Your last solo show, “The Errors of the Void,” explored error as a profoundly human gesture. How do these new works build upon that foundation, and where do they diverge?
The title actually began as a joke, a play on words between “terror/error” and our familiar notion of the fear of the void. I first encountered the idea of “error as a human gesture” in Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time. He suggests that error is the most genuine thing we can offer the world, because it’s the one thing we truly can’t control. That thought stayed with me, and it became central to my painting practice.
Starting a painting feels like diving into the unknown, with the hope of discovering something I hadn’t yet imagined. I work instinctively: there are elements I like and others I don’t. When I try to correct what doesn’t work, often spontaneously, new forms appear, directions I could never have planned. It’s in that back-and-forth with error that the work truly evolves. I like my paintings to contain things I love and things I don’t, just like life itself. And when everything starts to feel too perfect, I can’t help but wonder what’s missing.
You describe the void as a place “necessary for everything to emerge and transform.” In this new series, what kinds of transformations are you seeing take shape?
There’s a book I really admire by François Cheng, Emptiness and Fullness, which explores Chinese painting and its philosophical roots. Cheng describes how, in Chinese art, emptiness is often represented as the shape of a valley, a space where everything is on the verge of happening, on the verge of transforming. That idea resonated deeply with me, and I connected it to a passage from Genesis:
“In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters…”
Much of that spirit is present in these paintings: the void as a fertile space, charged with potential, where forms emerge and transformations take place, sometimes unexpectedly, sometimes inevitably.
Your practice draws from a wide field: books, annotated passages, childhood holidays, video games, philosophy, and more. How do you navigate between these sources? Do they collide unexpectedly, or do you guide them towards harmony?
Sometimes they collide, and other times I try to guide them a little. There are moments when I have a clear idea of what I want to do, and others when I have absolutely no clue, and that’s fine. When that happens, I often find a kind of refuge and guidance in the places or moments where I’ve felt happy. I take a bit from here, a bit from there, and that’s how I start carving out the path.
You reference echoes of 1980s and 1990s video games as imaginative stimuli. What do you find in that pixelated language of play that still speaks to you as an artist today?
First, it’s the memory of how much fun I had during those years, playing games like Montezuma’s Revenge, Shinobi, Tetris, Mario Bros., Golden Axe, and many others. Beyond playing them, I loved observing how those graphics were built. Essentially, they were static backgrounds that, with the movement of just a few figures or colour changes, created the illusion that everything was shifting and advancing, when in reality, you were still in the same place. In my paintings, I like to play with something similar. There’s the fluid, painterly quality on one side, and the more rigid structure that comes from collage. Those collage interventions often suggest a sense of movement. There’s a lot of irony and a touch of humour in that dialogue between stillness and motion.
You’ve previously mentioned taking philosophy classes. Do these courses influence how you approach painting?
Yes, they’re a real source of inspiration. Many of my ideas and even titles come from there. Philosophy gives me ways of thinking about concepts, arguments, and contradictions, and these naturally translate into a visual language. It’s not about illustrating philosophical ideas, but about how those discussions challenge and shape my creative process. Sometimes the paintings become a kind of visual dialogue, and a way of working through questions without needing clear answers.
The characters that emerge in your work, from rocks and eggs to mystical beings, feel both playful and profound. Do you see them as companions from memory, or as figures still forming within the work?
I think they’re more like figures that take shape within the work, although some have been with me for quite a while. They’re abstract embodiments of ideas and thoughts, finding their own way of manifesting through the painting.
When you “converse, debate, and play” with these beings, do they ever surprise you with answers you hadn’t anticipated?
Haha, yes! Sometimes they help me make decisions about the artwork. I ask them what they’re doing and what should happen in the painting for them to be content. Other times, they act as mirrors, or as witnesses to conversations I’m really having with myself.
Is there a particular character or form in this new series that feels especially alive to you right now?
Yes, the black monolith. It’s like a rock that’s always been there, observing everything without judgement. It’s a kind of philosopher figure, and I like to think of them as Epicurean. Then there are the eggs. They remind me of Easter eggs, always waiting for a surprise inside, but in the end nothing happens. There are also the spheres, which are like fruits suspended in space, yet they also resemble planets or celestial bodies.
Your titles are striking. How do you arrive at these phrases, and what role does language play in shaping the viewer’s entry into the work?
I usually take them from things I read or phrases I come across, whether read or overheard. I often jot them down, then modify or adapt them. My paintings rarely start with titles; they usually find them towards the end. Once they do, the title often helps me complete the painting. Sometimes I write the phrase somewhere small in the work, sometimes I don’t. I don’t think titles are necessary to connect with the artwork, but for those seeking a deeper reading, they can offer another layer of meaning.
The title “I Love the Way You Pushed to Get Here” borrows from Kate Tempest’s song. What is it about Tempest’s words that resonated with your own search for agreement within the canvas?
I love Kate Tempest’s poetry and the way she performs, but beyond that, this particular phrase connects directly with that painting. It’s like an acknowledgement, of everyone, including myself, for the effort it takes to reach our goals. In the painting, there’s a mast with a torch on top, surrounded by a stormy sky. It reminds me of something my father used to say: “Persevere and you will triumph,” which I believe it’s a quote from Seneca.
The Spanish phrase “Yo cumplo deseos, no hago milagros” has a sharpness to it, almost like a refusal. How does that tension between promise and limit play out in the painting itself?
I don’t remember exactly where the phrase comes from, but I came up with it while working on the painting. It shows a gathering of eggs waiting for the one in the centre to fulfil their expectations, and, of course, nothing happens.
You have described mistakes as leaving “traces of an unscripted story.” Do you see viewers as co-authors who complete that story through their own reading?
I like to think so, yes. Each viewer brings their own interpretation, and that feels essential. The mistakes and traces within the painting are part of a larger, unscripted story that isn’t complete until someone else encounters it. In that sense, the viewer becomes a co-author, adding their own chapters through their interpretation.
Collage, whether with paper, pencil, or synthetic materials, features prominently in this series. What does collage allow you to do that paint alone cannot?
Collage has always been part of my practice. I love combining the fluidity of paint with the more tangible materiality of paper cut-outs or photographs. On the one hand, it lets me reproduce motifs I enjoy, such as leaves, arrows, hair, eyes, cups, and so on, creating something like hieroglyphs or secret languages. On the other hand, it allows me to compose images more playfully. For that part of the process, I work with the canvas laid flat on a table, arranging the fragments as though they were pieces in a board game.
Do you hope the viewer approaches these works as a puzzle, a dialogue, or as a playground?
I’d be happy if any of these three happened, whether the viewer approaches the work as a puzzle, a dialogue, or a playground. Each interpretation opens up a new way of engaging with art, and that openness is something I really value.