Solanum lycopersicum

As my final painting of Solanum lycopersicum takes shape, I find myself deeply engaged in the exploration of color—both in its technical execution and in the emotional presence it brings to the piece. The tomato plant offers such a rich and layered palette, and working with colored pencils on toned paper has allowed me to approach these transitions with a sense of nuance and subtlety.

What fascinates me most is the progression of ripeness—the way the fruit moves from pale green through golden olive, to a muted orange, and finally to deep, vibrant red. Each stage has its own internal glow, and capturing that has become central to the mood of the work. I’ve been layering colors slowly: starting with cooler undertones in the green tomatoes (light blue, chartreuse, and touches of cool grey), and building up warmth as the fruit matures—through burnt sienna, carmine, and touches of purple in the shadows. The reds are never just red; they contain echoes of yellow, soft blushes of pink, and deep maroons that give the fruit its weight and richness.

The kraft-toned paper has been especially helpful in softening transitions and supporting the warmth of the palette. It acts as a quiet middle ground, allowing both highlights and shadows to emerge more organically. I’m using white pencil sparingly but intentionally—to pick up the roundness and shine on the skin of the tomatoes, and to suggest a kind of living surface that reacts to light.

The green foliage brings another kind of complexity. Tomato leaves are not a simple green—they hold hints of blue, grey, and even violet, especially in the cooler shadows. I’ve been careful not to flatten the greens, but to let them shift slightly across the surface, echoing the complexity of real life. There’s a delicacy to their color that contrasts with the intensity of the fruit, and I’m finding that this color contrast brings a sense of balance and realism to the composition.

Even the smallest details—the yellow star-shaped flowers, the pale green stems, the deepening blush at the blossom end of ripening fruit—require close attention to color relationships. I’m learning that color, in botanical work, isn’t just about replication. It’s about observation, memory, and feeling. It’s about how colors respond to each other, how they suggest time, temperature, and maturity.

As I continue, my goal is to maintain this sensitivity to the color story unfolding in the work—to allow the palette to guide the rhythm of the piece, and to trust that even in the most familiar subject, there’s always more to see.