Before the Canvas: Sketching as the Birth of a Painting - Pascal Lagesse

Before the Canvas, sketching is often the Birth of a Painting, it begins somewhere quieter ; on a simple sheet of paper, in a sketchbook, or even on the corner of a page. These first marks are not meant to impress. They are not meant to be shown. They are simply there to catch something fragile: an idea.

For me, sketching is an essential part of the creative process. It is where the painting is born, long before colours, textures, and final decisions take shape. In these early drawings, there is no pressure. I allow myself to be free, to explore, to make mistakes. In fact, the sketch is the only place where mistakes are not only accepted, but necessary.

Many artists, throughout history, have relied on this stage. Behind every finished painting we admire, there are often dozens of invisible attempts—lines drawn, erased, transformed. The sketch is a laboratory of ideas. It is where intuition leads, without the constraints of perfection. Artists like Leonardo da Vinci filled entire notebooks with studies—hands, faces, inventions—most of which were never meant to become finished works. Vincent van Gogh constantly sketched before painting, using drawings to understand composition and emotion. Even Pablo Picasso, who seemed effortlessly inventive, produced countless preparatory sketches before major works.

When I sketch, I am not trying to create something beautiful. I am trying to understand what I feel. It may be a souvenir of my childhood in the seventies or an emotion I still carry. This is particularly true in my Zafer style, where repetition, geometry, and colour are central. Even in black and white, a sketch already contains the energy of what might become a painting.

There is also something important about time. Not every sketch becomes a painting immediately. Some remain in my sketchbooks for weeks, months, sometimes years. And then, suddenly, I rediscover them. What once seemed incomplete now feels ready. The idea has matured quietly, without me forcing it. This distance allows me to see it differently, with fresh eyes.

Sketching is also a way of freeing the final canvas. When I arrive at the painting stage, I am no longer facing an empty surface with uncertainty. I already have a direction, a memory of the idea, an image of a dream. The painting becomes an extension of something that has already begun to exist.

In a world that often demands immediate results, sketching is an act of patience. It accepts that creation cannot always be rushed. It respects the natural rhythm of ideas—their appearance, their disappearance, and sometimes their return.

Not every sketch will become a painting. And that is perfectly fine. Their role is not to become finished works, but to nourish the process. They are seeds. Some will grow, others will remain dormant, but all of them are part of the same creative journey.

For me, sketching is not a preliminary step. It is a fundamental space of freedom, a place where the painting begins to breathe before it is even visible.