Plein-air painting, a creative adventure

There’s little that makes me as happy as the sound of my brush on canvas while the wind rustles through the trees or the waves crash in the background. I’m a plein air painter — someone who paints outdoors, surrounded by nature — and my subjects are often landscapes and seascapes. No studio can compete with the feeling of standing in an open heath field, or on a dune overlooking an endless sea.

Over the past few years, the forests and heathlands of the Veluwe have become my home base. As someone born in Zeeland, I grew up surrounded by water — the Western and Eastern Scheldt, and the famous Zeeland beaches. That’s where I first began learning to truly look — to really see. Here in the forests, you look differently. At how the light filters through the birch trees, how the colors of moss shift in the morning mist, how the heath glows in August. Sometimes, I have to wait quite a while for the right moment to arrive.

Sometimes it only lasts five minutes — and then it’s gone. But if I manage to capture it on canvas, it feels like preserving something that would otherwise be just a fleeting memory.

In Zeeland or the Wadden Islands, I paint differently. The coastline is unpredictable — rougher, more dynamic. The light is sharper, and the horizon vast and open. There, I work faster, more loosely, more intuitively. Sometimes I paint with sand in my paint or with wet feet, but it’s exactly those imperfections that give the work life. The sea teaches me to move with it, to be flexible. And I learn from that — not just as an artist, but as a human being.

There are days when everything seems to go wrong. The wind blows sand into my paint. My easel once toppled over in a gust on Ameland. Rain rolls in out of nowhere. A curious dog once decided to inspect my palette (and then walked straight across the canvas). But it’s on those days that I learn the most. About letting go. About improvising. About accepting imperfection. It’s not always romantic, of course. But I wouldn’t want it any other way. Because painting outside doesn’t just mean looking at the landscape — it means becoming part of it. Every brushstroke is a direct response to what I see, smell, hear, and feel in that moment.

To me, the landscape is not a backdrop, but a living organism. A meadow breathes differently than a dune hollow. The sea changes its character constantly — from peacefully reflective to dark and threatening. I’m fascinated by that dance of light and air, the endless shades of blue and green, the sense of space and silence that can fill a place with meaning.

Plein air painting has become much more than just a way of working — it’s a way of life. It keeps me in tune with nature’s rhythm, with the ever-changing light and the turning of the seasons. No day outside is the same; every place, every moment has its own character. Painting outdoors has become a form of meditation. It forces me to really see, to slow down, and be present — instead of rushing past everything.

What I capture on canvas isn’t an exact replica of what I see. For that, you’d be better off taking a photo. But a painting offers more: it holds atmosphere, emotion, and the trace of a human being who looked, felt, and translated their impressions into color and form. Each piece tells the story of a moment in which I was fully immersed in my surroundings. And that, to me — and hopefully to the viewer as well — is what makes it meaningful.

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