When I first picked up my brush to experiment with priming techniques on miniatures from Mansions of Madness, I didn’t realize that the journey would stretch over years and involve duplicate figures, trial and error with different products, and more than a few happy accidents. Carolyn Fern, the psychologist who first appeared in the expansion Mansions of Madness: Forbidden Alchemy, was the last of my initial set of four investigators to be primed using brush-on gesso. She became a kind of turning point in my approach to miniature painting, and looking back on those early experiments reveals just how much the smallest decisions can shape the entire hobby experience.
The idea of using gesso didn’t come out of nowhere. Back in 2017 and 2018, I had already tested a variety of spray primers on my miniatures, but the results were inconsistent at best. I owned both the first edition expansion Forbidden Alchemy and the Second Edition – Suppressed Memories: Figure and Tile Collection, which meant I had duplicates of certain investigators. Rather than leave those duplicates languishing in the box, I realized they offered the perfect test subjects for primers and techniques without the fear of ruining irreplaceable miniatures. The duplicates became my laboratory, and Carolyn was one of the figures that benefitted from this experimentation.
During that period, I tried three different spray primers. The Army Painter spray performed adequately, providing a surface that accepted paint without too much fuss, though it never impressed me with either coverage or durability. The Citadel black spray, on the other hand, was outstanding. It went on smoothly, preserved detail, and created a rich surface for building up layers of color. Unfortunately, not every product worked so well. Wilko’s craft white spray primer turned out to be a disaster—so heavy and clumpy that it obliterated nearly all of the fine sculpting details that make miniatures interesting to paint in the first place. That experience left me cautious about relying on sprays alone, especially for models where subtle textures like fabric folds, pinstripes, and hair strands were crucial to achieving a satisfying final result.
By the time I came back to painting these investigators after a hiatus, I was ready to try something new. Brush-on gesso seemed promising. Gesso has long been used by artists to prime canvases, creating a surface that accepts paint evenly while adding a slight tooth for better adhesion. I had read enough in painting communities to know that miniature hobbyists occasionally adopted gesso for similar purposes, though it wasn’t universally embraced. The key advantage, however, was control: with a brush-on primer, I could dictate exactly how much product went onto the figure, avoiding the uneven spray coverage and weather-related complications that come with aerosol cans.
Carolyn was the last of the four investigators I tackled in this new experiment. Initially, I primed her in black gesso, believing the dark undercoat would create strong shadows and make subsequent colors pop. While painting the other investigators, though, I realized that a solid black foundation often swallowed details, especially on figures with lighter clothing or subtle texturing. Carolyn’s sculpt in particular demanded a more balanced approach. Her attire features both delicate pinstripes on her upper dress and flowing folds on the lower portion of her skirt. With a black undercoat, these features risked vanishing into obscurity once paint was applied.
That realization led me to mix my own grey gesso from the black and white varieties I had on hand. The resulting midtone primer struck a satisfying balance—it was dark enough to provide natural shading, yet light enough to preserve visibility of the sculpted details before I even began painting. This custom blend quickly became my preferred primer for subsequent projects. Carolyn, therefore, represents not just another painted investigator, but also the moment where I found a primer that felt like a reliable baseline for future work.
Of course, priming is only the first step in the process. The figure itself demands attention to character and theme. Carolyn Fern is presented in the game as a psychologist, and that professional identity is reflected in her miniature. She holds folders under her arm, an unusual detail compared to investigators who wield lanterns, books, or weapons. Those folders provided an interesting opportunity to make painting choices that reinforced her background. I chose a buff or fawn color to suggest patient files, something practical and work-related, rather than treating them as generic props. At the same time, I was aware of a potential visual pitfall: at first glance, that neutral shade could be mistaken for unpainted primer. It was a compromise between thematic accuracy and visual clarity, and while it works if you look closely, it does require some attention from the viewer.
Beyond props, her outfit itself became a focal point. The pinstripes on the upper dress and the folds of her skirt could easily have become a muddy mess without careful shading. To bring out those details, I turned to one of my favorite tools: Nuln Oil wash. When used carefully, it can settle into recesses and accentuate sculpting without overwhelming lighter base colors. I had learned from previous figures that being too heavy-handed with washes can create blotches or obscure texture. With Carolyn, I was more deliberate, guiding the wash into the right areas and keeping it from pooling excessively. The result was a more refined finish that emphasized both the vertical lines of her clothing and the natural flow of the fabric.
Then there was the question of her weapon. Carolyn carries a pistol, and it seemed important to distinguish it clearly from the rest of the figure. I considered painting it with a bold, unexpected color like cadmium red, which might have created a striking contrast. However, once applied, it looked far too toy-like, reminiscent of a water pistol rather than a weapon suited to the dark, unsettling world of Mansions of Madness. Realism won out in the end. I repainted it in Army Painter Gun Metal, which gave it a metallic sheen without drawing undue attention away from the rest of the miniature. Sometimes the straightforward option is the one that works best, and in this case, accuracy helps maintain the overall tone.
Hair is another detail that often determines how a miniature feels when viewed at arm’s length. Carolyn’s sculpt includes enough texture to allow for layering, but not so much that every stroke of the brush becomes a challenge. I experimented with a palette that blended reddish, orange, and yellow hues, dry brushing lighter tones over darker layers to bring out depth. The result was subtle, but in person it created a pleasing variation that suggested natural highlights rather than a flat block of color. Photographs rarely capture the nuances of such effects, yet it was one of the aspects of this figure that I felt most satisfied with.
All these choices—the primer, the wash, the color palette for clothing, the details of the folders, and the treatment of her hair—combined to make Carolyn an especially memorable project. More than simply finishing another investigator, the process of painting her forced me to confront how primer color affects perception, how small props can reinforce character identity, and how restraint in techniques like washes can pay off. She stands as both an individual figure and a milestone in my progression as a painter.
Mansions of Madness Investigators: Carolyn Fern – the Process
When I first returned to painting miniatures after a few years away from the hobby, I realized that my earlier experiments with spray primers had left me with a mixed legacy. Some of the figures were primed decently, ready for paint even after years in storage, while others bore the scars of my missteps. Carolyn Fern, along with her fellow investigators from the Mansions of Madness expansions, became the figures through which I refined not only my technical skills but also my philosophy toward preparation, layering, and finishing.
The first lesson that hit home during this phase was the sheer importance of primer color. Many painters underestimate just how profoundly the undercoat influences every subsequent decision. When I primed Carolyn in black gesso at first, she looked dramatic and moody, but the darkness consumed the sculpt’s finer details. It wasn’t just a matter of visibility; the black base dictated that every color layered on top of it would skew toward shadow. Light blues turned into muted greys, buff tones looked dirty, and the delicate pinstripes of her upper dress seemed destined to vanish under layers of paint. That realization forced me to step back and rethink the foundation.
Mixing my own grey gesso was the turning point. By blending black and white gesso until I had a neutral midtone, I created a surface that offered flexibility. Shadows could still be emphasized with washes, but highlights had a chance to breathe. For a figure like Carolyn, where both subtlety and precision matter, this balance made all the difference. It also taught me that the “one-size-fits-all” mentality of primers doesn’t really apply. A bold, armored character might thrive on a black base, while a robed scholar or psychologist benefits from something softer. The grey gesso gave me control that I hadn’t realized I was missing.
Applying gesso itself requires a slightly different mindset than spray primers. With a spray, the best you can do is shake the can, pray for good weather, and hope the nozzle doesn’t splatter. Brush-on gesso, however, puts responsibility directly in your hands. Too thin a layer, and you risk transparency that doesn’t hold paint properly. Too thick, and you create a rubbery film that hides details just as badly as an overzealous spray. For Carolyn, I learned to work the gesso into recesses with a fine brush, smoothing it out as much as possible before it dried. Gesso tends to self-level, but only if you don’t overload it. The process was slower than using a spray, but it was deliberate, almost meditative, and that alone shifted my relationship to the figure.
Once primed, the real fun began. One of the aspects of Carolyn’s sculpt that immediately drew my attention was the fabric of her clothing. Miniatures are tiny canvases, but even within their scale they can feature a surprising variety of textures—smooth leather, coarse wool, shiny metal, flowing hair. On Carolyn, the contrast between the pinstriped upper dress and the layered skirt created an opportunity to play with washes and highlighting.
I reached for Nuln Oil, a wash that had become a staple in my painting kit. Many hobbyists swear by it, though just as many have horror stories of drowning their figures in the inky liquid. Its strength lies in how it flows into recesses, defining details and creating natural shadows. But like any strong tool, it requires restraint. When applied to Carolyn’s upper dress, I carefully guided the wash into the pinstripes, ensuring that the lines remained visible without the surrounding cloth turning blotchy. This was slow, methodical work, but the payoff was immediate. The sculpt came alive in a way that a simple flat coat never could.
On her skirt, I used the wash to enhance the sense of weight and depth in the folds. Fabric is tricky to paint because real-world fabric interacts with light in complex ways. In miniature, you have to exaggerate those effects to make them read correctly at a glance. A dark wash in the recesses paired with careful dry brushing on the raised areas created that illusion. The key was subtlety—too stark a contrast, and the skirt would look like a cartoon; too little, and it would remain flat and lifeless.
The choice of colors also fed into this balancing act. Her folders, which I painted in a buff or fawn color, were a conscious nod to her role as a psychologist. I wanted them to look like patient files, something practical that belonged in her hands. However, choosing such a muted tone came with risks. Against the grey undercoat and darker dress, the folders could easily appear unfinished, as if I had simply left them primed. To avoid this impression, I added light shading and subtle highlights, creating just enough depth to differentiate them from the base color. It was a small but necessary adjustment that kept them from looking neglected.
Painting the gun presented a different challenge. Miniature weapons often tempt painters to go wild with metallics or bright colors, but restraint serves the narrative better. I briefly considered using cadmium red, which on the palette looked bold and eye-catching. Once applied, however, the effect was comical—more like a child’s toy water pistol than a tool of survival in a Lovecraftian nightmare. Recognizing this misstep early, I repainted it with Army Painter Gun Metal. The metallic sheen was strong enough to distinguish it as a weapon but not so flashy as to distract from the rest of the figure. It blended naturally into the overall tone, grounding the miniature in realism.
Hair, as always, was a test of patience. Unlike armor or fabric, hair lacks clean boundaries. It flows, tangles, and curls in ways that are hard to replicate at such a small scale. Carolyn’s sculpt had enough texture to work with but demanded careful layering. I started with a darker base of reddish-brown, then dry brushed lighter tones of orange and yellow to suggest highlights. The key was to keep the strokes light, almost like dusting the surface, so that only the raised strands caught the brighter pigment. In person, the result was satisfying, creating a natural variation that looked alive rather than artificial. Photographs, unfortunately, often flatten these subtleties, but the joy of miniature painting lies partly in holding the figure in your hand, tilting it under the light, and seeing how the details shift with perspective.
As I worked through these stages, I noticed how much my mindset had changed since my earlier attempts in 2017 and 2018. Back then, I was impatient, eager to get figures “done” and onto the table for gaming. Spray primers seemed efficient, washes were applied quickly, and mistakes were shrugged off in the name of speed. But with Carolyn and her companions, I slowed down. Each brushstroke became intentional, each decision weighed not just for immediate impact but for how it contributed to the miniature as a whole. It wasn’t about finishing quickly; it was about respecting the sculpt and the story it told.
Even something as mundane as primer had become a lesson in mindfulness. The black gesso taught me that darkness can obscure, while the grey blend showed that balance opens possibilities. The buff folders reminded me that realism sometimes risks misinterpretation, and the gun reinforced the value of restraint. Every element tied back into the process, not the product. Carolyn was no longer just another investigator to add to the painted lineup. She was a study in patience, a reminder that the journey of painting is as rewarding as the finished model itself.
Mansions of Madness Investigators: Carolyn Fern – Character in Paint
One of the most rewarding aspects of painting miniatures is the chance to transform a lump of molded plastic into a living character. Games like Mansions of Madness thrive on atmosphere, narrative, and roleplaying, and the investigators are at the heart of that experience. While the scenarios themselves are scripted, the way you perceive and inhabit each investigator often depends on how they are represented—both on the card and on the table. Painting Carolyn Fern was not simply about putting color on a model; it was about telling her story through choices that emphasized who she is as a character.
Carolyn Fern has always stood out among the investigators. Where others wield lanterns, rifles, or arcane books, she carries folders tucked under her arm. That simple sculpted detail sets her apart, marking her not as a fighter or an adventurer, but as a professional. She is a psychologist, someone who navigates the horrors of the game through intellect, analysis, and empathy rather than brute force. Translating that identity into paint meant thinking carefully about palette, shading, and symbolism. Every brushstroke had the potential to either reinforce or undermine her role.
The first step in this process was deciding on a color scheme that felt consistent with her character. Unlike some miniatures, Carolyn does not come with an official artwork reference that dictates precise colors for every detail. That freedom can be both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it allows for creativity; on the other, it leaves you second-guessing whether your choices feel authentic. For her clothing, I leaned toward muted, professional tones that would make sense for a psychologist in the early 20th century.
Pinstripes on her upper dress suggested formality, a tailored look that fit the idea of someone educated and precise. The lower skirt, with its flowing folds, offered a chance to soften that formality with subtle highlights. Together, these elements created a balance between professional composure and human warmth.
The pinstripes themselves became more than just decorative. They symbolized order, routine, and discipline—the kind of structured mindset a psychologist might bring into situations that test the boundaries of sanity. Painting them required patience, guiding washes and highlights to keep the lines visible without turning them into harsh contrasts. Too dark, and she would look somber; too light, and the stripes would vanish. Finding the right middle ground reinforced her role as someone who treads carefully between extremes, much like the investigators themselves walk a line between rationality and the supernatural.
Her skirt told a slightly different story. Unlike the rigid pinstripes, the flowing fabric suggested movement, adaptability, and resilience. In narrative terms, it reflected the idea that Carolyn, though grounded in logic and training, must still adapt to the unpredictable horrors she encounters.
Painting the folds required layering washes and highlights to mimic the way fabric gathers and shifts with motion. By exaggerating shadows in the recesses and gently dry brushing the raised areas, I aimed to give the skirt a sense of depth and motion, as though she were mid-stride on her way to confront something unseen.
The folders under her arm became perhaps the most character-defining element. Many miniatures include props, but few are as evocative as a bundle of patient files in the hands of a psychologist. Painting them in a buff or fawn shade seemed natural, echoing the look of manila folders and aged paper.
At first glance, they might appear simple, even plain, but that simplicity carries weight. These are not magical tomes or eldritch relics; they are the notes, histories, and testimonies of human beings. In the context of Mansions of Madness, they remind us that beneath the cosmic terror lies a deeply personal struggle for sanity. Painting them required a careful balance: enough shading and highlighting to look intentional, but restrained enough to preserve their mundane, workaday appearance.
There was also the question of how the folders interacted visually with the rest of the figure. Their neutral tone risked blending into the background, particularly against the grey primer. To avoid this, I added subtle variations, painting the edges slightly darker and giving the covers faint highlights. These small adjustments made them read more convincingly as layered objects rather than a single flat block. Holding the miniature in hand, the effect is clear: the folders stand out just enough to be noticed, but not so much that they overshadow the rest of the model.
Carolyn’s gun, by contrast, plays a quieter role. It is easy to forget she is even armed when the folders dominate her silhouette. Yet the weapon reminds us that in the world of Mansions of Madness, no one is entirely free from confrontation. Choosing to repaint the gun in Army Painter Gun Metal rather than a flashy or unrealistic color was as much a narrative decision as a technical one. The metallic sheen grounds it in reality, a tool of necessity rather than identity. She is not defined by the weapon she carries, but by the work she does. The gun’s understated presence reflects that balance—present, but secondary.
Her hair became the final piece of the puzzle. Miniature hair can easily turn into a flat, lifeless block if painted in a single tone. For Carolyn, I wanted something that conveyed individuality without distracting from the overall composition. I chose a palette that blended reddish, orange, and yellow tones, layered carefully through dry brushing.
This gave her hair a subtle warmth that contrasted nicely with the cooler tones of her clothing. It was not flamboyant, but it hinted at a personality beneath the professional exterior. In narrative terms, it suggested humanity—reminding us that Carolyn is not just a psychologist, but a person navigating extraordinary circumstances.
Photographs often fail to capture these subtleties. Under the lens, the nuances of shading, the delicate transitions between tones, and the understated highlights can disappear. Yet when viewed in person, especially in the flickering light of a game night, those details add up to something greater. They give the impression of a character who exists in the world of the game, ready to step into the story. That, ultimately, is the purpose of painting investigators like Carolyn: to make the leap from abstract statistics and abilities on a card to a living presence at the table.
What fascinated me most while painting Carolyn was how each choice reinforced her narrative role. The pinstripes spoke to structure and professionalism. The skirt added motion and adaptability. The folders grounded her in human psychology. The gun acknowledged the necessity of survival. The hair suggested individuality and humanity. Each of these elements, considered separately, might seem minor, but together they wove a cohesive story. She was no longer just an investigator; she was Carolyn Fern, psychologist, caught between the ordinary and the extraordinary.
This process also highlighted the difference between painting for display and painting for play. Display painters often chase perfection, striving for flawless blends, razor-thin highlights, and eye-popping contrasts that photograph beautifully. Game painters, on the other hand, aim for clarity, readability, and thematic resonance at arm’s length. Carolyn sat somewhere in between. While I wanted her to look striking on the table, I also cared deeply about the story her colors told. That tension pushed me to take more time than I might normally devote to a gaming piece, layering washes carefully, adjusting tones, and reworking the gun when the initial red experiment fell flat.
The act of painting Carolyn also deepened my connection to the game itself. Mansions of Madness thrives on immersion, and painted miniatures elevate that immersion dramatically. Moving a painted Carolyn across a board filled with detailed tiles and ominous monsters feels entirely different from sliding an unpainted grey figure. You recognize her not just as a pawn but as a character with identity, history, and agency. The hours spent painting her folders, pinstripes, and hair translate directly into emotional investment during play. When she takes damage, fails a horror check, or discovers a vital clue, it matters more because you know her better.
Another interesting layer to this process was the way duplicate figures influenced my approach. Having more than one version of Carolyn gave me freedom to experiment without fear. If something went wrong, I had a backup. That freedom emboldened me to test the grey gesso, to push my washes more carefully, and to repaint the gun after the cadmium red failure. Knowing I had duplicates shifted the painting from a high-stakes exercise to a learning opportunity. Ironically, that safety net may have contributed to Carolyn becoming one of the most successful figures I have painted so far.
Looking back, I realize that painting Carolyn was less about technical mastery and more about alignment between story and technique. Every decision was filtered through the lens of her character: how would a psychologist be represented? What colors, textures, and props best capture her identity? The answers were not always obvious, and sometimes they required compromises, but the guiding principle remained constant: serve the story first.
Mansions of Madness Investigators: Carolyn Fern – Lessons and Reflections
When I look back at the journey of painting Carolyn Fern and her fellow investigators, what strikes me most is how much I learned through experimentation. At first glance, miniature painting might appear to be a straightforward hobby: prime the model, add some colors, maybe apply a wash or two, and call it done. But the deeper I went, the more I realized that every stage is an opportunity to make choices—choices that affect not only the final appearance of the miniature but also my experience as a painter. Carolyn, in particular, became a mirror for my growth. From the disastrous spray primers of 2017/18 to the more considered use of brush-on gesso, from the hesitant application of washes to deliberate shading and highlighting, her figure embodies a progression that goes beyond one investigator or one board game.
One of the first and most obvious lessons was the importance of primer. I had always known that primer mattered, but I hadn’t fully appreciated how it could make or break a miniature. My early experiments with sprays taught me the extremes. The Citadel black spray was excellent, providing a smooth, detail-preserving base that made painting easy. The Army Painter spray was serviceable, neither great nor terrible, and it did the job when conditions were right. Wilko’s craft white spray, however, was a painful mistake—so heavy-handed that it smothered the sculpt’s details and left me frustrated before I had even touched a brush to paint.
That experience might have soured me on primers entirely, but instead it nudged me toward experimentation with gesso. Brush-on gesso offered control where sprays did not. I could apply it at my own pace, in any weather, without worrying about overspray or clogged nozzles. The real breakthrough came when I mixed black and white gessos to create a neutral grey.
That blend became my go-to primer, a foundation that preserved detail while giving me flexibility with both light and dark tones. It also taught me that preparation is not a throwaway step—it is the stage that determines how well every subsequent layer of paint will behave. Carolyn’s figure, with its intricate pinstripes and flowing skirt, benefited enormously from this discovery.
The second major lesson was about washes. When I first started painting miniatures, I treated washes as magic solutions. Apply a liberal coat of Nuln Oil, and suddenly every crease and shadow would leap into view. While that approach sometimes worked, it also often left miniatures looking blotchy or dirty. With Carolyn, I slowed down and used the wash more carefully. On her pinstriped dress, I guided the wash into the recesses rather than flooding the entire surface. On her skirt, I layered the wash gently, allowing the fabric’s folds to stand out without overpowering the highlights. This careful application required patience, but it paid off in a more refined finish. The lesson was clear: washes are tools, not shortcuts. Used thoughtfully, they enhance; used carelessly, they obscure.
Another key insight was the value of storytelling through paint. Carolyn is a psychologist, and the sculpt reflects that through her folders. Painting those folders in a buff or fawn tone was not just a technical choice but a narrative one. They represented patient files, records of the human mind in crisis, and they grounded her character in realism. At first, I worried that the neutral color might look unfinished, but with subtle shading and highlighting, the folders came to life as an integral part of her identity. This taught me to think beyond surface aesthetics. A miniature is more than a collection of textures and shapes—it is a representation of a character. Every color and detail should serve that identity.
The gun reinforced a different kind of lesson: sometimes realism trumps creativity. My initial experiment with cadmium red seemed bold on the palette, but on the miniature, it looked absurd, like a plastic toy. Repainting it in Army Painter Gun Metal was a reminder that not every detail needs to stand out. In fact, sometimes the best decision is to let an element recede, to exist in the background while the more important features shine. This principle extends beyond Carolyn’s pistol. It applies to belts, buckles, shoes, and all the other minor elements of a sculpt. Not everything can or should demand attention. Prioritization is key.
Hair became a final area of growth. In the past, I had treated hair as an afterthought, often slapping on a single color and calling it done. With Carolyn, I invested more effort, layering reddish, orange, and yellow tones through dry brushing to create natural highlights. The result was subtle, but it gave her hair life and depth.
This process reinforced the importance of texture in miniature painting. Even small details, when treated thoughtfully, can elevate the entire figure. It also taught me that photographs rarely capture the full effect. Miniatures are three-dimensional objects meant to be viewed in motion, under varying light, and from multiple angles. What looks flat in a photo often comes alive in person.
Beyond the technical lessons, painting Carolyn offered broader reflections on the nature of the hobby itself. Patience emerged as a recurring theme. In my earlier years, I often rushed through figures, eager to see them finished and on the table. That impatience led to sloppy washes, inconsistent highlights, and missed opportunities for character expression. With Carolyn, I slowed down. Each step became intentional, each decision weighed for its impact on the whole. The process shifted from task to experience, from box-checking to storytelling. This change in mindset has carried over into every project since.
Experimentation also became a guiding principle. Having duplicate figures gave me freedom to test ideas without fear of permanent mistakes. That freedom, in turn, led to discoveries like the grey gesso and the careful use of washes. It reminded me that failure is part of growth. The cadmium red pistol may have been a misstep, but it was a useful one—it clarified what did and did not work for the character. Similarly, the disastrous white spray primer was not wasted effort; it was a lesson in the importance of detail preservation. Each failure became a stepping stone toward improvement.
Painting Carolyn also deepened my appreciation for the connection between miniatures and gaming. Mansions of Madness is a narrative-driven game, and the investigators are more than just tokens. They are the lenses through which players experience the story. A painted investigator adds immeasurably to that immersion. Moving Carolyn across the board, seeing the shine of her pinstripes and the subtle shading of her folders, creates a sense of presence that an unpainted figure cannot match. It makes the horror more personal, the victories more satisfying, and the defeats more poignant. In this way, the hours spent painting translate directly into richer gaming experiences.
Finally, Carolyn’s figure taught me to embrace imperfection. No miniature is ever perfect, and no painting process is free of mistakes. There will always be brushstrokes that wander, highlights that misfire, and details that get lost. Yet those imperfections are part of the story. They remind me that miniature painting is not about achieving flawless replicas but about creating something personal and meaningful. Carolyn’s folders may look unfinished to some; her hair may not photograph as vibrantly as it appears in person; her gun may lack dramatic flair. But together, those elements form a cohesive whole that tells her story—and mine as a painter.
The lessons from painting Carolyn extend beyond this single figure. They inform every project I approach now. I prime with intention, often mixing grey gesso to create a balanced foundation. I apply washes carefully, using them to enhance rather than overwhelm. I choose colors not just for aesthetics but for narrative coherence. I experiment boldly, knowing that mistakes are opportunities to learn. And most importantly, I approach each miniature with patience, allowing the process to unfold at its own pace.
Conclusion
Painting Carolyn Fern was more than a test of technique; it was a journey of discovery. What began as an experiment with primers and duplicate figures grew into a process that taught me lessons about patience, storytelling, and the value of embracing imperfection. From the early frustrations with spray primers to the breakthrough of mixing grey gesso, every choice shaped not only the miniature but also my approach to the hobby as a whole.
Carolyn herself became a kind of guide. Her sculpt, with its pinstripes, folders, and understated weapon, demanded thoughtfulness. She reminded me that miniature painting is not just about applying color but about bringing characters to life. Each decision—the shading of her skirt, the careful application of washes, the muted realism of her pistol, the warmth of her hair—told a story about who she is and how she belongs in the world of Mansions of Madness.
The broader reflection is clear: painting miniatures is never just about the end result. It is about the time spent learning from mistakes, experimenting with new techniques, and gradually building confidence. Carolyn showed me that every brushstroke can serve a purpose if approached with intention. She proved that even duplicate figures, once dismissed as extras, can become valuable teachers.
Now, when I place Carolyn on the game board, I see more than a token. I see the hours of thought and care invested in her, the lessons carried forward to every figure that followed, and the reminder that growth in this hobby comes not from rushing to the finish line but from enjoying the process. Painting her was a milestone, but it was also an invitation to keep exploring, experimenting, and storytelling—one miniature at a time.