The Fishmongers of Pike Place Market by Jackson Wrede | Seattle Prize

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The Fishmongers of Pike Place Market by Jackson Wrede | Seattle Prize

My third project is officially underway. Last week, I commissioned a nine-foot stretcher bar frame from a local craftsman who has worked with our facilitator, Tenaya, on previous projects. It arrived on Monday, beautifully constructed and imposing in scale. I spent the entire day stretching Claessens linen over it, which took much longer than expected working at that size. I had to remove and reset dozens of staples to achieve the tension I wanted, but by the end of the day it finally felt about the tightness I was looking for. Over time, I’m hoping the linen acclimates and absorbs a bit of moisture from the air, so it should continue to tighten just slightly. This week marks the beginning of the drawing phase. Because I’ve completed so many preparatory studies and digital mockups, transferring the composition feels almost procedural at this point. I’m using a grid to establish the primary structure, but once that scaffolding begins to dissolve, I’ll shift into freehand refinement. The goal is to build a drawing so structurally sound that the painting stage can unfold without hesitation. At this scale especially, the drawing must carry authority. I don’t want to be correcting proportions once values, color, and paint are involved. Last Thursday, we were fortunate to watch a demonstration by a local conservator named Eric who restores historical paintings. He walked us through his lining process, showing how a deteriorated or torn canvas is reinforced and stabilized. Seeing that level of material sensitivity was quite cool and inspiring, especially just days before stretching a canvas of my own. It reminded me that what we do is not just image-making but construction, preservation, and stewardship of objects meant to endure. For the next week or two, I’ll be solely focused on this drawing. At nine feet long, it’s a big undertaking, but this stage is the foundation of everything that follows. If I can lock in the structure now with clarity and conviction, I’ll be free later to focus entirely on edges, atmosphere, and risk. My hope is that a disciplined beginning will support what may become the strongest painting I’ve made to date.

Stage 3 · February 27, 2026

The Fishmongers of Pike Place Market, stage 3

This past week I devoted to finishing the drawing for my next project: refining, correcting, and finally committing it to ink across the full nine-foot surface of the canvas. That step may sound redundant, but for me and my process, it is essential. I’ve painted directly over graphite before. Oil paint has a way of softening and dissolving pencil marks, and as the early layers accumulate, it becomes surprisingly easy to “lose” your drawing and watch those carefully measured proportions slowly drift away. On a canvas this large, that kind of erosion compounds quickly. The drawing is not a preliminary suggestion. It is the structural foundation of the entire painting. Every proportion, every interval of shape, every directional force is decided there. After investing that much time into resolving it, I have no interest in watching it disappear beneath the first passes of paint. Inking the drawing locks it in. It fixes the architecture in place. Even as I build successive layers, I can scrape back and find those ink lines beneath the surface — almost like seeing the bones through the skin. It gives me something constant to paint into, a stable armature that keeps the work honest as color and value begin to complicate the surface. Once the ink is dry, I apply a very thin imprimatura: burnt sienna diluted with odorless mineral spirits, rubbed directly into the fibers of the canvas. This serves two purposes. First, it lifts away any remaining graphite residue, leaving only clean, crisp ink lines. Second, it establishes a unified warmth across the surface. I plan for this painting to live predominantly in a cool key. By beginning with burnt sienna, I’m introducing a counterpoint and a reservoir of heat that can glow through the shadows and thinner passages. In certain areas and especially the darks, that orange will flicker through and create subtle temperature variation. Those small shifts are what give a painting life and energy. This disciplined preparation of the surface isn;t an invention of mine. It’s a method I’ve observed in old master works, including one I am very lucky to have in my studio right now. If all goes well, next week I’ll begin establishing the first true layer of paint in select areas of the canvas. The architecture is set. Now the slow construction of light and atmosphere can begin.