.Husky Painting! The greatest challenge! How it’s done!
Husky Painting Part 1: The Challenge Begins
It was one of those mornings when everything felt off. The kind of morning where you wake up and the world outside feels a little too quiet, a little too still. The world was covered in a thick mist, the kind that makes everything seem distant and uncertain. Perfect for what lay ahead.
I stared at the blank canvas before me. It sat there, silent and unyielding, a stark reminder of the challenge ahead. For some, a blank canvas is a thing of possibility, a realm of endless creative potential. But for me, in that moment, it felt like an insurmountable wall. A wall that was going to test every ounce of my skill, patience, and determination.
But this wasn’t just any commission. This wasn’t just another portrait. No, this was a husky—one of the most beautiful, complicated, and unforgiving creatures I had ever attempted to capture on canvas. I could feel the weight of it already.
The client had sent me a photo, and the moment I laid eyes on it, I knew this was going to be no ordinary challenge. The husky had a fierce gaze, its fur a mix of whites, greys, and blues that seemed to shimmer even in a photograph. The eyes—those piercing, icy blue eyes—stared back at me like they were daring me to try. It was as if the dog was saying, If you can capture me, then maybe, just maybe, you’ll prove you’re worthy.
I’d painted many animals before. Dogs, cats, horses—you name it. But there was something about the husky that intimidated me. Its thick fur, its contrasting shades of colour, the delicate way light and shadow played across its body—it was all so complex, so intricate. I had painted animals in the past, yes, but I had never faced anything like this.
My studio was quiet, save for the sound of the brush tapping the side of the water pot, a soft rhythm to match the slow beat of my heart. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to ground myself. The first step in any painting is understanding your subject, and this husky… this creature, demanded respect. I couldn’t rush it. I couldn’t afford to make mistakes.
I knew this would be my most challenging painting yet.
Husky Painting Part 2: The Moment of Doubt
I began painting, tentatively at first, letting the brush flow lightly across the surface of the canvas. I mapped out the rough shape of the husky’s head, the proud, noble line of its snout. But with every stroke, something felt off. It didn’t look right. The proportions were wrong. The angle was wrong. The blank canvas had given me nothing but frustration.
I had done portraits before, sure, but I was starting to realise something deeper—the husky’s face was not just a collection of lines and shapes. It was an emotional landscape. Its gaze wasn’t just a simple look. It told a story. And I was struggling to translate that story onto the canvas.
It’s funny how you can feel so certain about something and then, just as quickly, feel completely inadequate. Here I was, staring at a nearly finished sketch, and I couldn’t help but feel like I was in over my head. I was a professional, yes. But in that moment, all I could feel was doubt.
The husky’s eyes haunted me. The more I stared at them, the more I realised how much work they would require. The whites of the eyes weren’t just white—they had depth, shadows, a life of their own. The pupils, almost glowing, held such intensity that they demanded attention. They weren’t just eyes; they were a window to the soul of this dog. I knew I had to get them just right or the whole portrait would fail. There would be no going back.
As I set down my sketching pencil, I heard the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. Time. I was running out of it. I had given the client a rough deadline—no more than two weeks. Two weeks to bring a lifelike husky to life from a blank canvas. It felt impossible.
That evening, I poured myself a drink—a whisky, neat. I needed it. I needed to calm my nerves, to slow my mind. As the amber liquid slipped down my throat, I stared out the window at the fog-covered street, my thoughts swirling like the mist outside.
Could I really do this?
I decided I needed to sleep on it. To reset my mind. The husky would still be there in the morning, waiting for me to give it form.
Husky Painting Part 3: The Breakthrough
The morning light crept through the blinds, casting long shadows across the studio floor. I woke up with a feeling of semi-clarity. The husky wasn’t the problem. I was.
As the days wore on, the painting seemed to lose something. I had spent hours hunched over the canvas, trying to capture the husky’s physical form—its striking blue eyes, the thick fur, the proud stature—but something crucial was missing. The painting wasn’t coming to life the way I had hoped. It was as if I was only scratching the surface, never quite reaching the soul of the animal.
I could see the husky in front of me—its form was solid, its features were sharp—but the depth, the essence, the spirit that made this dog more than just a beautiful animal—that was what eluded me. It felt as if I hadn’t connected with the soul of the subject. I had been too focused on the technicalities, on getting the fur just right, on perfecting the highlights, when what I really needed was to feel the husky.
I stared at the canvas for what seemed like hours, my mind racing with frustration. I was so close, but so far. This painting was becoming an intellectual challenge—an exercise in technique, rather than an emotional journey. I was disconnected. The husky was more than just a subject for me to replicate; it was an animal with a presence, a character, a heart. How could I capture that if I couldn’t even feel it in my own chest?
That’s when I knew what I needed to do.
Sometimes, when I feel stuck, I find that the best thing I can do is step away from the studio. So, I decided to take a break—a real break. No brushes, no canvas, no paint. I needed to get out of my head, to find inspiration in the world outside. I grabbed my coat and left the house, heading to the local park.
I had heard that a few friends of mine were walking their huskies there that morning. They were regulars at the park, and I knew that spending some time with real-life huskies, being in their presence, would help me reconnect with what I had been missing. The feeling of the fur beneath my fingers, the sound of their paws against the ground, the way they moved so gracefully despite their strength—that was what I needed to understand.
As I walked through the park, the crisp morning air filled my lungs, and I could feel the tension easing from my shoulders. I was still carrying that weight—the pressure to get this painting right—but something about being outside, surrounded by nature, made it all seem a little more manageable. I spotted my friends with their huskies near the trees, and as I approached, the dogs turned their heads, their eyes locking onto me with that familiar intensity.
One husky, in particular, caught my attention. His coat was a beautiful mix of silver and black, with bright, intelligent eyes that seemed to see right through me. As he trotted over, his tail wagging gently, I knelt down and let him come closer, offering my hand for him to sniff. His fur was soft, thick, and the texture was so much more complex than I could have ever imagined. It was a perfect blend of colours, with highlights of pale silver catching the sunlight, and dark fur that seemed to shimmer with depth.
I knew this would be my most challenging painting yet.
I watched as the husky turned its head and looked at me, the cool blue eyes locking with mine, just like in the photo I had been working from. And in that moment, something clicked. I felt a deep connection to the dog, something I hadn’t experienced while staring at the photo in my studio. It wasn’t just about the physical features—it was the energy of the husky. The calm confidence, the quiet strength, and the underlying playfulness in his eyes. This husky was more than just a model for a painting; it was a personality. A presence.
As I stood there, surrounded by the huskies, I realised something important: I hadn’t been connecting with the emotion of the husky. I had been too focused on the technical aspects—the fur, the eyes, the light—and not on how this animal made me feel. But now, seeing these dogs in person, I felt that connection. I could sense the husky’s spirit, its quiet pride, its boldness, and its joy. This was what I needed to bring to the painting—the feeling of the animal, the essence of it, not just the physical appearance.
My friends and I talked for a while, exchanging stories about their huskies, watching them play and interact with each other. I felt a new sense of inspiration washing over me. I knew I needed to return to my studio with fresh eyes, and most importantly, with the right emotional mindset. The painting had to be more than just an accurate depiction; it had to breathe. I had to channel what I felt in that moment into every brushstroke. Only then could I truly bring this husky to life.
As I left the park and made my way back home, I felt a sense of clarity that I hadn’t had before. The fog that had clouded my mind had lifted. I was ready to dive back into the painting, but this time, with a new approach. It wasn’t about getting the fur perfect or matching every shade of blue. It was about capturing the heart of the husky. Its soul.
I knew this painting would be the most challenging I had ever done—but now, I was more determined than ever to get it right. I wasn’t just painting a dog. I was painting a spirit, a being with its own story, its own strength. And it was time to tell that story.
Husky Painting Part 4: The Final Touches – Bringing the Husky to Life
After returning from the park, I felt like a different person—almost as if a switch had been flipped inside me. The cloud of doubt that had hung over the painting for days had dissipated, replaced by a renewed sense of purpose. The husky wasn’t just a subject anymore—it was a living, breathing creature that had a story, a personality, and a soul that needed to be honoured.
That evening, I returned to my studio with a fresh perspective, ready to bring everything I had learned from my walk in the park into the painting. The canvas still stared back at me, but now it was no longer an intimidating blank slate—it was a canvas of opportunity. It was time to give life to the husky, to infuse it with the energy I had experienced earlier that day.
I stood in front of the painting, taking in the work I had done so far. The shape of the husky’s head was defined. The fur, though still rough and incomplete, had depth. The subtle highlights were beginning to emerge, creating a sense of volume and texture. But there was still something missing—something crucial that made it feel like the painting wasn’t finished.
I began with the eyes. The eyes are always the most important part of any portrait—there’s no denying that. They are the window to the soul, the focal point where emotion can be captured. The husky’s eyes had been one of my biggest challenges from the start. When I first looked at the reference photo, I could feel how intense they were, but trying to replicate that intensity with paint had been difficult.
I mixed a deeper, richer blue to give the irises that piercing quality they had in the photo. There was a slight ring of lighter colour around the pupils—almost a halo effect that I hadn’t fully noticed until I stood face-to-face with the real huskies at the park. The light reflected off the surface of their eyes in such a way that it made them shine with an ethereal glow, like frozen pools of ice.
I took a deep breath and began working on the eyes, using tiny, delicate strokes to define the pupil and the light reflection within it. Layer by layer, the intensity of the gaze began to emerge. The blue became more vibrant, the whites more defined, and the dark pupils gleamed with life. But it wasn’t just the physicality of the eyes that needed work—it was the spirit within them. I had to let go of my obsession with perfection and instead focus on the emotion I had felt that morning—the quiet strength, the intelligence, the independence.
As I worked on the details, I couldn’t help but marvel at how the painting had begun to shift. The husky’s presence was no longer passive; it was alive, watching me with a quiet intensity. Its eyes seemed to follow me across the room. It was as though it was telling me, You’re getting it, John. You’re finally seeing me.
With the eyes finally giving me the expression I had hoped for, I turned my attention to the fur. The texture of the husky’s coat had been the biggest challenge throughout this painting. The fur wasn’t just fur; it was a maze of colours, tones, and directions that needed to flow and blend in perfect harmony. The fur on the husky’s face was thick and plush, but it also had a wild, untamed quality to it, especially around the neck and chest.
The challenge now was to bring out the unique mix of tones—the cool greys, silvers, and whites—and how they shifted depending on the light. I worked carefully, layering thin glazes of paint to build up the richness and texture. I had to make the fur look soft, almost touchable, while still maintaining the strength that made the husky a formidable creature. Each stroke was calculated, each direction of the brush mimicking the way the fur naturally fell.
As I worked, I realised how much more fulfilling it was to approach the painting this way. I wasn’t trying to force the husky into my idea of perfection. I wasn’t trying to make it look like a photograph. No, I was allowing the painting to breathe, to come alive in its own way, and this—this was where the magic happened.
It was only when I stepped back from the canvas and looked at the painting from a distance that I finally understood the full extent of my progress. The husky’s face now held expression. The fur was beginning to shimmer with life, each brushstroke contributing to the sense of movement, texture, and depth. But there was still something missing.
I needed to give the painting one final push. There was something about the way the light hit the edges of the husky’s fur in the reference photo that I hadn’t captured yet. There was an ethereal glow to it, almost as if the dog was glowing in the sunlight. It was a subtle detail, but one that would elevate the painting to the next level.
I mixed a very light wash of white and pale blue, and with a fine-tipped brush, I gently added highlights along the edges of the fur. As the colour touched the surface, the painting began to shimmer. The glow that I had seen in my reference photo now translated to the canvas. The husky looked like it was bathed in sunlight, its fur reflecting the light in a way that was almost otherworldly.
But even with these last touches, I knew the painting wouldn’t be complete until I found a way to give the husky a sense of movement. Huskies are known for their energy, their speed, and their grace, and I wanted to capture that dynamism. The fur, although still static in form, needed to feel alive and in motion. So, I added subtle flicks of paint around the edges of the fur, making it appear as if the wind was blowing through it. It wasn’t much—just a few quick strokes—but it made all the difference. Suddenly, the painting had an energy to it. The husky wasn’t just standing there; it felt as if it could leap off the canvas at any moment.
I stood back again, eyes scanning the work. The painting had evolved into something I hadn’t imagined when I first started. It was no longer just a technical exercise. It was a tribute. A living, breathing reflection of the husky’s spirit. I had connected with it on a level I never thought possible when I first laid eyes on the reference photo. Every brushstroke had brought me closer to understanding not just the dog, but also the process of creation itself.
It was time to stop. The husky was finished.
In the face of struggle, it is tempting to question whether the effort is worth it. Yet, it is in these moments of doubt that the most important work is done—developing the resilience to keep going. Success isn’t always about making the right decisions from the start, but about learning to persevere when things don’t go according to plan. Every setback is a lesson, and the act of overcoming those setbacks builds character and confidence, which ultimately leads to success.
The Fine Line Between Success and Struggle
Success and struggle are not mutually exclusive, yet the balance between them can be delicate. It’s easy to romanticize the idea of success—seeing it as a place where everything falls into place, where challenges are minimized, and where rewards are plentiful. However, the reality is often more complex. True success is never without its difficulties, and it’s rare that success comes without effort, sacrifice, or hardship.
At the same time, we must be careful not to let struggle define us. While struggle is an integral part of the journey, it should not be allowed to overshadow the successes we achieve along the way. It’s easy to get caught up in the difficulties of life and forget to celebrate the progress we’ve made. If we constantly focus on the struggle, we risk losing sight of the victories, both big and small, that have brought us to where we are.
The fine line between success and struggle is found in the way we approach each. If we only focus on success and ignore the struggles, we may find ourselves unprepared for the challenges that arise. On the other hand, if we focus solely on the struggle, we may lose sight of the progress we’ve made and feel as though success is always just out of reach. The key is to recognize that both are necessary and that we must learn to balance them in a way that allows us to grow, learn, and ultimately succeed.
Part 5: Reflection
As I look back on the journey, I realise that this painting was more than just a test of my skill—it was a test of my resolve. There were times when I wanted to give up, when the challenge felt too great. But in the end, it was all worth it. The husky was more than just a painting. It was proof that I could push through my doubts, my fears, and emerge on the other side as a better artist.
Every painting is a journey. And this journey, my most challenging yet, had taught me more about myself and my craft than any other.
What’s Next?
My story isn’t over. In fact, it’s only just beginning. In the next episode of Art from the Heart, I’ll share how I rebuilt my life, found my true calling, and continued using art as a force for good.
Thank you for joining me on this journey. If my story resonates with you, I encourage you to share your thoughts, experiences, or even your own artistic journey in the comments.
Until next time—keep creating, keep believing, and never lose sight of the beauty that can emerge from even the darkest places.
Watch the full episode here: https://youtu.be/kwe2Ugq24rY?si=1p6IQEFcClz-cCvz
Nature’s Lesson in Resilience: Adapting to Change Like the Seasons
Change is one of life’s few constants, and learning how to adapt is key to thriving in an ever-evolving world. Nature’s cycles offer profound insights into resilience and adaptability, showing us how to gracefully transition through life’s seasons. From the steady transformation of the seasons to the delicate balance ecosystems maintain, we can draw parallels and inspiration to help navigate our own challenges.
Life’s challenges can feel overwhelming, but they also serve as reminders of our strength and capacity for growth. By embracing setbacks with courage and a commitment to renewal, we can transform adversity into a powerful force for personal development. The path to thriving begins with a single step forward—taken with determination, hope, and an open heart.
If you enjoyed this why not watch John live on youtube!
Starting a business- Starting a business- Starting a business- Starting a business- Starting a business- Starting a business- Starting a business
Husky Painting! The greatest challenge! How it’s done! Husky Painting!Husky Painting!Husky Painting!Husky Painting! Husky PaintingHusky PaintingHusky PaintingHusky PaintingHusky PaintingHusky PaintingHusky PaintingHusky PaintingHusky PaintingHusky Painting