So, a few folks have been asking how I got into making these 'paintings of devil' and what my whole process is like. It’s not like I woke up one day and thought, 'Yep, demons are my thing now!' It was a bit of a journey, actually, and it started from a place of pure frustration, if I'm being honest.
My First Attempts Were... Not Great
Honestly, when I first decided I wanted to try and paint something a bit darker, more infernal, everything I made just looked kinda silly. You know, like a kid's drawing for Halloween, all very literal with bright red skin and perfectly symmetrical horns. I was messing around with some standard digital painting software, watching tutorials, trying to get those classic fiery eyes and all that, but it all felt super stiff and, well, boring. I’d spend hours fiddling with brushes and layers, and end up with something that just didn't have that punch, that unsettling vibe I was vaguely aiming for.
The Old Tablet Incident
The real shift, the moment things actually started to click, happened because of this ancient, beat-up drawing tablet I had. We’re talking a really cheap, old model, the kind that probably should have been retired years ago. It was prone to glitches. I was working late one night, just sketching aimlessly, feeling pretty fed up with making things that looked like bad album art. Suddenly, the software, or maybe the tablet itself, just completely freaked out. Big time.
The colors on my screen went haywire, lines became these jagged, unpredictable strokes, and the whole image just distorted into this chaotic, almost abstract mess. My first reaction was, 'Oh great, that's it, this thing is totally busted.' I was just about ready to throw in the towel for the night, maybe even on the whole 'painting devils' idea.
Embracing the Chaos
But then I just sat there and stared at that glitched-out screen for a good minute. And you know what? That accidental mess, that digital tantrum, it looked more genuinely unsettling and, dare I say, 'devilish' than anything I'd managed to create with careful planning. It had a raw, untamed energy to it. So, I thought, 'Huh, what if I just... lean into this?' Instead of fighting it, what if I used it?
That’s when I really started my practice, my real exploration. I pretty much abandoned trying to make things 'perfect' or 'correct' according to some art school rulebook I never read anyway. My process became way more about experimentation and, frankly, about causing digital trouble on purpose.
- I’d usually start by just throwing down some dark, moody colors onto the canvas. Think deep crimsons, murky blues, shadowy grays, even some sickly greens. No real plan at this stage, just getting a base down, creating an atmosphere.
- Then, I’d grab some really textured brushes – the ones that are a bit wild and unpredictable – and just start roughing in shapes. I stopped worrying about clean lines or perfect anatomy. It was more about suggesting forms.
- I found myself deliberately trying to 'break' things a little, to mimic that initial glitch. I’d push the pressure sensitivity on my stylus to its extremes, overlay textures in ways that probably weren't 'intended,' smudge colors together until they almost turned to digital mud, and then try to pull something interesting out of that mess.
- Sometimes I'd use a distorting filter, then paint over it, then maybe smudge it, then layer something else. It was all about layering and not being afraid to mess things up, to see what happens.
Finding the Vibe, Not the Details
The goal shifted for me. It wasn't about painting a literal, recognizable 'devil' with all the usual accessories. It became more about capturing a certain feeling – something dark, maybe a bit tormented, or just powerfully chaotic. It was less about horns and pitchforks and more about achieving a specific texture, a disturbing mood, and that sense of something untamed or otherworldly.
I’d often just let the image guide me. I’d make a mark, see what it suggested, and then react to that. It became a very back-and-forth kind of dance with the digital tools. A lot of it was just trusting my gut feeling. If a certain accidental smudge looked cool, I kept it, built on it. If it started to feel too clean or too planned, I’d try to rough it up again, introduce some noise.
So yeah, that’s pretty much how I stumbled into my current approach. My 'paintings of devil' aren't really about super technical skill or following a strict, predefined method. They came from a cheap, glitchy piece of hardware, a whole heap of initial frustration, and then learning to love the imperfections and the unexpected. Sometimes the best stuff comes from those happy accidents and those weird detours, right? It taught me that sometimes the 'wrong' way can lead to something far more interesting.
