Harry MC makes his own paint
Lines of his own making.
On the face of it stripes are simple, they’re parallel, predictable even, but perhaps there’s more to it than that. To Harry MC, a stripe isn’t just a stripe, it’s a tightrope stretched across the canvas, with paint in place of rope. And what about the paint, well, the paint is everything, that’s where it all starts.
Every stripe of paint Harry lays down has to be just right, to catch the light and hold it for a moment longer than you’d expect. It can be difficult to buy that kind of resonance off the shelf. Commercial paints can be too neat, too finished, too... distant. Harry needs paint that speaks to him, that knows where it came from. That’s why he makes it himself.
It begins with the pigments, or 'powdered dreams' as Harry calls them. He sifts and grinds, blending them with oils until they’re pliable, alive. Each batch has its quirks—slight shifts in tone, a viscosity that fights back against the brush or flows like silk. That unpredictability is part of the dance, the stripes demand it.
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Stripes are not about uniformity. They’re about rhythm. Each line is a voice in a choir and the paint Harry uses determines how it sings. A stripe of studio made vermilion hums differently to a factory-made red. It carries the weight of the artist’s hand, his choices, his hours of grinding and mixing. That weight matters.
Now you might think making paint is unnecessary, a vanity even. Harry sees it differently, a necessity, keeping him close to the work, to the act of creating. There’s no separation between his hand and what ends up on the canvas. Every stripe he paints carries the memory of the pigment’s journey—from stone to powder to paint to line. So when you stand in front of his stripes, remember they are not perfect, they are not meant to be, they are vibrating with the imperfections of their making.
On a visit to the Harry MC studio, the conversation gets round to the important subject of paint.
Descending the narrow staircase to the garden level of Harry MC’s Georgian studio feels like entering the sanctum of an alchemist, a place where science, art, and intuition converge in an ancient dance. The air is cool, scented with linseed oil, the original flagstone floor bears the marks of centuries, its uneven surface a fitting contrast to the precision and care that unfolds in this space. This is where Harry creates his paints, not merely mixes them, but conjures them into existence, each batch an intimate dialogue between pigment, oil, and the artist’s own hand.
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"As Harry began to explain his process, I couldn’t help but marvel at the almost ritualistic nature of his craft. He starts with powdered pigment, which is the lifeblood of any paint, gleaned from sources as diverse as ground minerals, oxidized metals, and occasionally rare earths whose hues carry an almost mythical resonance. There’s a reverence in the way he speaks of these materials, as though they were sacred relics rather than industrial powders."
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The pigments, Harry explains, are stubborn by nature. Tiny clusters cling together, resisting incorporation into the drying oil. He uses cold-pressed linseed oil, a golden elixir prized for its strength and its ability to form a durable, flexible paint film. Cold-pressed oil, thinner than its refined counterparts, flows effortlessly, enveloping each particle of pigment in a near-perfect embrace. But this is only the beginning. Harry combines pigment and oil into a thick, gritty paste using a palette knife, a stage that might suffice for some but not for him. He sees this as merely the first step.
The true magic begins when the paste is spread across a frosted glass slab, and he reaches for his muller, a smooth, hand-held glass tool. With slow, deliberate circles, Harry presses the oil into the pigment, breaking apart the soft clumps and ensuring each particle is thoroughly coated. It is an act of patience and precision. He adjusts the ratio of pigment to oil with care, balancing the opacity and texture, creating a paint that will resonate within the canvas.
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Azure blues demanded the gentleness of poppy oil, lest their cool brilliance be clouded by the warmth of linseed, and of earthy reds so thirsty they seemed to drink the oil with abandon. Some pigments, he explained, require twice the oil of others, while some, obstinate and gritty, resist incorporation like temperamental muses. Yet, with practice and experimentation, Harry has coaxed each into yielding its finest qualities, creating paints that pulse with life and energy.
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Historically, the act of making paint was a necessity for artists. From the Renaissance workshops of Venice to the plein air palettes of the Impressionists, many of the great masters crafted their own materials. They ground lapis lazuli into ultramarine and created vermilion from mercury and sulfur. Harry’s practice aligns him with this lineage, but his method is not a homage it's a necessity born of his desire to push beyond the limitations of commercially made paint.
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"Many commercial paints are a compromise, designed for mass production, stability on a store shelf and longevity in a tube, but they rarely offer the vibrancy, purity, or versatility I seek. To be fair some makes are better than others and one or two are very good but you can't beat making your own". Watching him work, it became clear that his paint-making is more than a technical pursuit; it is an extension of his art, a way of ensuring that every stripe he lays on canvas is imbued with a quality and authenticity.
