How to Draw a Daffodil Step by Step

When I draw from life—or even from a photo—I always take a minute to just look before making any marks. I’m scanning the shape of the bloom, the curve of the stem, and how the trumpet flares. The most helpful thing is noticing the relationship between parts: how far does the bottom of the bloom sit from the top of the stem? Which petal overlaps which? Where does the light fall? These are small things, but they make a huge difference.

The daffodil’s trumpet has a very specific character, but each one has its own little quirks. I try to capture those instead of aiming for a generic, textbook flower. If you’re new to observational drawing, you might want to take a look at my article on analytical drawing, which dives deeper into breaking things down visually.

I always start with the stem, because it gives me a base to anchor the rest of the drawing. The line of the stem helps me figure out the posture or gesture of the flower—whether it’s standing tall, drooping, or leaning to one side. I don’t worry about making a perfect vertical line. In fact, I purposely let it wobble a bit. Most daffodils aren’t standing straight like rulers. Their stems curve, especially after being picked or if they’re growing a little unevenly. I draw the stem with long, loose strokes, letting my wrist stay relaxed.

Once I have the line down, I go over it again to make it feel more dimensional—adding just a hint of a second line for thickness or varying the pressure of my pencil to suggest a shadowed edge. This is subtle but helps the drawing feel more real.

Next, I jump into the center trumpet, or corona. It’s that iconic part of the daffodil that sticks out like a cup or bell in the middle of the petals. I think of it like a cylinder that’s been slightly flared at the top, almost like a megaphone. To get the shape right, I sketch a light oval for the opening, then curve lines down from each side to give it depth.

There’s usually a little ruffled edge at the top of the trumpet. I don’t try to make it even or symmetrical. In fact, I purposely let it feel a bit off-kilter to give the drawing some personality. That uneven, playful edge says more about a real daffodil than a perfect outline ever could.

I often add a few interior lines to suggest the inside of the trumpet—light hatching, maybe a spiral or two, depending on how close I’m drawing. These lines hint at the depth without needing to fully render the whole inside.

With the trumpet in place, I move on to the petals. Daffodils usually have six outer petals, arranged in a kind of star. But here’s the thing: they’re rarely spaced out evenly in real life. I always take a good look at which ones are overlapping or angled differently. One petal might be curling in, another might be foreshortened or hiding behind the trumpet. That’s what makes drawing from observation so much more interesting than copying a diagram.

I start with light lines to mark the placement of the petals, radiating out from the base of the trumpet. Then I go back in and give them shape. Some are wide and flat, some are narrow and pointy, some are crinkled or twisting. I use quick, gestural strokes to get their character down. If a line feels too stiff, I’ll draw over it again more loosely. I don’t erase much. I just let the first few lines show through—it adds energy to the drawing

Now that the basic form is down, I return to the trumpet and flesh it out a bit more. I add those little details that give it depth and texture—like the edge of the rim, the folds or ruffles, and maybe some tiny lines coming up from the center.

This is where I really let the drawing loosen up. I let my pencil dance along the edge of the trumpet, letting it wiggle and break. That broken line can often say more than a clean one. I think of it like implied texture—your brain fills in the rest. If you’re curious about this kind of suggestion and implication in art, check out my post on implied shapes.

Shading can help here too. Sometimes I’ll shade lightly around the inside of the trumpet or where the petals tuck behind it. I don’t go overboard—just enough to suggest form. The goal isn’t realism, it’s presence.

With the whole daffodil drawn in, now I add shadows and details that bring it to life. I look closely at where the petals overlap, where the base of the flower casts a shadow on the stem, or where the light is blocked by the trumpet.

Instead of smudging, I usually use quick lines—hatching or cross-hatching—to create value. This feels more active to me, and it works well with expressive drawing. If I want to darken an area, I just go over it again. I’ll also add lines around the flower to give it some context—a hint of another stem in the background, or some grass. Even a rough, sketchy background helps ground the flower.

At this stage, I might go back over some of my earlier lines to darken or emphasize them. I don’t try to make it clean. I like when the drawing still feels like a sketch—alive and unresolved in a good way.

If you’ve never tried this kind of expressive approach, I encourage you to read my article on drawing is imperfect. It’s a mindset that’s made drawing so much more enjoyable for me.