There’s a peculiar thing that happens when you start painting something whimsical: the world inside the screen begins to insist it’s real. I sat down this week with my stylus and layers, intending only to block in shapes and shadows, but somewhere between the deep mossy greens and the warm fox-fire oranges, a very small forest creature decided she had important business inside a fox’s mouth.
Not metaphorically, mind you. Literally.
The fox—ginger fur glinting in a forest of green shadows—sits like an old patient at the dentist, jaw unhinged in a gaping yawn that could fit a loaf of bread sideways. The tiny figure, fur-clad and sturdy as a winter berry, stands on tiptoe, one arm reaching deep into the cavern of teeth with a surgeon’s concentration. She has the look of a brownie or a pixie—human in form but somehow more ancient, more rooted in the soil and seasons. Perhaps she’s prying loose a troublesome berry seed, perhaps she’s negotiating with a stubborn bit of magic that’s taken root in the molars. I’m not sure yet—these things reveal themselves in their own time.
Directly behind her stand two rather ridiculous pebble trolls, the sort of creatures who look like they’ve been carved by an absent-minded river and accidentally given opinions. Their eyes bulge as though they can’t quite decide whether the fox is about to sneeze or swallow.
And then, just off to the side in the foreground, a robin perches on a branch, watching us. Not the scene, mind you—us.The bird’s expression says, “This is none of my business, but I’m taking notes.”
The forest stretches away behind them all, thick with shadow and dappled light, and somewhere in the murk, a fence slants away like it’s keeping secrets. The palette is autumn wrapped in moss: deep greens, earthy browns, fox-fur reds, and the kind of warm orange you might find on the last leaf clinging to a branch.
It’s strange, really—this style is one I haven’t visited since around 2005. Back then, I painted like this often, letting the line between realism and stylised fantasy blur until you could almost step into the scene without quite being sure what you’d stepped into. Coming back to it feels a bit like finding an old coat in the attic and discovering it still smells faintly of woodsmoke.
This is still very much a work in progress, of course. The brownie’s fur-trimmed hood hasn’t decided whether it wants to be wolf-grey or fox-brown, the trolls may yet demand more lichen on their heads, and the fox’s expression needs to walk that fine line between patient suffering and quiet dignity. But the bones are there, and the story is already alive.
I’ll share more as the painting unfolds, but for now, the brownie is still hard at work, the fox is holding steady, and the robin is still watching you. Closely.
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