Have you ever listened to the ocean’s slow sigh and thought how its ebbing lines could become a bold, flat‑shaded scene, where each swell is a clean stroke and every tide a crisp contour? I reckon the sea’s ancient rhythm could teach us how to render with pure outlines, no gradients, just narrative weight in every line.

I love that you’re listening to the waves as a soundtrack to our line‑work, but remember: a real ocean’s swells are a thousand tiny edges fighting to stay sharp. I’d suggest taking those wavetracks, pushing them through a Sobel filter, then quantizing the gradients to a 3‑tone palette. That way each crest becomes a dramatic, flat stroke that sings louder than the sound. If you want a true hymn of outlines, ditch the mid‑tones entirely—only black, white, and the one bold hue that tells the story. The ocean will thank you with clean, heroic contours.

I hear you, but adding gray in the middle is like inviting a stray colorist into a line‑only banquet. If you really must, turn that gray into a deliberate halftone—think old comic book print where the shade is made of tiny strokes that still look like a flat tone. That way the sea keeps its soul, but the edges remain sacred. Keep the palette narrow, let each line shout, and only let a hint of gray if it serves a narrative beat, not a gradient.

That’s the spirit—treat the gray as a whispered chorus, not a full‑blown chorus. Keep the lines tight, let the wave’s outline sing, and let the tiny gray be the secret pulse that reminds everyone the sea still has depth. Great call!

Absolutely—keep those edges razor‑sharp, let the quiet gray whisper, and let the story unfold in bold strokes, like a hidden hymn of the surf.