Artists do not merely look at the world; they learn to see it — with attention, with purpose, and often, with evolving sensitivity. What we rarely consider is how the very tools we use to make art shape this act of seeing. Each medium — from charcoal to chalk, from pencil to brush — carries its own demands and possibilities. As we shift between them, so too does our perception. The eye, in a sense, is trained by the hand, and the hand, by the tool it holds.
My background is in graphic design, and, having spent many years working in advertising and branding, this discipline taught me to observe with structure — to look for alignment, hierarchy, balance, and clarity. It gave me a vocabulary of visual thinking and a foundation of discipline, but also a strong awareness of the constructed image — and a hunger to return to something more immediate, more elemental.
When I stepped away from the digital screen and returned to drawing and sketching, charcoal and chalk pastel drew me in. Both are blunt, physical materials. They don’t lend themselves to refinement or perfection. Instead, they demand gesture, pressure, rhythm — and most importantly, presence. You don’t design a wave with charcoal. You respond to it. You feel the energy, sense the structure, and record the motion in as few marks as possible. It’s raw. Honest. And completely unlike the meticulous polish of branding work.
Pastel brought colour into that experience — not through precision, but through mood and atmosphere. Light becomes something you imply with temperature, not outline. A sea spray or cloud bank is not rendered, but suggested through vibration and layering. These materials don’t offer control — they offer immediacy. And through them, my way of seeing has changed profoundly.
One of the most formative aspects of my practice has become en plein air sketching — working outdoors, on location, in direct relationship with the subject. Whether I’m on the coastline, in the mangrove forests, or watching the weather shift across a Midlands vista, these sessions have become essential to how I see. Sketching outdoors strips away comfort. The light moves, the wind tugs at the page, sand catches on the paper, and time is limited. You have to commit quickly. You’re not aiming for a finished piece, but for a moment of honest observation — something felt and recorded in real time. These sketches are rough, often flawed, but they hold an energy and spontaneity that can’t be captured in the studio.
And perhaps most significantly, they separate my work from the sea of imagery so often recycled through the internet. I don’t draw from stock photos or Pinterest boards. When I do use photographic reference, it’s my own — taken in places I’ve stood, at times I remember, in light I watched shift minute by minute. There’s a uniqueness in that — a specificity of experience that sets the work apart from the homogenised aesthetic that often results from reinterpreting already-interpreted images.
My sketchbook is the bridge between location and studio. It holds wind-scrawled lines, sun-bleached edges, and sea-smudged charcoal. It’s not tidy, and it’s not showy — but it’s more honest than anything I’ve rendered digitally. These pages are a direct extension of the eye and hand in unfiltered conversation with the world. In a sketchbook, I’m allowed to see fast, to respond without caution, and to explore without judgment. There’s something deeply grounding about that. It’s a place where perception becomes physical — not carefully arranged, but caught mid-breath.
Having once lived inside digital design, I’ve since stepped away from it completely in my personal practice. The computer screen, for all its advantages, removed me from the material. I no longer use digital tools for sketching or composition. The friction of paper, the drag of chalk, the texture of board — these tactile encounters are now central to how I observe and understand my subject. That said, I do sometimes refer back to photographs I’ve taken myself — especially when working on larger compositions in studio. They help recall structure, layout, or palette when memory starts to fray. But they are not the source of the work — merely a reference to deepen it. I never let them lead. The real act of seeing happens on site, pencil or pastel in hand, absorbing what’s in front of me without the filter of the screen.
Charcoal and pastel are inherently limited — and that, I’ve come to realise, is their greatest gift. You can’t overwork detail or fuss with refinement. You must edit, suggest, simplify. In this constraint, your observation deepens. You’re forced to look for essence — what’s essential to express the curve of a wave, the haze of a sky, the cool tension in a shadow. You start to see in terms of weight, edge, contrast — and to trust that less can, in fact, say more. It’s not unlike branding, really. Clarity emerges when you let go of what’s unnecessary.
As I’ve moved further away from the tools of my former life — the grids and guides, the screen-based solutions — and deeper into this physical, responsive, material process, my perception has changed. It’s slower, more attuned, more open. En plein air work in particular has helped me let go of the need to control and instead, to engage. I no longer just look at the world. I meet it — in wind, in light, in charcoal dust and puffs of pastel. And through each tool, each medium, and each moment of true observation, my way of seeing continues to evolve — not just as an artist, but as someone present to the world.
Guy McGowan
WASA representative in Durban, KwaZulu-Natal
Chairperson of North Coast Artists, KwaZulu-Natal.