For RAINB.W, painting is more than an art form; it's a conversation. Starting with a blank canvas, it evolves with every stroke, slowly building into "something, but not something yet," as she puts it. Little by little, the painting reveals itself. And it's not something you can control or force. This process, while seemingly minimal, is a technique she's perfected over the last decade — and her artworks speak for themselves.

Rainbow Tse, better known by her artist name RAINB.W, has spent years turning Hong Kong's scenery and skyline into something soft and glowing — more like a memory rather than a photograph. Her signature technique of pairing delicate, translucent watercolor with moody, high-contrast nightscapes may sound like a contradiction. But on canvas, the appeal is instant. With bokeh blur and soft edges, you're immediately taken into the scene, feeling something you can't quite name.

But it's not what she originally trained for. Rainbow studied Fine Arts (Arts History) and Psychology at the University of Hong Kong, then came back for a Master's in Counselling. Even though it's not the career she pursued, Rainbow shares that her psychology background has given her a unique advantage as an artist, an ability to translate emotions onto a canvas.

She's painted Hong Kong's Victoria Harbour more times than she can count, but she still loves visiting the site to gather inspiration. Her works have been exhibited everywhere from PMQ to Prague, landing in the pages of local magazines, featured in Hong Kong's Affordable Art Fair, and more.

In this Artist Spotlight exclusive, The Beat Asia sits down with RAINB.W to talk about painting Hong Kong through a psychologist's lens, the beauty in watercolor's unpredictability, and why painting is not so much about bringing an idea to life as having a conversation with your canvas.

What was it about art that drew you away from a "traditional" career path?

I've always just liked doing my own thing. There's something in me that resists a straight, predetermined path. 

I think sometimes the artist is simply the person who couldn't stay on the traditional track — not out of rebellion exactly, but because the pull toward making, toward seeing and expressing, was stronger than the security of a conventional career. I love that through creating art and through watercolor, I get to do that.

Does your psychology background shape the way you think about how viewers emotionally respond to your work?

Yes and no. When I'm creating, I deliberately try not to think about the audience. If I start calculating how someone might feel or what they might need from the painting, the work becomes self-conscious and loses its honesty.

At the same time, my background has made me more attentive to the quiet, preverbal emotional currents that run through an image. It helps me stay in contact with my own inner state as I work — the subtle shifts in feeling, energy, and intuition that arise while I'm painting. As I converse with the paper, the paint, and the water, I'm also listening to myself.

In many ways, the quality that makes me effective in psychology — this sensitivity — is the same quality that shapes my paintings and lets them come into being with the depth and nuance they have.

There's another interesting layer to this. Sometimes, when I look back at paintings from a certain period, I can feel the version of myself who made them — the particular questions, moods, or life circumstances I was carrying at the time. Each piece holds a kind of quiet spirit of who I was then. That's why there are actually many paintings I simply can't bring myself to sell!

Looking back, do you see painting itself as a kind of therapy — whether for yourself or the people who view your work?

Absolutely. When I'm painting, I'm in a deep state of flow [and] I feel fully present. And I think the paintings themselves say something my words can't. They capture or express something...a feeling that arrives before language. I believe that's part of why people are drawn to them. Viewers often sense an emotion or atmosphere they recognize but couldn't quite name until they saw it. In that sense, I think the work can be therapeutic for both of us: it helps me process and stay grounded, and it offers others a quiet place to feel something true.

You've described watercolor as a medium "that can never be fully controlled." What is it about that nature that appeals to you?

I like the challenge and the thrill. There's a real time constraint: you have to move before the layer dries, decide quickly, and respond to what the water is already doing. Water is so malleable, shapable, and changeable. It never behaves exactly the same way twice. That unpredictability forces me to stay present and adaptive rather than controlling.

The painting isn't just something I impose; it's something that emerges between me and the medium. The beauty that appears when the water does something unexpected is often more alive than anything I could have planned. It's not something I can replicate even if I wanted to.

When you create, do you start with a clear vision?

I usually begin with a slight hunch or a direction — maybe a color in mind, a particular quality of light, or a mood.

Then I let the rest unfold naturally. I often don't know how a painting will look until I reach the end. In some sense, that uncertainty is what makes it art for me. Painting becomes a conversation with the paper, the paint, and the water. We co-create the image through that interaction.

Your work often pairs soft, transparent watercolors with dark, high-contrast nightscapes. It's a pairing you've called unlikely. How did you develop this specific aesthetic?

In my very early years, I worked mainly in acrylic. I was drawn to bold light and color, dramatic high contrast, and the glow of night cityscapes.

When I began plein air painting, watercolor became the practical choice because it's portable and dries quickly. It was then that I discovered that watercolor has a unique ability to paint light because of the way it flowed and blended.

We often think of watercolor as soft and pale, but I became fascinated by how far you can push it into deep, rich darks while still keeping the transparency and luminosity that only water can give.

Do you draw inspiration from Hong Kong's vibe specifically, does it come from a universal feeling, or something else?

I grew up in this city, so naturally — and often unconsciously — Hong Kong has deep roots in my work. The light, the density, the particular way night falls over the buildings and neon signs.

At the same time, I don't think the paintings are only about Hong Kong. What I'm really drawn to is a more universal feeling: atmosphere, quiet drama, the emotional charge of light against dark, the sense of a place that is both specific and somehow familiar. Hong Kong is the landscape I know in my bones, so it becomes the vessel for those feelings. But the feelings themselves — wonder, nostalgia, stillness in the middle of movement — are not limited to this city.

What's the hardest part about painting darkness and light with a medium that's naturally so translucent?

The unique thing about watercolor is that the white you see in the painting is the white of the paper itself. You're not painting light on top of something; you're preserving it by leaving it out.

That reversal is already a mental shift.

Then, to create true darkness and high contrast, you have to build rich, dark colors in very few layers. If you go back too many times, the paint can start to look lifted, dull, or overworked. Every brushstroke has to carry a certain confidence and assurance, because once the pigment is down, you can't really take it back.

Looking at your work, there's a signature blur. Lights often dissolve into soft bokeh-like circles. How did you develop that technique?

If you look at my earlier paintings, you can clearly see the evolution. I've always been interested in light and color, but over the years, the edges have grown softer and more blurred. The soft bokeh quality came gradually as my technique developed and as I grew more certain in my own practice. I began to feel freer to move beyond strict realism.

There's also something special about painting cityscapes and familiar street scenes that makes this possible. Because most people already carry a mental structure of what a city looks like — especially a place as distinct as Hong Kong — I have more freedom to [be] abstract. Even if a building is only suggested or reduced to a shadow of itself, the brain still recognizes it. The image isn't fully abstract; it's abstraction built on a familiar foundation.

That blurriness creates space: space for the imagination, space for the viewer to complete the scene with their own memories and feelings. A sharper, more literal rendering would close that space. The soft edges let the painting breathe and invite the viewer in.

Do you remember when you first developed this style? And how did it make you feel?

Some of my early paintings from around 2014 already carried that love of high contrast, glowing night scenes, and dramatic mood. The softer, more blurred quality arrived later.

I don't remember one single "breakthrough" painting so much as a gradual loosening — a growing sense of ease and trust in the process. It became less about capturing every detail and more about letting the atmosphere speak. I think this is the natural path: we often need to move through structure and clarity first before we can truly [go] abstract.

You've said you see painting as a way of encountering the world with wonder and awe. Is there a particular moment that first made you see Hong Kong that way?

I don't think it was one single moment, and it's not entirely about Hong Kong itself. It's more of a way of seeing that comes from within.

Sometimes when we pause and slow down, we start to notice beauty in the ordinary — the walkway to work, the particular street we pass every day on the way home. We can become jaded and stop seeing what's always there. But if we slow down, more becomes visible. That was one of the first things I wanted my paintings to do: to offer everyday streets of Hong Kong through a fresher pair of eyes, so that others might also notice the quiet beauty that is already present.

Is there anywhere in Hong Kong that still gives you that feeling?

Walking by the harbor never gets old. It's one of the reasons I've painted it more than a hundred times and still find new ways to approach it.

I'm not bored of it. The light changes, the weather changes, my own state changes — and each time the harbor meets me differently. That outgoing sense of discovery is part of what keeps the wonder alive.

Beyond watercolor, you've mentioned an interest in digital art and its "limitless potential in creating the imagined." What can digital work let you do that watercolor can't? And vice versa?

The undo button, of course! Jokes aside, digital work offers a different kind of freedom. There's more room to experiment, test ideas, change direction, and try things without permanent consequences. You can explore imagined worlds and push compositions to a whole different level.

Watercolor is the opposite in the best way. Once a color is down, you essentially cannot remove it. The process has to unfold organically, and sometimes, the painting takes a turn you can no longer reverse. That irreversibility forces a different kind of presence and decision-making. The medium has its own will; you're in conversation with it rather than fully in control.

Your work has been featured in publications and exhibited locally and internationally. Has seeing your work reach an international audience changed how you think about painting Hong Kong?

I think we really do have one of the most beautiful skylines in the world (I admit I'm biased!) But more importantly, I've learned that people relate to the paintings in their own ways, whether or not they recognize Hong Kong specifically. The sentiments, moods, and quiet stories created through light and color feel universal. Even viewers who have never been here often respond to the atmosphere.

I've also heard from people overseas who once lived in Hong Kong or visited, and who say a painting brought them right back to a particular feeling or memory of the place. That has been especially meaningful to me — knowing the work can act as a kind of emotional bridge across distance and time.

I love hearing these stories when I'm showing work in person. People relate to the same street or the same colors in completely different ways. For one person, it might trigger a childhood memory; for another, it's tied to a love story or a particular season of their life. The same painting can hold all of that.

This is one of the things I love most about art — how an image can become a mirror for so many different private worlds.

Your regularly exhibit at Affordable Art Fair. What role do you see yourself or your artwork playing in bridging the gap between young people and the traditional fine art world?

Art collecting doesn't have to be only for the elite.

I believe we all need a little art in our lives — something that brings color, feeling, and presence into everyday spaces. At the Affordable Art Fair, I've especially enjoyed meeting people who are buying art for the first time: sometimes for a new home or a meaningful, one-of-a-kind gift. Being part of that first encounter feels important, and I hope my work can help make their space a little more colorful too.

What would you say to young person who loves art but feels shut out of or intimidated by the "fine art" world?

Start creating. You become an artist by making art. I also believe that what we believe tends to shape what becomes possible. Our perspective influences the choices we make, how we carry ourselves, and the paths we take. To do well at anything, you have to be willing to believe in yourself enough to begin. You have to be willing to bet on yourself — that, more than anything else, is what opens the door.

Do you see a shift happening in who's collecting art now? And does that change how you think about your own work?

I sense that the circle of who collects art is widening, which I think is great. As I've said, everyone could use a little more color in their space, and I love being a part of that through my paintings. At the same time, I still paint from the same internal compass and trust that the rest will follow.

What's next for you?

I'm working on new paintings that will be released later this year, and I'm organizing some open studio events.

I'll also be offering more online classes, as well as in-person workshops again. I haven't taught in person for a while, so I'm excited to return to that. There's a different energy when people are painting together in the same room, and I've missed it.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

To learn more about Rainb.w and her art, visit her website and follow her on Instagram.

Enjoyed this article? Check out our previous Artist Spotlight profiles here.