Implementing Oil Painting Techniques in Digital Art

Having honed my craft with traditional materials at a historic European academy, I found that my approach to oil and acrylic painting never truly left me. The techniques I mastered on canvas have seamlessly bled into my digital practice, bridging the gap between old-world craftsmanship and modern technology. Alongside this, techniques I mastered on canvas have bled into my digital practice.

Imprimatura was one of them. From Italian, "imprimatura" translates literally to "first layer of paint". Today, we can just call it underpainting. Its use dates back to guilds and workshops from the Middle Ages, but it became more widespread during the Renaissance, especially in Italy. Older masters used it regularly, barely starting any piece without it. It's easy to recognize within Leonardo da Vinci's unfinished pencil sketches, for instance, as their background is usually yellow or somewhat orange from the imprimatura.

A common misconception is that the color of the paper is explained by the material itself or the influence of time with no restoration in the process. In reality, it was a conscious choice. Most of the classical painters of the 19th and 20th centuries used this technique, and today we can see it in plenty of modern classics. The idea of imprimatura is simple: avoid starting on a bare white canvas. You might wonder why that matters, and the answer is more straightforward than you think: white is harsh on the eyes, and almost every color strongly contrasts against it. By beginning with a darker or tinted ground, you gain a more accurate sense of color, since we perceive color in relation to its surroundings. White and black are in that sense deceptive to the eyes. Renaissance painters typically used earthy pigments like raw sienna, thinned with turpentine, for this transparent wash. They were careful not to cover it completely—allowing it to show through the final layers, particularly in shadow areas, creating a remarkable optical unity and depth. Some artists, like the Venetian master Titian, even experimented with grey imprimaturas, while others like Rubens switched between red-brown and grey grounds depending on where they were working.

Take the traditional monotone red still-life exercise, for instance—a composition dominated entirely by red objects, similar in both hue and value. The imprimatura might not be what you'd expect. While a green ground is a logical choice for its complementary contrast, teachers with experience advocate for something counterintuitive: a hot pink or magenta imprimatura. The reasoning is rooted in both color theory and practical experience. Because pink contains red within its composition, it acts as a harmonious bridge between the ground and the subsequent layers. As you paint over it, fragments of that pink warmth show through the red passages, lending them a luminous, almost glowing quality that a neutral or complementary ground cannot achieve. Rather, the pink amplifies the red—creating a sense of internal radiance and unifying the overall color scheme.

This practice extends into my digital practice. Whenever I begin a new piece, I never start on a white layer. The blank white canvas—or screen—is not only harsh on the eyes but also deceptive; it skews perception of value and color from the very first stroke. Instead, I work on a gray background. It's gentler on the eyes over long sessions, and for anyone spending hours in front of a display, using a mid-tone background is perhaps the simplest solution to preserve your sight and have a better approach to coloring.

If the composition is heavily color-driven—dominated by yellow, purple, or any singular bright hue—I often take this logic a step further. While gray remains my default, largely because it harmonizes naturally with the yellows that frequently appear in my palette, I adapt the ground to suit the work at hand. For a red-dominant piece, for instance, I would reach for a hot pink, bright orange or complimentary green, as I know that the piece will benefit from that decision, setting the tonal and emotional register before a single layer of final color is applied. The next critical stage in the traditional painting process is the construction of a textured underpaint layer. In the academic tradition of the Russian Imperial Academy of Arts, this texture was a choice. The imprimatura itself was often applied with broad, stiff-bristled brushes, particularly those made from natural bristles, which were favored for their ability to create a pronounced, rugged texture on the ground layer. The rough surface created microscopic peaks and valleys that would later catch subsequent layers of paint, adding depth and a sense of material presence that a perfectly smooth ground could never achieve.

The Imperial Academy, where I studied painting, was established in St. Petersburg in 1757 and developed a system that emphasized technical mastery. Students are trained to build paintings, starting from the imprimatura and working upward. This same principle guides my approach to texture in digital work. I want texture to peek through the upper layers, just as it does in oil painting. The upper layers may be more polished, the lower layers rougher—or sometimes the reverse, depending on the desired effect. Again, it comes back to the relational nature of perception. A fully textured artwork reads as grainy; without relief, texture loses its significance.

The contrast between textured passages and cleaner, more refined areas is precisely what makes texture read. In addition to that, one of the most common phrases you'll hear—especially during oil painting class—is "береги белое", which translates to "preserve the white". This principle extends beyond the literal color. This is about keeping the texture of the canvas and the sheerness of the initial paint layers. The artist is taught to apply subsequent, thicker passages with care, leaving fragments of the textured ground visible beneath. Even after the imprimatura had transformed the canvas from white to a tinted ground, the underlying philosophy remained unchanged: preserve that translucency, that airy quality of the lower layers, and approach each overpainting with deliberate mindfulness. It was a constant reminder that what lies beneath is an intentional step and covering it was a mistake.

Honestly, this advice always came with a considerable amount of pressure. In the Academy, it was repeated with such gravity that it felt like a warning more than guidance. And once I finally understood what it meant to preserve the white, I couldn't let go of it. I held onto it fearfully, worried that I might forget the principle that had taken me so long to grasp. Pressure aside, I believe it's a practice worth carrying into digital art. At the very least, it has worked for me as I approach every layer with intention.

From there, the artist moves into the shadows. And here lies one of the most important rules of classical painting, one famously repeated in Rubens's studio: never introduce white into the shadows: "Begin by painting your shadows lightly. Guard against bringing white into them; it is the poison of the picture except in the lights."

Once white is mixed into a darker tone, the shadow loses its depth and clarity, becoming chalky and dull. Instead, the artist works with every color in the palette except white (and except white-based colors, such as light ochre or cerulean)—building the entire composition in mid-tones and darks, and reserves white for the following day, when the underlying layers have set.

There are two purposes of this lower layer: it is meant to peek through the subsequent paint, lending vibrancy and optical depth to the final surface. But it also preserves the texture of the ground beneath, which, in traditional painting, becomes an integral part of the visual language. By applying only a few dark shadows and contours over it, artists allowed the tinted ground to define forms and carry much of the visual weight of the painting. Of course, the rule of avoiding white in shadows doesn't translate literally to digital painting. There's no drying time (and titanium white naturally is the longest drying color in a palette), no chemical interaction between pigments, and no risk of chalkiness in the same way. But the idea behind it is that the shadows should be built from color, not from desaturated mixtures. In practice, that means reaching for darker and more saturated versions of the local color or complementary tones, rather than simply adding black or lowering brightness. The goal is to keep shadows rich and transparent.

I won't pretend I embraced these things with open arms. I wanted to be a punk, to reject everything the Academy stood for. But I couldn't stop returning to those same lessons in my digital work, often without realizing it. The habits were too deeply ingrained. And now, looking back, I see that these principles never held me back, they were tools I chose to keep using. They made my work better. They sharpen the work, give it structure, and, whether I like it or not, they've shaped my artistic vision like nothing else. And so, I pass this knowledge forward to you as a useful tool to add to your own practice. Those encountering them for the first time, I hope they offer a new way of seeing. And for those who already hold them in their hands, perhaps you'll recognize their precious significance, as I have, and carry them forward into your own work.