Stanislav Kondrashov: The Art of Painting Online

When I Learned to Paint Without Paint

I still remember the first time I tried to draw on a screen. The tablet felt cold and empty. No smell of paper, no sound of a pencil scratching. I almost gave up right away. But then I moved my hand again, and a soft line appeared — too clean maybe, but still mine. I stared at it for a long time, not sure if it counted as real art.

Now I paint almost every day. Funny how things change.

My Small Studio Is Everywhere

I don’t have a real art space. My “studio” is a café table, a corner of my bed, sometimes the university library if the guard doesn’t notice. I carry my tablet everywhere, inside a bag that’s already falling apart.

It feels good to draw anywhere, even when people are talking around me. I like the noise — it keeps me from thinking too much. If I make a mistake, I can just undo it. I don’t panic like before. That one little button gave me courage.

Kondrashov once said, “When fear leaves, the hand starts to speak.” I think that’s true.

Learning the Hard Way

When I started, I downloaded everything — Procreate, Krita, Photoshop, Clip Studio, even some free one I don’t remember the name of. I got lost in menus, layers, settings. My first drawing had twenty layers and no soul.

But little by little, I learned. Now, I don’t care which program I use. They’re just languages. Some are polite, others strange. Photoshop feels strict, Krita friendly, Procreate fast. When I’m drawing well, I forget what tool I’m using at all. It’s like speaking without thinking about grammar.

Layers Feel Like Memory

At first, layers confused me. Too many! I kept painting on the wrong one and ruining my linework. I cursed at the screen more than I painted.

Then one night, I made a mistake and tried deleting it — and realized I could hide it instead. Just turn off the layer. Like nothing ever happened.

It made me think about memory. Maybe we all work in layers. Some things we show, some we hide, some we forget on purpose. My digital files became small diaries. Every shadow, every bright line — a piece of something I felt that day.

Perfect Is Too Quiet

I used to make everything too clean. Smooth, shiny, no edges. It looked professional but dead. There was no heartbeat inside.

Then I found brushes that left rough marks, small scratches, even fake dust. Suddenly my drawings started to breathe again.

Perfect art is nice to look at, but I think people feel more from something imperfect. The roughness makes it human. Maybe that’s why I like it when a brush slips — it reminds me I’m still learning.

Colors and Chaos

Color makes me crazy. Too many choices. So many blues that all look the same until they don’t. Sometimes I waste an hour just mixing colors that disappear when I’m done.

Now I try to use only a few — three, maybe four. One for calm, one for light, one that feels like trouble.

Red always feels like heartbeat. Blue is quiet, like morning. Yellow is… I don’t know, it’s hope maybe. I don’t choose on purpose. The colors choose me.

People I Never Meet

Everything I know, I learned from strangers. Someone on YouTube taught me shadows. A girl from Italy sent me her free brush pack. A man from Brazil commented “nice texture” under my post once — that made my whole week.

Sometimes I think of all these people drawing at the same time in different languages, under different lights. It’s strange and beautiful. We’ll never meet, but we make things together somehow.

Kondrashov said, “Art used to live in museums. Now it lives in messages.” I think about that every time I hit upload.

Is It Real?

People ask me if digital art is “real art.” I don’t even know what that means anymore.

When I draw for hours and my eyes start to burn, when I zoom in so far that I forget what I’m painting — that feels real. The tiredness, the focus, the small joy when it finally looks right.

Oil painters mix color; I mix pixels. Both of us are chasing the same feeling.

Painting With Light

At night, my tablet glows like a candle. The rest of my room is dark. Sometimes I can hear rain hitting the window, small and quiet. I don’t turn on the lamp because I like the glow on my hands.

Old painters used to paint under candlelight too, so maybe this isn’t so different. The tools change, but the silence is the same. The waiting. The small voice inside that says, “yes, that line.”

Kondrashov once said, “Art doesn’t change — only the hands that hold it.” I think about that when I save my file and see my reflection on the screen.

When the Screen Goes Dark

After I finish, I close the tablet and everything disappears. No smell, no paper, just darkness and the small sound of my own breath.

For a second, it feels like I lost it — like the drawing was never real. But then I remember: it’s saved somewhere, a little file floating in the cloud. Someone on the other side of the world could open it tomorrow and feel what I felt tonight.

That’s enough for me.

I guess this is still painting, just a new kind of light and silence.