surface using the handle of his brush. These techniques produced fine streaks of light, suggesting details such as masts, waves, and shimmering reflections.

The Colour White

As we have seen, white is not only a colour in its own right; other colours can also be used to create the impression of white. The Impressionists were fascinated by the question of how light shapes our perception. Artists such as Claude Monet explored the constant changes in colour throughout the day. Objects, they realised, did not possess one fixed, "correct" colour. Their appearance shifted with the changing light, whether bathed in sunshine or lying in shadow.

The same was true of white. To Claude Monet, snow was never simply white. It became a canvas for light itself. In The Magpie (La Pie), the snow-covered landscape appears almost white at first glance. Look more closely, however, and it reveals delicate blues, violets, golden hues, and soft pinks.

Joaquín Sorolla explored the same idea beneath the dazzling Mediterranean sun. In Sewing the Sail, the large sail initially appears brilliantly white. In reality, it is composed of countless warm and cool tones. Here too, white is not the colour of the fabric itself, but the result of the light falling upon it.

White as Subject

On Second Glance

For me—and for many artists I know—white is the colour we buy in the largest tubes, yet somehow it is always the first to run out. And yet, in a finished painting, it is often the last colour we truly notice.

White never demands attention. Instead, it allows other colours to shine, creates space, and quietly guides our eye towards what matters most.

The colours also lend themselves well to glazing. They are applied layer by layer, yet remain transparent. The light penetrates the layers and is reflected by the paper, thus becoming part of the artwork. It's an effect that I really love.

Title: A Path Through the Fields from the art series A Walk Through the Parks.

Watercolour: A Medium that Served

Even in the Middle Ages and early modern times, there were incredibly detailed watercolour works. And yet, for a long time, the medium was not considered ‘real art’.

Watercolour as a technique was not intended for what art was supposed to be at the time: colourful, monumental, durable and representative, if necessary worked out layer by layer over a long period of time.

The transparency of watercolour, its light delicacy, its lack of opacity and its water solubility automatically led to it being considered uncertain and fleeting. A medium that can be destroyed by moisture is not suitable for church interiors, palaces or public spaces, where these places become damp and clammy in winter. The works of art would have run during the first monastery winter.

Today, watercolour can be used on surfaces such as wood or canvas because there are special absorbent primers available. But this is a modern development. Historically, things were very different. In the past, watercolour worked practically only on paper or other absorbent, paper-like substrates (parchment, vellum). But for centuries, paper did not have a high status.

Even the most precious manuscripts were considered more as crafts or repositories of knowledge than as autonomous works of art. Paper was fragile, small in format, not monumental – all characteristics that spoke against its classification as ‘high art’.

The characteristics of the medium and the value of the material automatically relegated watercolour to the role of a working medium. Artists used it because it was quick, direct, inexpensive, and practical as a tool for studies, drafts, or travel sketches. It was the material of choice when you wanted to capture ideas before you really got started.

Even works that hang in museums today – botanical illustrations, topographical studies, nature observations – were classified at the time as crafts or documentation.

Today, we appreciate the precision, aesthetic quality and artistic signature of the artists. But in their day, even if they were technically outstanding, these works were not classified as autonomous art. They had a function – and anything functional automatically slipped out of the sphere of high art. This even applies to Dürer's nature studies: they were brilliant, but not works of art in the sense of the time, rather part of his working process.

Water and Paper in the East

In East Asia, water-based painting – ink and coloured ink on paper or silk – had been a highly regarded art form since the Middle Ages. The tradition of literati painting deliberately focused on transparency, reduction and controlled spontaneity. While Europe long treated watercolour as merely a working medium, in China and Japan it was regarded as an expression of cultural education and artistic mastery.

What was considered too fleeting and impermanent in Europe was an aesthetic ideal there. The quiet, the incomplete, the permeable interplay of water, pigment, and paper.
Much later, this tradition also influenced European modernism. Artists such as Kandinsky and Klee were explicitly interested in the way East Asian painters worked with line, surface, and emptiness.

England Discovers Watercolour Painting

In the 18th century, the tasks, expectations, and locations of art changed, and watercolour suddenly found its place in areas where art had previously been virtually non-existent.

England was the perfect breeding ground. Landscape played a much greater role there than in France, Italy, or Germany, not only in painting, but in culture as a whole. English garden design, the enthusiasm for the ‘picturesque’, the longing for nature as a counterpoint to the densely populated urban environment.

In addition, England had a pronounced desire to travel. Although the famous ‘Grand Tour’ was a pan-European phenomenon, the English, at least the wealthy, saw it as an integral part of their own cultural identity.

Landscape painting gained in prestige, and it was in this genre in particular that watercolour was able to play to its strengths: atmosphere, light, weather, fleeting impressions. Artists such as Sandby, Girtin and later Turner recognised the potential and developed a visual language that no longer looked like coloured sketches, but like independent works of art. With them, an artistic self-confidence emerged for the first time, which said that this medium is not only practical, it is also expressive.

England also had a strong middle-class art-buying class earlier than many other countries. A new culture of collecting and education emerged. People travelled more, took a greater interest in nature, science and landscape, and sought images that could capture these experiences. Watercolour was ideal for this: light, portable, quick, immediate and much cheaper than large-format oil paintings.

At the same time, there was a growing desire for private art that did not hang monumentally on a church wall, but found a place in one's own home. Small formats became socially acceptable – and with them a medium that works in small formats per se.

The Society of Painters in Water Colours

At the beginning of the 19th century, watercolour painting in England had long been more than just a medium for sketches. There was a lively scene, collectors were interested, and works were created that were clearly intended as autonomous art. However, the official institution refused to recognise them.

The Royal Academy still treated watercolour painting as a minor art form, gave it hardly any exhibition space, and fundamentally regarded it as inferior to oil painting. Out of a mixture of frustration and a desire for change, the Society of Painters in Water Colours was founded in London in 1804.

A group of artists – including William Frederick Wells and others closely associated with the emerging English landscape tradition – wanted to create an organisation that not only accepted the medium, but deliberately placed it at the centre. They wanted a forum for exhibitions that was not dependent on the Royal Academy, an audience that did not regard watercolours as a by-product, and a platform on which they could develop their own artistic language.

The founding was an act of self-assertion. Away from the strict Royal Academy, watercolour artists were able to pursue their own aesthetic paths, try out new techniques, cultivate atmospheric work and, above all, develop a visual language that did not have to measure up to oil.

The Society organised its own exhibitions, in which only watercolours were presented – and with the same standards that had previously only been applied to oil paintings. This changed public perception enormously. Suddenly, watercolours were no longer relegated to study sheets and drawings, but hung as autonomous works of art at the centre of an exhibition.

At the same time, the Society created a market. Collectors began to take a specific interest in watercolours, dealers included them in their programmes, and prices rose. Watercolour thus became an economically viable art form, which in turn encouraged young artists to pursue the medium seriously and not just regard it as a minor matter.

The Society of Painters in Water Colours was the driving force that brought watercolour out of obscurity in the early 19th century. It gave the medium status, publicity, and self-confidence.

Europe is Watching

The Society's exhibitions were so successful that they attracted attention on the continent. Artists from France, Germany and Italy were fascinated by the English freedom in dealing with landscape, the loose application of paint and the possibility of painting on the go.

French artists such as Delacroix used watercolour on their travels to North Africa or other colonial areas because it was the only medium that worked under such conditions.
In Germany, the spread of watercolour painting was closely linked to Romanticism and the Biedermeier period. Caspar David Friedrich did not use it excessively, but it became increasingly popular in his circle. Especially in the Dresden school and later in Munich circles, watercolour was increasingly used to capture observations of nature in a more subtle way.

Watercolour thus took on a role of its own in the travel narratives of the globalised 19th century. Naturalists, explorers, and artists who travelled to the Arctic, India, Africa or Latin America had practically only two options: drawing or watercolour. Oil would have been simply unusable on a ship or in tropical conditions at that time.

At the same time, English watercolourists increasingly influenced the art trade and art education. Their works were exhibited on the continent, acquired by international buyers, and watercolour emerged as a medium that was truly visible on the art market for the first time.

Expression of a Young Nation

In the United States, too, watercolour was initially a practical medium for surveyors, military artists and explorers who mapped or documented the vast country. American landscapes – vastness, weather, untouched nature – could be captured immediately with watercolour. Early on, the technique was therefore present in a context that lay between documentation and artistic observation. It was never considered quite as ‘inferior’ there as it was in Europe.

However, watercolour painting became really popular in the second half of the 19th century, when American art increasingly sought to break away from European academicism. The sketchy, immediate, documentary style suited a young nation that was searching for its own identity. It was faster, more direct, less standardised and allowed for a freer, more experimental approach.

Artists such as Winslow Homer used watercolour not as a sketching medium, but as a fully-fledged medium, often even preferring it. His works from Maine, the Caribbean and Florida show how well watercolour lends itself to fleeting light moods, moving water and weather – motifs that became extremely important in American art. Homer's success finally legitimised the medium in the United States.

Watercolour and Modernism

In the early 20th century, watercolour was initially liberated by modernism. For artists such as Paul Klee, Kandinsky and Macke, the medium became a place for experimentation, colour fields, rhythm, and symbolism. Watercolour was well suited to lightness, playfulness and spontaneity, which fitted in perfectly with the avant-garde. In the Bauhaus movement, it often served as a material for studies of colour, structure, and form. But this time without any hierarchy.

Many of these artists were subjected to a combination of exhibition bans, sales bans and the professional designation ‘non-Aryan’ during the Nazi regime, which effectively prevented them from earning a living as artists in Germany. Added to this was massive political and social pressure, which for many meant that flight or working in secret were the only options.

Emil Nolde is one of the few artists for whom a written personal work ban is on record. He sympathised with Nazi ideology, hoped for recognition by the regime, and was a member of several Nazi organisations. But his expressionist works were considered ‘non-German’, “chaotic” and ‘degenerate’ by the Nazis. In 1937, his works were removed from museums on a large scale. In 1941, he was personally banned from working.

Not only was he not allowed to exhibit or sell his work – he was officially not allowed to paint at all. Watercolour, in combination with gouache and ink, was his way out because it was easier to hide. Watercolours do not smell, dry quickly and do not produce any waste. Everything can disappear inconspicuously in seconds.

This is how his famous Unpainted Pictures came into being. A collection of around 1,300 works that are central to the myth of the persecuted artist, even though the ban on painting could not shake Nolde's political convictions.

After the Second World War, the role of watercolour shifted back to the personal and sketch-like. Many movements (Abstract Expressionism, Pop Art, Minimal Art) tended to favour canvas and large-format techniques.
But artists such as Andrew Wyeth nevertheless brought the medium enormous popularity in the USA.

One Tool for Many Uses

In the late 20th century, watercolour finally took on a role that was neither academic nor avant-garde. Instead, it became a medium that was widely used – by professional artists and amateurs alike.

Watercolour is still inexpensive, easy to transport, requires little material, and does not even need a studio. Even the smallest workspace is sufficient. This creates a kind of democratic openness: it is no longer a preliminary stage of painting, nor is it merely a tool for experimentation at the forefront of the art world, but rather a material that allows many people to work artistically in their own way, whether seriously or playfully.

Today, watercolour painting is more diverse than ever. There is no central direction, no style that sets the tone. Instead, there are several strands coexisting, influencing each other but not dominating. Watercolour has arrived in contemporary art. Many artists use it deliberately because of its transparency, its delicacy and its ability to make breaks, transitions, and fragility visible. For this reason, I like to use it for my nude series, for example.

At the same time, watercolour remains hugely popular in the field of illustration, from children's books and editorial art to graphic novels. Nature illustration has also been experiencing a revival in recent years, not least because watercolour can depict organic forms and fine structures very precisely and atmospherically at the same time.

Urban sketching, botanicals, sketchbooks as diary or travel formats, mixed media, nature journaling – many of these movements would be unthinkable without watercolour. Social media has reinforced this trend: watercolour is photogenic, easy to share and accessible, which in turn attracts new generations to experiment with it.

Charcoal has something unique, lively and direct about it. I love it because it cannot be planned down to the smallest detail and because it is so multifaceted. Delicate or deep black, almost heavy. For me, charcoal always embodies both transience and expressiveness.

From Soot on Rock Faces to the Art Studio

From the very beginning, charcoal has been part of the artist's toolbox. Prehistoric cave painters used materials they found in their surroundings, depending on their location. Red and yellow tones were created from iron oxides (ochre), while black rock paintings were made from charcoal, soot or manganese.

In caves such as Chauvet in southern France, many of the black drawings are actually made of charcoal (mostly pine). Today, it is even possible to date them: tiny charcoal particles from the drawings have been radiocarbon dated. They date from an early phase of the Ice Age (Palaeolithic) and are between 37,000 and 25,000 years old.
At Lascaux, the picture is more mixed: black was often produced there with manganese oxides; charcoal also occurs, but is less common overall.

Even after we humans left the caves, charcoal remained a widely used drawing material. In ancient Greece and Rome, charcoal was mainly used for preliminary sketches on wooden panels or plaster. Pliny the Elder mentions charcoal as a sketching material. It was easy to obtain, but hardly intended for the final work. Rather, it was a tool for drawing lines.

In Pompeii, too, preliminary sketches in charcoal have been found that were later plastered over or painted over. Even in stained glass and sculpture, charcoal was used for preliminary sketches on stone or panels before the actual work began.

Spolvero 

During the Renaissance, a completely new application for charcoal was discovered. It continued to be used for sketches and underdrawings, but a new use was added: cartoons (full-size preliminary drawings), which were transferred to the actual painting surface using spolvero, a transfer technique that was very common during the Renaissance.

The word spolvero comes from the Italian polvere = dust. The artists first created the cartoons on sheets of paper, often joined together. Then they pricked the contours of the drawing with a needle at short intervals. The perforated sheet was placed on the fresh painting surface.

A small cloth bag filled with the finest charcoal dust, often mixed with ash, was then dabbed or rubbed over the holes. A dot pattern of charcoal remained on the surface – the outlines of the composition.

This technique made it possible to transfer an image to scale, even in large dimensions – e.g. for frescoes in churches. In addition, a cardboard could be used several times. This was practical for workshops where motifs were varied or copied.

Michelangelo used spolvero for parts of his painting of the Sistine Chapel. The technique is also documented in the work of Raphael. Many of his cartoons have survived to this day, e.g. the famous Raphael cartoons in London, and the tiny charcoal dots can still be seen on some frescoes.

Medium with Intrinsic Value

In the 19th century, coal became established as a medium for producing finished works. This was aided by a number of technical innovations, which the art world was keen to adopt. In 1799, Nicolas-Louis Robert invented the first paper machine. From 1807 onwards, it was brought to market maturity by the Fourdrinier brothers in England.

Until then, only handmade paper had been available. But instead of coarse, irregular sheets, there was now large-format, uniform, firmer paper, often with special surfaces – rough or satin. Charcoal adhered better to rough paper, while smoother surfaces made it easier to smudge. This allowed artists to consciously play with texture and density: fine lines, uniform surfaces, deep black saturations.

The kneaded eraser was also invented in the 19th century. It differed fundamentally from the classic eraser. As its name suggests, the kneaded eraser is malleable. Depending on your needs, you can knead it into a point or a flat surface. Instead of scraping off material, it absorbs particles when pressed into the charcoal pigment.

Until then, charcoal had been primarily a workshop material, but in the 19th century it was confidently used as the main medium. Artists experimented with everything charcoal could do:

• Tone values: from delicate grey to deep black.
• Blurring: with fingers, paper stumps or cloths – flowing transitions instead of hard lines.
• Reductive techniques: drawing with an eraser, bringing light into darkness.
• Texture: charcoal powder was dusted, rubbed, sometimes mixed with water or oil to achieve new effects.

During this period, the status of drawing changed overall. It was no longer just ‘preliminary work’ but was taken seriously as an art form in its own right. Charcoal became one of the standard materials used in art academies.

To this day, students practise ‘light and shadow’ in charcoal, precisely because of its versatility. Then as now, charcoal is ideal for quick tonal and compositional studies, gestures and the creation of large areas, thinking in terms of light and shadow (chiaroscuro), but also for the finest transitions.

Material Studies Charcoal: Black in Many Forms

Alongside pencils, charcoal was one of my first means of expression in art. Both are inexpensive, easy to use and forgiving of mistakes. This is precisely what makes them perfect media for beginners. But while pencils allow for very controlled drawing, charcoal forces you to let go. It crumbles, it smudges, it leaves traces that are often unintended. This is also where its expressive power lies.

Charcoal can lie on the paper like a veil or have an almost physical presence. This depends not least on the type of charcoal the artist uses. Because it comes in many different forms.

I will introduce these forms here and explain what they are each good for.

(This section also contains links to the brands and products I work with myself. I have tried many different ones over time. I have chosen these products because I trust them. The links are affiliate links, which means that if you buy something through them, I receive a small bonus. This does not make it any more expensive for you.)

Natural Charcoal

Natural charcoal is produced by ‘charring’ thin twigs in a closed container (without oxygen supply). The wood glows at moderate heat, allowing the volatile components to escape, leaving pure carbon. After cooling, the sticks are sorted by diameter and, depending on the manufacturer, by degree of hardness. The feel and blackness may vary slightly from batch to batch, as this is a natural product.

In principle, almost any wood can be charred and thus theoretically used as drawing charcoal. But not all wood is equally suitable. Very hard wood becomes brittle, wood that is too soft disintegrates, and wood with a lot of resin or coarse pores burns unevenly. In practice, willow wood and vine wood have become the standard because they offer the best possible combination of workability and expressiveness. It is rare to find natural charcoal made from other types of wood in art supply stores.

Willow charcoal is soft and velvety. You hardly feel any resistance when applying it. The tonal values range from a delicate grey veil to a rich black, although this is rarely as deep as it could be.

Vine charcoal is coarser, grainier and more irregular. Strokes can be darker than those made with willow charcoal. They are rougher, heavier and, in some cases, more lively. However, if you take the pressure off, the application can quickly become grey and brittle.

Both types are easy to smudge. With your fingers, a paper wiper or cloth, lines quickly turn into areas. Incidentally, a chamois leather also produces very interesting structures.

Both types of charcoal are also brittle, vine charcoal slightly more so than willow charcoal. This forces you to draw in a loose, gestural manner. You have to give up control.

I often hold the charcoal far back so that the movement comes from the arm and the line remains looser. For surfaces, I place the sticks sideways. While drawing, I turn the stick slightly so that the abrasion is distributed more evenly.
Broken fragments are not a loss, but small tools with their own signature. That's why I like to break off small pieces with fresh edges for lines. Natural charcoal cannot be sharpened because it is too unstable. However, I also like to use this whetstone from Nitram, but a piece of sandpaper works just as well.

Vine charcoal is usually slightly more expensive than willow charcoal. However, this has nothing to do with quality, but rather with the more complex production process and the fact that vine stocks are less readily available than willow rods. The difference is not very significant anyway.
I like to use both types myself. For airiness, mist and atmosphere, I like to use willow charcoal, while for physicality and heaviness, I prefer vine charcoal. But that's just a preference. Both types are suitable for both purposes.

Charcoal Powder

Carbon black is obtained from wood or other plant fibres. These are carbonised and then ground, sieved and, in some cases, further processed. More on that later.
Here we will focus on the charcoal powder

I use charcoal powder, for example, for large areas and atmospheric backgrounds. The powder can be applied with a soft cloth, a cotton ball, a brush or simply with your bare hands and literally massaged into the paper.
Depending on the tool used, this creates either an even surface or a cloudy, lively texture. The powder can also be used to make the transitions in other charcoal drawings even smoother.

I also find the reverse method particularly exciting. Light and shadow can be modelled using a kneaded eraser or eraser pencil, a piece of leather or a paper wiper. This creates a kind of negative drawing. I have included a video below.

However, charcoal powder is very volatile. Even the slightest breeze can blur traces or scatter the dust. It is therefore not particularly suitable for outdoor work.
You can fix your charcoal work, including the intermediate steps, if necessary for your work. There are even special intermediate fixatives available for this purpose.

It is important to work sparingly. A spray layer that is too thick would lie like a heavy blanket on the picture, darkening the colours and changing the character of the drawing.
It is better to spray in several fine layers, in a criss-cross pattern, i.e. first horizontally, then vertically, and at a distance of 30 to 40 cm.
Spray only enough so that the surface no longer smudges immediately when touched – no more. Works that are framed and protected (a passe-partout helps to prevent contact between the charcoal and the glass) usually do not need to be fixed at all.

In art forums, I often read the tip that charcoal and pastel drawings can be fixed in place inexpensively with hairspray. In theory, this works, but hairspray is not resistant to yellowing. If you want to preserve your artwork for a long time, you should therefore invest in a proper fixative.

Pressed Charcoal

As mentioned above, charcoal powder can be further processed. When mixed with a binding agent, it can then be pressed into sticks. These are harder, more stable and easier to control than natural charcoal.

Overall, the structure and blackness are more uniform. The application is denser and deeper in colour. This makes it particularly suitable for precise lines, hard contours and strong shadows. The long side of pressed charcoal can be used to fill areas cleanly, while the tip can be used to work out details.

Pressed charcoal is much easier to handle. It can be sharpened precisely or even pointed with a suitable sharpener. And you can work more cleanly; your hands don't look like you've been working underground, and the binding agent means there isn't as much dust.

It is less suitable for quick, atmospheric gestures. When I'm playing with fragility and lightness, I prefer to use natural charcoal. But when it comes to clarity, contour and depth, I like to use pressed charcoal.

The sticks come in square or round shapes. Although the lines are slightly more precise with the square sticks, it is more a matter of personal preference as to which one feels better in your hand. There are also pointed leads that can be used on their own or with a chalk holder, and if I want to add a little colour, I also like to use Derwent's tinted charcoal.

Charcoal Pencils

Essentially, charcoal pencils are nothing more than compressed charcoal in pencil form. They combine the visual effect of charcoal with a cleaner and more controllable tool. They are available in typical wooden pencil form or wood-free as solid pencils. However, compared to pencils, the abrasion is more archaic, and the colour is deep black and matt.

Charcoal pencils can be sharpened, fit comfortably in the hand and allow for precise lines, sharp edges and tightly spaced hatching. The lines remain narrow and the edges clear. And both your hands and the paper remain dust-free. Well, not quite. But almost.
Charcoal pencils are not very easy to erase. They are worse than natural charcoal or charcoal powder and certainly not as residue-free as a pencil. Nevertheless, the abrasion can be lightened.

Charcoal pencils are particularly suitable for details, hard edges, densification and clear hatching – wherever you want to work more precisely and with greater control. Most pencils are available in soft, medium or hard. The intensity of the colour can be varied by applying pressure.
And the lines can be blended with a paper stump or cloth.

Classic sharpeners work, but soft leads can break easily. I therefore first peel the wood-coated charcoal pencils generously with a paper knife and then sharpen them with a whetstone or sandpaper. This also works well with solid lead pencils. This allows you to form long, razor-sharp points that can be used to draw thin, very fine lines.

Liquid Charcoal

But now, finally, to my new acquisition: liquid charcoal. Nitram also has liquid charcoal in its range. It is said to have a consistency similar to oil paint. However, as I have not tested it myself, everything I write here refers to the liquid charcoal from Schmincke. 

Here, the consistency is more like watercolour paint and it can also be handled in the same way. Perhaps a little like granulating watercolour paint. In any case, the more water you use, the more transparent the paint becomes. When wet, the pigments can be moved around wonderfully. On the other hand, the pigments also remain more or less where you move them and do not run uncontrollably.
Of course, you can also apply the charcoal undiluted with a painting knife.

Once dry, the colours have a light texture. You can't erase much, but the colours can be dissolved again later with water and thus lightened. For me, it feels as if someone has thrown charcoal and watercolour (my two favourite media) into a pot and created something that combines both, the earthy depth of charcoal and the lightness of watercolour.

Schmincke produces the charcoal from charred fruit pits from the EU. It is vegan and follows the sustainable concept that Schmincke also implements in other products. The liquid charcoal even won the ‘Sustainable Product of the Year 2023’ award at the Creative Impulse Award in 2023.

There are three different varieties. I treated myself to the set of three because I wanted to test the differences, of course. All three charcoal types are the same in terms of handling. They only differ in colour. The charcoal made from peach pits has a neutral black hue, the grape pits give the charcoal a cool blue undertone, and the cherry pits give it a warm reddish undertone. This charcoal looks almost like a dark umber.

I am very happy to have discovered this product, and I already have some initial ideas about what I could do with it floating around in my head.

Supplementary Materials

Instead of pressed charcoal, you can also use Conté chalk. It behaves similarly, but is harder and more colour-intensive. It is available not only in black, but also in various shades of grey, white and earthy red and brown tones.

Speaking of earthy red tones, red chalk is also one of my all-time favourites. Basically, it is nothing more than a naturally occurring iron oxide pigment, a type of red claystone that has been used for drawing for thousands of years. Especially since the Renaissance, it has always been a popular material for nude studies.

Red chalk works in much the same way as charcoal and is available in similar forms: as a powder, pressed, as a stick – but not, of course, as a charred twig. It is also available in liquid form. Schmincke has brought out liquid earth pigments – I couldn't resist this set either. It contains red chalk, sepia and white chalk.

As is almost always the case when working with a particular medium, you also need a few tools. Everyone probably has their own favourites or insider tips when it comes to these. Basically, you can use almost anything to apply or remove charcoal. But I would consider the following to be the minimum equipment required:

• a kneaded eraser
• something for sharpening or pointing
• something for smudging and
• a fixative

When it comes to paper, things get exciting again. It is at least as important as the choice of tool. Its surface determines how the charcoal works and fixes. Rough paper has more tooth, which means that the charcoal has more grip, the blacks appear rich, and the structure itself becomes part of the drawing.

Smoother surfaces allow for fine, cloudier transitions, but give less depth in the dark values. Matt paper, i.e. with a slightly grainy surface, is a good compromise. It allows for depth, gives some texture and allows for good smudging.
Pastel papers are also suitable. They often have a rough, almost sandy texture – ideal for layering.

For me, watercolour paper is a good choice, even when I work with dry media. I like thicker paper. It also gives me the option of working with water later on.

More than Black and White

Charcoal does not force control; it opens up space for spontaneity. For me, this makes it the ideal medium for artistic expression. A stroke of charcoal is a thought on paper that is allowed to develop further. It does not have to remain alone. In combination with watercolour, chalk or even acrylic, charcoal is even more versatile.
Which media do you prefer to combine charcoal with – or are you currently drawn to the pure black-and-white contrast?