For over ten years, Sue Kennington has been developing a colour library as part of an ongoing investigation into the limits of colour and light within contemporary painting. “I’ve always been really interested in systems. It seems to be the human condition—we are always looking for an answer, trying to make sense of things.”
By Sophie Heatley | 07 Aug 2024
Although Kennington has a very scientific mind, she knows, after years of experimentation, that her work is best when she is outside of that over-analytical condition, free from any sort of conscious control. However, to get to that place, Kennington explains to me, you’ve got to get the specifics right first. You can’t get reckless without laying the foundations, or the painting will die. “It has nothing to do with feeling, it has everything to do with precision.” This realisation didn’t happen overnight. Kennington has continually expanded her colour library since graduating from her MA in Fine Art in 2002, meticulously studying what makes colour come alive, and now crafting all of her own paints in her Italian home in Crete Senesi, Toscana. Her pictorial research begins with the complete systemisation of the colour spectrum, storing her results on none other than an excel spreadsheet. It ends with the instinctive free fall of paint onto canvas.
Vesper (Red) by Sue Kennington (Artist’s handmade gouache on 300gms HP paper mounted on panel, 2021, 25.0 x 20.0 x 1.5). Currently on show at Soho Home King’s Road Studio as part of Rise Art’s ongoing exhibition ‘Dwellings’.
“I believe in the power of perception. I love how humans react to things that aren’t logical, like sound and non-narrative forms of expression. We’re always trying to decipher and pull them apart, but there’s no way to understand them except through perception.” Kennington compares the way in which she approaches this research to the way a choreographer directs a dance or a maestro conducts an orchestra; you’re engineering your medium, arranging your dance troupe, guiding your musicians, in order to say something. “It’s about balancing the scientific and creative parts of yourself. My colour library keeps one part of my brain busy, allowing the other part to move intuitively.” The creative act becomes a balancing act, exploring the inherent tensions between science and impulse, reason and intuition. “The paint goes on very fast, for example, but the making of the paint is incredibly slow and precise.”
“Like dance—you start self-conscious, hoping you look right, but after a certain point, you take off, and it becomes hypnotic. You’re beautiful because you’re no longer conscious of yourself. Art is the same.” To be no longer conscious of yourself in the creative act takes time and experimentation and trust in the “deep-down thing” that you’re trying to say. The more you do it, the more you become a connoisseur. “It’s a bit like falling in love,” Kennington tells me. “Experience gives you a broader understanding.”
Light streaming into Kennington’s Italian studio, taken during preparation for a solo show in Rome
I ask Kennington how she knows when she’s said the thing that she’s trying to say. Is it ever possible to know without being inside the perceiver’s mind? The message is less about the observer for Kennington though, and more about the painting itself. “It speaks to you.” Kennington explains. “It has its own life. You’re no longer trying to make it have a life.”
For many years, Kennington knew what she wanted to say with her work but struggled to find the right means of expression, leading to unease and disappointment in the outcome of her practice. “The colour wasn’t saying what I wanted it to. Ninety percent of my pieces just weren’t working. Now, because of all the work I’ve done–although this will never be definitive–they’ve started to make sense. Every day that you do it, it takes you further in. You get more and more familiar with that language, with the way a colour speaks.”
I push to find out what led to this revelation and, like her research, there isn’t a definitive answer. One thing Kennington is sure of, though, is her exploration of loss. “I didn’t notice for a long time, but during my time at Goldsmiths a professor said to me: all your work is about loss. Sometimes, people say things that really stick with you and change the way you see the world or, in my case, my art. Everything suddenly made a lot of sense. I lost my parents very young, moved countries often, experienced a lot of death and grief. There’s always this longing for something that isn’t quite here in my work. Now this idea is in the motor, I can’t unhinge it.”
Ashblond by Sue Kennington (oil on canvas, 2018, 90 cm x 80 cm)
This is something that Kennington advises in her creative lectures, on the rare occasion she teaches. The problem a lot of emerging artists encounter is they don’t really know what to say. Not that you should go looking for pain or grief, she adds, but if you don’t have any experiences, what do you have to say? It’s really hard to draw from an empty well. “You have to feel something real. There’s just something about that slightly troubled psyche that produces good art.”
“I never wanted to be an artist.” As a kid, Kennington loved drawing but, coming from a family of important artists, witnessing the trials and tribulations and pressures of it all, she thought it wasn’t for her. “I worked in the theatre and didn’t draw until my father became very ill. I started drawing him when he was sick. And then it became… immediate. Someone said you’ve got to go to art school. It became so obvious. It just felt so normal. Finally, something felt right.” I ask if art has become a therapy for Kennington, but she disagrees. “I wouldn’t call it therapy, drawing my father. I’m just very visual and drawing helped me to make sense of things.” A nod towards her future desire to channel the infinite possibilities of colour as a visual language, to unravel the systems behind every tint and tone.
Giardino #1 by Sue Kennington (Artist’s handmade gouache on 300gms HP paper mounted on panel, 2021, 25.0 x 20.0 x 1.5 cm). Currently on show at Soho Home King’s Road Studio as part of Rise Art’s ongoing exhibition ‘Dwellings’.
Before heading to art school, Kennington took to travelling and other forms of experimentation I’m sure she’d tell you about in person if you ask her(!) in pursuit of simply experiencing more. “It was amazing. I wanted experience and I wanted to do something. I nearly died. It was incredible.” I make a mental note to call Kennington if I’m ever lost in a desert, or in any emergency for that matter.
Kennington on her travels in the Sahara Desert
Today, Kennington has exchanged her thrill-seeking lifestyle for the vibrant and captivating ambiance of Italy, a land that has inspired countless great artists with its unparalleled colour palette. That said, she hasn’t quite given up on her pursuit of emotional experiences; Kennington often takes midnight strolls in the blackened forest surrounding her Tuscan home, quietly hunting for new inspiration. “Nightwalking has influenced my recent work.” I picture this like a Grimm’s fairy tale—walking in complete darkness, enveloped by tenebrous trees, hearing wild boars, and feeling the moist, spongy moss beneath her feet. “It makes you feel a lot.” Not quite nearly perishing in the Sahara, but humbling and mind-opening nonetheless.
Kennington on a walk in the wilderness surrounding her Tuscan home
It’s this wandering sense of seeking out, of something just about to reveal itself, that pulls observers right in. Critics consistently praise Kennington’s paintings for their inhabitable nature, likening them to doorways into realms just beyond our reach. This anticipation of an opening, of endless possibility, is where and how her use of light truly shines. Physically, Kennington’s profound understanding of colour intervals makes the light in her paintings palpable. Emotionally, her work offers a glimmer of hope, much like the light that softly wakes you in the morning or reassures you when you gaze at the stars or over a vast landscape. They remind us that there is more to this life, and that everything will be okay.
You can see Sue Kennington’s artwork in person at Soho Home King’s Road Studio as part of Rise Art’s ongoing ‘Dwellings’ exhibition.
My name is Zhou Yiyan and I’m a multidisciplinary sculptor originally from Shanghai, now based in Paris since 2007 at my studio which is located in Asnières-sur-Seine. My artistic journey delves into the intriguing forms of flint and the dynamic movements of the human body, expressed through clay modelling and intricate metalwork with brass and gold. I am captivated by the coexistence of opposites and the transformative power of materials, which I attempt to explore by blending the delicacy of clay with the strength of metal. In addition to sculpture, I create performance art that fuses dance, drawing, and music, capturing the fluidity and expressiveness of bodily movement.
Zhou Yiyan in her riverside studio boat
Can you share some details about your primary technique?
My primary technique for shaping my sculptures involves mass modeling with earthenware clay. When working with porcelain, I employ a method known as plate modelling using porcelain paper to construct the pieces. I also strive to enhance and embellish my creations with golden accents, achieved through the use of brass or gold.
Did you choose your medium or do you feel your medium chose you?
Great question! I would say it’s a bit of both. Initially, I was drawn to clay and then to metals for their ability to express contrasts and complements in my work. However, over time, I guess it feels as though these materials have chosen me in return, allowing me to explore and express my ideas more fully. The interplay of their delicacy and robustness, and the blend of warm and cool light, perfectly aligns with my artistic vision and creative approach.
Describe your work in three words.
Movement, contrast, and harmony.
Trois Grâces by Zhou Yiyan (black clay with brass stem, 2020, 18 x 30 x 8 cm)
What themes do you find yourself returning to in your work and why?
I often return to the themes like reflection, balance, and grafting—ideas that resonate deeply within me and that I strive to translate into my sculptures and performances. This is why I incorporate brass and bronze into my work. Before defining these themes, I focused primarily on the form of the sculptures themselves. Now, these themes allow me to delve into deeper concepts, adding extra dimensions to my work and enriching the artistic experience I aim to share.
What is the importance of movement in your work?
I naturally work with great emotion, often drawing in tandem with the movements of a dancer performing in front of me. When a particular drawing inspires me to create a model, I feel an inner turmoil that mirrors the dancer’s rhythm. Movement reflects the fluidity and constant transformation of life, adding a dynamic dimension to my sculptures and performances. It captures human energy and emotion, allowing me to explore the interactions and relationships between forms, materials, and space, thus enriching the depth and meaning of my work.
Draw in Movement by Zhou Yiyan (charcoal on paper, 2020, 42 x 29 cm)
Can you tell us a little more about how you convey these rich and complex emotions in your work?
I convey complex feelings and emotions, such as sensitivity, in several ways. A 15-minute performance with the public is an intense, concentrated and pure transmission of my emotions. During these performances, every movement and gesture is impregnated with my feelings, offering a direct and immediate experience. In drawing, I draw a lot, especially in movement, at the same time as the movements. My hands become the interpreters of my emotions, capturing the sensations and nuances of each moment. Sometimes I also express myself with poetic texts. Then I try to convey all these sensations in my sculptures. Sculpting tends to be the longest and most delicate process.
When did you realise you wanted to become an artist?
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wanted to create. My passion for art and design has always driven me to pursue my craft as purely as possible, free from commercial compromises. However, I never explicitly thought, “I want to become an artist,” especially not while growing up. It wasn’t until I left my job in 2015 that I truly considered this path.
My primary goal was to immerse myself in my ideas, taking the time to realise them deeply and authentically. To achieve this, I isolated myself and worked non-stop. In this process, I felt like a fish returning to water—completely at ease, with ideas and thoughts flowing freely. This immersion brought me immense joy, the only true joy in my life.
I’ve never dwelled on the label of “artist”; instead, I focused on bringing my ideas to life. Now, gradually, I feel I’m becoming an artist, though it’s not something I rely on to structure my day.
Zhou Yiyan’s boat studio, featuring her friendly mascot. Can you spot them?
Share a defining moment in your artistic career.
The creation of my sculpture “Premier Dancing Woman” stemmed from a particularly powerful experience. One winter, I was drawn to a piece of flint on a beach, hidden under a much larger rock. I carefully removed it and placed it on another small rock facing the sea. Its shape resembled a flying dress, and as I photographed it, stories began to unfold in my mind—her story. Inspired, I immediately wrote the poem “Dancing Woman” and sketched her as you would a dancer you admire.
When I later sculpted her in clay, an overwhelming emotion swept over me. As my hands touched the clay, tears welled up in my eyes, and I thought, “I’ve found my family at last.” This sculpture became one of my first three, marking a significant milestone in my artistic journey.
Do you need any specific conditions in place to be creative? For example, lighting, quiet, or music?
Lighting and silence are very important to me. These conditions create an environment conducive to concentration and reflection, which is essential for releasing my creativity and fully immersing myself in my work.
How do you know when you’ve finished an artwork?
I often know that a sculpture is finished when it feels ‘alive’ in front of me. At this point, I stop altering its form and focus only on the finishing touches. Sometimes, it’s simply a matter of intuition: the work speaks to me, and I sense that there’s nothing more to add or remove.
Let’s start by introducing our readers to yourself and your practice.
I am Miguel Ripoll, a writer and visual artist. I spend half of my time coming up with instructions and berating machines, and the other half of my time turning those instructions into large complex images through a process that combines both manual intervention and physical, centuries-old printing methods and materials. I am also a humanist, because the entire process is human-driven, based on my own unique human consciousness, and because I do believe in in humanity–as terrifyingly flawed as it sadly is–and its inexhaustible capacity for transcendence, imagination and progress.
Vis Humana (from the series “Unreliable Heroes”) by Miguel Ripoll (Mixed digital media on hand-finished archival-grade Hahnemühle canvas 340 g/m2, 2023, 100 x 100 cm)
Fascinated by technology and art from an early age, I started experimenting with combinatorial algorithms and generative code (our grandfather’s AI) back in 1999–my early digital pieces (exhibited in major institutions like the Reina Sofía Museum in Madrid, the Akademie der Künste in Berlin, and the Cervantes Institute) are now in the permanent collection of the Design Museum in Barcelona–but became frustrated by the limitations of the very rudimentary technology available at the time and decided to pause artistic practice entirely.
For the following two decades, instead, I became an expert in the design and coding of data-driven digital interfaces for complex information systems, continuing to explore the creative possibilities of AI and algorithms in award-winning projects for global brands and top cultural institutions. My commercial work (digital, print, film, and theatre design) has been featured in books and magazines worldwide.
Since 2021, when I started testing early advanced Large Language Models like OpenAI and Midjourney, which allow me to do now with this new technology what I couldn’t achieve 25 years ago, I have been focusing on art-making and exhibiting my new work again. Patience and discipline, it seems, always pay off.
What is your primary technique and/or medium?
My practice combines iterative human-led AI adversarial dialogue (based on a custom dataset of texts, sound files, and pictures) with hand-crafted mixed digital media. I basically feed an LLM large quantities of preselected texts and images from a wide range of sources, and then push it to do exactly the opposite it has been trained to do: instead of regurgitating hyper-realistic or derivative visual detritus, I force it to “hallucinate” in ways I find coherent with what I am trying to achieve through language and repetition of subtly modified tasks. This takes quite a bit of arm-wrestling–hence the iterative, as in again, and again, and again, and the adversarial, as in pushing the boundaries to the extreme. The process typically produces hundreds of images, of which I sometimes use only bits or fragments.
These visual elements are then manually edited, digitally modified, combined and re-mixed by me, using various digital tools, into a single image. This image is giclée printed using archival ink on hand-finished museum-grade canvas. All other digital files are deleted, and only one physical object remains: a hybrid of centuries-old traditions and the latest technology, driven by a uniquely original human vision.
In a way, I would say my approach to working with AI is a mixture between lion tamer and special needs teacher, combined with a healthy dose of patience, curiosity and resilience in the face of technological adversity. Large Language Models are remarkably prone to messing things up, which in itself is not a bad thing necessarily, at least not when creating art.
What themes do you find yourself returning to in your work and why?
Most art throughout history can be reduced to the same few themes again and again: sex, power, loss, memory, love, regret, beauty, death, money, time. Human beings are quite predictable. Our life expectancy and living conditions are radically different now than, say, two centuries ago, but our concerns are remarkably similar both as individuals and as part of a community.
Because of the intrinsically different nature of my work–AI is, after all, a radically new technology, a first in human evolution–for the past few years, I have been concentrating on exploring the role ancient narratives (myths, legends, beliefs) play within the context of our contemporary anxieties about tech dystopias, societal inequalities, personal struggles, political division, and environmental degradation.
At the heart of these pieces, which question and subvert long-established themes and traditions of artistic praxis, is a recognition that our world has become fractured by tech and that the traditional frameworks of morality, religion, society, culture and art itself are no longer sufficient to navigate our increasingly complex, hyper-connected existence.
When did you start making art?
I wrote my first short story when I was two years old – I really cannot remember NOT being an artist, if by “artist” we mean someone who sees what doesn’t exist. In practical terms, I published my first book in 1996 and had my first exhibition at the Reina Sofía Museum in Madrid in 1999. This, might I add, was curated next to an iconic Picasso showcase, which didn’t help much with my imposter syndrome!
Share a defining moment in your career as an artist
This year marked a crucial turning point in my career. I realised that the work I had been experimenting with for the past few years closely aligned with my initial expectations and was essentially what I envisioned. Achieving satisfaction with my creations—a rare feat for me—and receiving recognition has been immensely rewarding.
I was selected for the European Union’s Creative Europe NMT PMP Program, which will feature workshops and exhibitions in several countries until 2025. Additionally, four of my pieces were showcased at this year’s CVPR Conference in Seattle, the premier international event in computer vision, sponsored by Google, Meta, OpenAI, and Apple. This exhibition was curated by Luba Elliott. Another highlight was having one of my pieces featured in Rise Art’s first online exhibition, “Kinaesthesia: Art in Motion.”
This extraordinary year will also bring exciting new exhibitions and an artist-in-residence program later in winter.
Has speaking several languages fluently influenced how you communicate through your art?
I can code in several artificial languages and have been “talking to machines” for over 25 years, so learning to interact with AI is not such a huge leap: I have found the transition quite organic. Something as basic as programming a website in HTML, CSS, JS and PHP is fundamentally only a series of instructions, of “prompts” that turn data into visual assets and behaviours. My previous formal education was humanistic and not technological at all–I was a writer and studied Literature and History of Art, something I believe was very influential in the formation of my world-view and character.
I don’t think, however, that art should be about communicating anything: that is the purview of the commercial designer, which I have happily worked as for a long time, as many great artists have done in the past too; from Leonardo da Vinci designing courtly feasts for Ludovico Sforza in 1490 to Francis Bacon designing furniture and rugs for the Royal Wilton Carpet factory in 1930.
As an artist, I refuse to convey a message: I am not here to lecture, to impart wisdom, to hector or virtue signal (which seems to be what most critically favoured art is about these days). My goal is to make people think, and dream, and feel. What they think, dream and feel is entirely their own business. I am merely a medium or a catalyst.
Artworks from the series “Unreliable Heroes” by Miguel Ripoll
Do you see art-making as a language?
I see it as a language that should not be immediately intelligible. If you can understand it straight away, it is not art but propaganda. Because art is a product of human consciousness, and we don’t really understand what human consciousness is or what exactly makes us human. I see what I do as a sort of cognitive alchemy, a sort of rationalised rite to understand who I am and, by extension, who we all are as a species. AI, being a non-human “intelligence” (note the inverted commas) that is conversant with the entire compendium of human activity throughout history, is the perfect assistant to distil the rarefied materials our feverish dreams and nightmares as a species are made of. In short, I am talking to myself–which is the ultimate goal, and the most universal: only by understanding oneself might one understand the world and humanity itself, and truly communicate with others.
Is there a specific project or idea you’re currently excited about?
The transformation of flat digital text into digital texture. In my work I do not try to mimic the texture of the paintbrush: I want my works to be recognisable by their unique digital texture—also very different from pixelation.
My AI-assisted art incorporates a unique form of digital texture—the texture of data. The algorithms that help me to generate these artworks are intricately structured, resembling complex digital weaves. The texture of the digital process, from the intricate code to the interplay of data points, becomes an essential part of the art’s identity, and it is very visible in its final form. Hence the large scale of my works, so that the intricate detail can be fully appreciated. This represents a novel form of texture that is native to the digital medium and an integral aspect of my AI-mediated art.
How do you know when you’ve finished an artwork?
True art is never finished because it is not trying to solve a problem. You cannot find the final answer, because art is not about the answer, but about asking the question. That is what I do, I ask questions, and then it is up to someone else (whoever looks at my work) to provide their own answers. So, an artwork is never finished because the question is always open. It is always: what do you see? In my practice, I stop when I look at an image and I cannot respond to that question myself: then I know the artwork is ready for other people to try and find their answer(s).
Do you see your work as building bridges between two stereotypically polar opposite industries? Technology and the arts?
Technology and art have always been intertwined. Throughout history, great artists have eagerly adopted the most advanced technologies of their time to evolve their practice. Dürer’s use of the printing press created a new medium for accessible, affordable art through printmaking. Leonardo’s pioneering scientific research opened new possibilities in pictorial technique. The invention of synthetic pigments in the 19th century enabled mass access to art making and revolutionised visual representation with movements like Impressionism, transforming our concept of what art could be. Photography also had a radical impact, decoupling art from mere reproduction of “reality” and challenging our understanding of both reality and art.
Whenever these new technologies emerged, elites—practitioners accustomed to the old ways, merchants, gatekeepers, critics—viewed them as threats to their status quo and existing privileges, and they pushed back. New technologies disrupt market dynamics and challenge established order, making them seem “dangerous.” Yet, they are also unstoppable: despite resistance, progress always ultimately prevails.
How could I not? I am working in the 21st century. What I do is part of a long tradition, and doesn’t happen in a vacuum: I am very aware of the past, so that I can be relevant to the present. I am an artist of my time, so I use the most advanced technology of my time. Otherwise, I would be an anachronism, and my art obsolete and irrelevant.
What astonishes me is how artists, critics, collectors and agents, can possibly still ignore art made with today’s technology (and even actively try to suppress or dismiss it): trying to stop progress is not only ridiculous and ignorant. It is inescapably self-defeating. In the end, it is all about knowledge and power: the unknown is always scary, a potential threat. Instead of fighting it, gallerists, critics and curators should learn about technology and even embrace it. A new connoisseurship is now needed to tell the wheat from the ever-abundant digital chaff.
What are you trying to communicate with your art?
Most of what is popular at any given time in history, especially today, is very obvious and facile, and doesn’t require any intellectual effort from the viewer: it is not art, but mere decoration. Art must question us and make us try harder to see what is not there. If you understand the thing immediately, what you are looking at is worthless. Art should be an unopened door to deeper human consciousness–you can either try to find the key or smash it open, both of which are rewarding, but require considerable energy and resourcefulness from the viewer. Curiosity and openness to look inwards are the keys to that door. Behind it we will find what makes us unique.
Tell us about your participation in our exhibition Kineasthesia: Art in Motion. What attracted you to this project?
The titles of my paintings, such as I’m not in a place; it’s the space that’s inside me (Je ne suis pas dans un lieu c’est l’espace qui est en moi), refer to conceptual issues encountered in my practice and philosophical pursuits: inhabiting the body, gravity, touch, chiaroscuro, and phenomenology. All my work as a painter is nourished by my practice of dance-contact-improvisation. In concrete terms, the issues of the body’s relationship to space, to itself, to the Other, gravity, the creation of movement – pre-movement – are at the heart of my work. All these practices are physical: playing with contact, touching and being touched, opening up the ‘inner ear’, working on separation, attention.
This physical work is underpinned by a whole range of conceptual and philosophical ideas, from the phenomenology of the philosopher Merleau-Ponty to the practice of Hubert Godard, not forgetting the work of the philosopher and art historian Didi-Huberman in Faits d’affects (2023).
Remi Delaplace in front of his works. Available to discover in his online gallery.
How do you define kinaesthesia in the context of your artistic work?
The relationship between movement and space runs through all of my work via the representation of bodies: objects situated, oriented, and moved in space. Directions: ground-sky, perspectives, states of gravity, the near and the far, and depth, give rhythm to my painting. My solids are perspectives, my gradations depths.
The idea is to offer an open view within the ‘frontality’ of the painting’s frame. Movement is as much internal as external, as much in my paintings as in the act of creation, of painting. Working on my body to open up my qualities of attention to myself and to space involves all my senses: sight, touch, gravity through the inner ear, listening. Inhabiting myself to be more in touch with what I’m creating. This allows me to not only integrate kinaesthesia and attentional work into the execution of my pictorial gestures, and to think of concepts related to movement that can be applied to painting, but also to create and think about the creative process.
Delaplace’s studio
Attentional work is not concentration. On the contrary, it’s about being open to your relationship with yourself and with space: allowing yourself to be permeated by what surrounds you: sounds, space, breathing, using all your senses to be in touch with the act of painting. When I paint, that means I’m not trying to create a form. It’s only the quality of the gesture that’s being worked on by this quality of contact that’s at stake. In my paintings, I tend to create open spaces that exude power as a potential for movement.
What elements of movement or dynamism have you incorporated into your work for the virtual exhibition?
Je ne suis pas un lieu c’est l’espace qui est en moi refers to dance. I set out with several intentions: to inhabit the space, to be in the world, to play with directions, to be moved and moved, while remaining within the framework of the painting. The initial idea was to create an aerial painting, a metaphor for a body in movement.
On the one hand, the folded form is representative of an exterior and an interior. The aerial plane is painted, in a gesture, by the direct contact of my hand with the smooth, fluid material of the paint: touching and being touched, you can almost taste the bold and delicious colours. The idea is not to do, not to paint, but to be in the affect: a tonic quality, in directed attention.
On the other hand, the line creates a tension between the subject and the frame, the movement of the subject and the space. I have brought together, in a single sign, the notions of direction and gravity: the two grounds, contact with the ground and contact with the inner ear, up and down. The result is a line of movement open to infinity, holding and balancing the folded form in a depthless space.
The works Clair Obscur and Impesanteur share the same creative process of montage: first, a background. Second, a form in which a reversal takes place. The background becomes form through a process of unveiling. The background becomes the subject, changing from object or setting to subject.
These two paintings combine Merleau-Ponty’s reflections on phenomenology: what appears, with those developed by Didi-Huberman in his lectures on Les Faits d’Affects. The idea of ‘making a sign’ in reference to the hands painted in the darkness of prehistoric caves, parietal art. The idea of ‘chiaroscuro’ as an opening to possibilities, in reference to the work of Caravaggio: the power of the apparition, of the unspeakable.
For the background, I played on affect (tonicity, the desire for direction), the pleasure of touching the canvas, the materiality of the paint, of being touched by the colours. Nothing is represented, everything is an event, a tonic movement. The work on form is a search based on multiple sketches, an open movement. Through a process of concealment, I cover the background to reveal the form whose material is the background. For the painting Clair Obscur, I play with perspective and diagram in an aerial movement (a reference to Rosalind Krauss). The theme of the second painting is ‘weightlessness’, the falling of the body, outside of gravity.
Your work tends to explore the relationship between space and movement. Can you tell us more about this exploration?
I come from the Support Surface movement. I’ve exhibited at the Réalités Nouvelles Salon. All my pictorial work tends to free me from habits, representations, primary images, and movements inscribed in my body and mind. On the fringes of expressionist and figurative painting, I advocate a new form of painting that takes up the codes of perspective without any narrative.
Remi Delaplace, Impesanteur 1 (acrylic on canvas, 2024, 100 x 100 cm)
Initially, my work focused on using landscape as a metaphor for the body, drawing parallels with geological processes like plate tectonics, faults, and strata. This led to reflections on the concept of the fold, symbolising the interplay between interior and exterior. From this, I created body-objects that explored the relationship between the body and space, gravity, and levitation, challenging the viewer’s perspective.
In later research, I delved into the intersection of dance and theatre, examining concepts such as setting, stage, and event, where movement emerges in space as a form of drama. My series on touch and affect further investigated the idea of ‘what appears’, focusing on affect, tonicity, and the reversal of background and figure, with movement originating from within.
My latest series, Clair Obscur, explores the idea of making a sign, where painting becomes an act of unveiling. Marcel Duchamp’s assertion that ‘the spectator makes the work’ prompted me to question the artist’s role and led me to investigate the power of the gesture—its origin and significance.
Remi Delaplace, Clair Obscur (acrylic on canvas, 2024, 80 x 80 cm)
There is no space without the potential for gesture. I’ve learned to distinguish between power and potential. In the relationship between space and movement, perception plays a crucial role—movement in space is necessary for perception to occur. This relationship also involves duration and time.
Several avenues of research continue to influence my work. My focus is on the quality of the space-movement relationship: exploring space as emptiness, as the potential for action, and as a form of separation. Merleau-Ponty describes space as the flesh of the world, while Hubert Godard suggests that “it is because I inhabit myself that I can create another space.”
The Japanese concept of ‘Ma’ refers to an interval, a space that is also a duration, signifying a void between objects or events—much like a pause in music. It is an empty space-time, yet one filled with possibilities yet to unfold. The search continues.
What are the main influences that have shaped your artistic style?
In 2005, I discovered the work of John Maeda at the Fondation Cartier and Michal Rovner at the Jeu de Paume, which sparked my interest in the intersection of theatre and visual arts. This interest led me to attend lectures at Le Cube and at the École du Louvre, where Bernard Blistène focused on the works of Samuel Beckett. My curiosity about behavioural and interactive art deepened, prompting me to study Contemporary Art and New Media at the University of Paris 8, where I explored digital technology, interactivity, and the role of the spectator.
I fell in love with the immersive works of James Turrell and Véronica Janssens, where the experience of being enveloped by colour is profound. Additionally, I am deeply moved by the colours in the frescoes of Roman villas, such as Villa Livia and Casa della Farnesina at the Massimo Museum in Rome, as well as the Pompeii frescoes in the Archaeological Museum in Naples. The rich red hues of the imperial period, combined with the use of perspective and the quality of space, resonate with me.
Two works by Caravaggio continually challenge me. The Vocation of Saint Matthew in the Church of Saint-Louis des Français in Rome captivates me with its expressive eyes and hands, the gestures of separation, and the presence of voids. Meanwhile, The Beheading of St. John the Baptist in Malta prompts me to reflect on my relationship with scale, frontality, and the significance of background in space.
What is your vision of contemporary art and the role of the artist in today’s society?
What kind of art are we talking about? The world of art is incredibly rich and diverse, encompassing countless forms of expression: dance, imagery, painting, installations, and more. Yet, despite this diversity, art inevitably falls into categories: institutional art, scholarly art, popular art, the art market. These categories are constantly shifting—street art moves into museums, and comics find their way to auction houses.
Creativity often emerges where we least expect it, with artistic movements intersecting with ecology and sociology. However, conservatism and the repetition of forms are always close by, even in contemporary art. True novelties are rare and therefore precious. Among all this diversity, only a few forms of expression endure over time, and painting is one of them.
Sketches by Delaplace
For the artist, the key is to understand their position. The artist’s role is to pay attention to the world and to maintain a vision of it. It’s a task done for others, for those who are focused on different concerns. Ultimately, it’s a job of observation and awakening.
Can you describe your creative process, from the initial idea to completion?
My creative process evolves as I mature and as I work on projects related to the concepts I’m exploring. I always start with a problem I’m focused on, then choose a process that reveals that problem.
I prepare my canvases based on the chosen process—crumpled, folded, unbleached, or prepared—stretched or un-stretched on a frame. My recent paintings involve montage. I begin by painting a toned-down background where nothing is represented; everything is an event, a tonic movement. Then, through a lengthy process, I construct the form with the goal of bringing the background to the forefront.
For example, in my painting Image, Imagination, Space-Time, I selected the fabric purely for its tactile quality—a fine, silky texture, with a blue colour that resonated with me. For the background, I applied paint directly to the fabric with my hands, focusing on the tactile pleasure of touching the smooth, warm paint on the fabric. This process kept me connected to the ground and the surrounding space, guided by my inner ear and driven by a desire to explore tone and direction. Next, I moved on to constructing the piece, using sketches to bring the background into the foreground. The quality of the colours, flat tones, and gradations is crucial in distributing the space and revealing the background, transforming it into a central figure.
“The art world has historically overlooked the rich diversity and contributions of Latinx artists, and I wanted to address this gap by providing visibility, support, and a space where Latinx voices could be heard and celebrated.”
By Sophie Heatley | 11 Sept 2024
What inspired you to found the Latinx Art Collective, and what specific gaps in the art world were you hoping to address?
I founded the Latinx Art Collective because I became acutely aware of the significant lack of representation and recognition for Latinx artists. My own experiences, coupled with the stories from others in my community, highlighted the need for a platform that could celebrate and elevate Latinx art and culture. The art world has historically overlooked the rich diversity and contributions of Latinx artists, and I wanted to address this gap by providing visibility, support, and a space where Latinx voices could be heard and celebrated.
How has your personal identity and experiences influenced your decision to create this platform?
My personal identity as a Latina and my experiences navigating the art world have profoundly influenced my decision to create the Latinx Art Collective. Growing up, I rarely saw artists who looked like me or shared my cultural background represented in mainstream galleries or museums. This lack of representation, combined with the challenges I faced in finding a sense of belonging in the art community, motivated me to create a platform where Latinx voices are centred, celebrated, and empowered to share their stories authentically.
Tropical Garden by Victoria Stagni (oil on canvas, 2024, 76 x 100 x 4 cm)
Your online presence as “Latina in Museums” has gained significant attention. How do you leverage social media and digital platforms to further the goals of the Latinx Art Collective?
My platform serves as a bridge, connecting underrepresented artists with followers who might not encounter their work otherwise, and I use it to advocate for greater representation and inclusivity in the art world. By tapping into the power of social media, I’m able to create visibility, drive conversations, and mobilise support for the Collective’s mission on a global scale. But the goal of my personal channels is also to show a lesser seen side of museum work, where I share my own journey, including the ups and downs, failures, and challenges I’ve faced. I also showcase the achievements and opportunities to demonstrate that these experiences are possible for our community. This transparency helps build a relatable and inspiring narrative, encouraging others to pursue similar paths and showing that success in these spaces is achievable.
Pillow Talk by Javiera Estrada (archival pigment print, 2015, 68 x 68 cm)
In your opinion, what are the unique challenges and opportunities that digital spaces offer for promoting underrepresented artists?
The vast reach and accessibility of digital platforms provide a powerful opportunity to amplify voices that are often overlooked, allowing artists to connect directly with global audiences and build supportive communities. However, these spaces also come with challenges, such as navigating algorithms that may not favour diverse content and the need to stand out in an oversaturated online environment. Despite these challenges, digital platforms remain essential for breaking down barriers and creating visibility for underrepresented artists in ways that traditional spaces often cannot.
Karen Vidangos taking part in a Q&A
What are some common misconceptions about Latinx art and artists that you encounter, and how do you work to challenge these through your platform?
A common misconception about Latinx art and artists is the assumption that the work is always centred around themes of race, immigration, or cultural identity. While these are important subjects, Latinx artists, like their peers, also explore a wide range of themes, including politics, technology, time, the environment, and more.
Through my platform, I challenge these narrow perceptions by showcasing the diversity and complexity of Latinx art, highlighting how our community engages with a broad spectrum of ideas and creative expressions. By featuring artists whose work shows the entire breadth of our creativity, I aim to broaden the understanding of Latinx art and demonstrate that Latinx artists contribute to all areas of artistic discourse.
What role do you see the Latinx Art Collective playing in the broader conversation about diversity and inclusion in the art world?
The Latinx Art Collective actively challenges the underrepresentation of Latinx voices and creates a space where these artists can thrive. By amplifying the work of Latinx artists and fostering a supportive community, the Collective pushes for a more inclusive art world that recognises and values the contributions of all artists, regardless of their background. We aim to not only increase visibility for Latinx artists but also to reshape the narratives around diversity and inclusion, advocating for a more equitable and representative art landscape.
Karen Vidangos at Venice Biennale 2024: US Pavilion represented by Jeffrey Gibson: “the space in which to place me”
What are your long-term goals for the Latinx Art Collective? Are there any upcoming projects or initiatives you’re particularly excited about?
My long-term goals for the Latinx Art Collective are to continue building, improving, and expanding our platform to better support and showcase Latinx artists. I aim to collaborate with a diverse range of organisations that are doing exceptional work in promoting Latinx art and culture, creating opportunities for mutual growth and impactful projects. I’m particularly excited about upcoming initiatives that involve partnering with institutions and curators to bring more visibility to Latinx artists and their work. By working together with these wonderful organisations, we hope to create a more inclusive and dynamic art world that reflects the richness of Latinx contributions.
What do you hope the future of the art world looks like in terms of representation, and what steps do you think are crucial to getting there?
I hope the future of the art world is characterised by truly diverse representation, where artists from all backgrounds are equally visible, valued, and celebrated. This includes not only increasing the presence of underrepresented artists in galleries and museums but also ensuring that their diverse voices and perspectives are recognised as integral to the broader art discourse. Crucial steps to achieving this vision include implementing equitable practices in curatorial and hiring processes, actively supporting emerging artists from underrepresented groups, and creating platforms that amplify diverse voices.
Together by Marta Grassi (acrylic on canvas, 2024, 100 x 81 cm)
Looking back on your career and the evolution of the Latinx Art Collective, what has been the most surprising or unexpected part of your journey?
Looking back on my career and the evolution of the Latinx Art Collective, the most surprising and unexpected part of the journey has been the incredible support and recognition I’ve received. Entering and thriving in the arts, a field known for its difficulty and exclusivity, was something I never imagined would happen.
Reflecting on my parents’ sacrifices as immigrants in the 80s fills me with deep gratitude and emotion, reminding me of how far we’ve come and the gift this journey has been. The outpouring of support from people across the country and the world—those who are aspiring to be in the arts or already doing amazing things—has been overwhelmingly moving. It feels surreal and humbling to see how my little dream has resonated with so many, and I am continually awed by the community that has embraced and supported me.
How do you stay motivated and inspired in your work, especially when facing challenges related to representation and inclusion?
I stay motivated through the incredible support and love from my family, my friends who lift me up and encourage me to keep pushing forward, and my pug and little gallery girl, Marcel, who is my anchor to the real world when I’m feeling a little lost or down.
The dedication and passion of brilliant individuals—curators, writers, artists, and community members—who work tirelessly to support and uplift the Latinx community inspire me daily. Seeing the great things we can achieve when we come together fuels my commitment to doing what I do. Their belief in our collective work drives me to keep going, continuously challenging and inspiring me to make a difference.
Can you share the journey that led you to neon art as a prominent medium in your work? What initially drew you to explore this vibrant form?
My journey into neon art stems from my long-standing fascination with the natural world, particularly the vibrant colours and movements of butterflies and birds. Over the years, I spent a significant amount of time studying these specimens at the Natural History Museum, where I had the opportunity to closely examine their morphological characteristics, colours, and flight patterns. I became especially intrigued by how the intricate colour spectrum of these species reveals aspects of light and colour that are often invisible in everyday life.
This exploration of flight led me to study the mathematical principles behind it, specifically Bernoulli’s equation of flight. This theory explains how differences in air pressure create lift, allowing birds and butterflies to fly with such grace. The relationship between movement, line, and energy became central to my abstract compositions, which sought to capture the dynamic forces at play in flight.
As I continued to explore these themes, I realised that my work was pushing me to move beyond the two-dimensional canvas. I wanted to express the interplay between light, colour, and movement in a more immersive and vibrant way, which led me to experiment with neon and LED lighting. Neon’s glowing, fluid quality perfectly complemented the dynamic motion I had been studying, allowing me to bring the energetic frequencies of flight and colour into a three-dimensional space.
Incorporating neon has allowed me to deepen my investigation of light and colour frequency, bringing to life the unseen forces I had been observing in nature. The addition of neon and LED lights felt like a natural extension of my work, enhancing the vibrancy and strength of my compositions, and allowing me to explore the relationship between light, colour, and movement in a whole new way.
Your work merges art and science. How do these disciplines influence your approach to creating neon-based art?
Art and science, for me, are two sides of the same coin, each informing and enriching the other. My work with neon is deeply rooted in this fusion, where the precision of scientific principles meets the emotional expressiveness of art. This blend became especially significant when I began studying the structure and behaviour of butterflies and birds at the Natural History Museum. What initially drew me in was their aesthetic appeal—their brilliant colours and graceful movements. However, as I dove deeper into the mechanics behind their flight, I found myself fascinated by the scientific laws that govern their movements, such as Bernoulli’s principle.
Science provides the framework for much of my creative process. The mathematical elegance of flight, the way wing structures are designed for efficiency and fluidity, or how light interacts with the surface of butterfly wings—these are elements that captivate me. Understanding the mechanics behind these phenomena gives me a new perspective on how to represent them artistically. In this way, science isn’t just an influence; it’s a tool I use to decode the world around me and transform it into visual form.
Installation from a previous exhibition with Laura Benetton
On the artistic side, my focus has always been on the sensory experience—how we perceive and feel colour and light. When I began incorporating neon and LED lights into my work, I found they could represent not just movement and energy, but also the frequency and vibration of light itself. Neon gives me the ability to play with light in a way that feels alive, allowing me to push beyond the limits of what can be achieved with paint or traditional mediums. It captures the fleeting, almost invisible qualities of nature that I’ve always been fascinated by.
In combining art and science, I approach each piece not just as a visual creation but as an exploration of natural forces. I look at how scientific concepts, like flight dynamics or the spectrum of light, can be broken down and reimagined in a way that evokes emotion and engages the viewer. Neon is particularly well-suited for this because it allows me to transform complex, intangible ideas—like the unseen forces behind flight or the subtle shifts in colour frequency—into something physical and immersive. This synergy between art and science not only broadens the scope of my work but also deepens my understanding of the world and how we interact with it.
Neon art often conveys energy and intensity. How do you harness these qualities to express your artistic vision?
In my work, neon light serves as more than just an aesthetic choice—it acts as a powerful tool for creating a direct, sensory connection with the viewer. The vibrant energy of neon invites the audience to engage not just visually, but physically, allowing the light to envelop them in a way that creates an immersive experience. This interaction mirrors the scientific practice of taxidermy, where species are carefully classified, labelled, and presented for observation. Just as scientists use lighting and positioning to emphasise the unique characteristics of a specimen, I use neon to spotlight and intensify the essence of my compositions.
The neon light in my work acts like a spotlight, not only reinforcing the defining features of the painting but also elevating its beauty in a way that might otherwise remain subtle or unseen. The glow of neon transforms the artwork, giving it a dynamic presence that shifts with the viewer’s perspective, drawing attention to details and inviting deeper contemplation. It’s a way of magnifying the elements that are central to my vision—colour, light, and movement—while also paying homage to the idea of scientific classification by giving the artwork a sense of importance and discovery.
Neophema by Laura Benetton (acrylic and spray paint on canvas, 2020, 120 x 90 cm)
Your practice spans various mediums, including painting, sculpture, and bio-art. How does working with neon differ from or complement your other artistic endeavours?
Working with neon brings a unique set of challenges and considerations compared to my other mediums like painting, sculpture, and bio-art. Neon requires a high level of logistical planning and precision, as each piece needs to be meticulously mapped out before the installation process even begins. Unlike painting, which allows for a more organic, free-flowing expression, working with neon involves practical, hands-on problem-solving. I have to think ahead about the technical aspects of wiring, electrical connections, and the overall mechanical setup. This includes tasks like cutting wires, testing connections, and troubleshooting the neon itself—skills that require electrical knowledge and attention to detail.
In contrast, painting feels more immediate and intuitive. I can fully immerse myself in the act of creation, working directly with the canvas and acrylic medium without the same logistical demands. The flow is more spontaneous, and it allows me to express myself freely, responding in real-time to colour, form, and emotion.
Bio-art, particularly working with living organisms like bacteria and bioluminescence, introduces yet another layer of complexity. In these projects, the challenge is not just technical but also biological. It requires me to create the right conditions for life to grow, where every second and every millilitre of material can impact the outcome. The process is delicate and feels more human in a way—tied to the notion of nurturing life and working with natural systems. It’s a practice that brings a sense of fragility and unpredictability, where I must adapt constantly to the changing conditions in the lab.
Atthis by Laura Benetton (neon installation, acrylic painting on canvas, 2021, 110 x 110 x 8 cm)
In a sense, each medium presents its own unique challenges and learning curves. Neon combines practicality and artistic expression in a different way than painting, while bio-art introduces the concept of working with living systems and survival. What unites them all is the level of focus and dedication required, whether it’s planning neon installations, painting in the studio, or working in the lab. Each medium offers me the chance to explore new dimensions of creativity, all while pushing me to think critically and technically about my approach.
Could you walk us through the process of creating an installation? What are some of the technical challenges you face?
Creating an installation, particularly one involving neon, is a multi-layered process that requires both creative vision and technical precision. It begins with a clear conceptual idea, but from there, it quickly moves into detailed planning. Neon is a medium that demands a high level of logistical foresight. Every aspect of the installation must be carefully mapped out before any physical work begins, as the electrical components, placement, and structure of the neon elements need to align perfectly with the overall design.
Once I have a solid plan, the technical phase begins. This involves working closely with the neon tubing, which has to be bent into precise shapes. Then comes the electrical work—cutting and connecting wires, testing circuits, and making sure the entire system is functional. This stage requires an understanding of how neon gas and electrical currents interact to create the glowing light, as well as troubleshooting any potential mechanical issues that arise, such as faulty connections or uneven illumination. One of the main challenges I face here is ensuring that the practical aspects of the installation, like power supply and safety, don’t interfere with the aesthetic vision. The wiring needs to be hidden or integrated seamlessly into the artwork, so it doesn’t distract from the visual impact.
At the same time, the neon needs to work harmoniously with other elements in the piece, such as painting or sculpture. This means balancing the intensity of the light with the colours and textures in the rest of the work. I also test how the neon interacts with the surrounding space—whether it casts shadows, creates reflections, or changes in appearance based on the viewer’s angle.
In comparison, painting allows me to express myself more fluidly, while working with neon installations is a more methodical, problem-solving process. Every technical decision can impact the final outcome, from the precision of the wiring to the quality of the neon light. This technical aspect presents constant challenges, but it’s also what makes the medium so rewarding. The neon not only illuminates the space but enhances the work, transforming the viewer’s experience through light, colour, and energy.
How do you balance the aesthetics of neon art with its underlying scientific or conceptual themes?
Balancing the aesthetics of neon art with its scientific or conceptual themes involves a nuanced approach that integrates both visual appeal and deeper meaning. My work with neon art is deeply informed by the scientific principles of light and colour, specifically how different wavelengths correspond to different colours and the phenomena of bioluminescence. My artistic exploration begins with the concept of light as a physical phenomenon. Each colour of neon light corresponds to a specific wavelength of light, which is a fundamental principle in physics. This concept provides a scientific foundation for my work. For example, blue light has a shorter wavelength than red light, and this variation in wavelength affects how colours are perceived and experienced. In each piece, I choose specific neon colours based on their wavelengths to align with the underlying theme or message of the artwork. For instance, if a piece explores themes of energy or transformation, I might select colours with varying wavelengths to symbolise different stages or types of energy.
Testing LED brightening in the dark
This colour choice is not arbitrary; it is carefully considered to enhance the conceptual depth of the piece. The aesthetic impact of neon art is heightened by the interplay of colours and light. By selecting colours that not only create a visually striking effect but also resonate with their scientific properties, I aim to create a visual experience that is both beautiful and intellectually stimulating. For example, using neon colours that stimulate the excitation of particles in bioluminescence can evoke a sense of organic glow and transformation, reflecting natural processes. The process of bioluminescence, where organisms produce light through chemical reactions, serves as a powerful analogy for my work. Just as bioluminescence involves the synthesis of molecules to produce light, my neon artworks involve the manipulation of light wavelengths to create visual experiences that are both scientific and artistic. The glowing effect of neon lights parallels the mesmerising quality of bioluminescent organisms, drawing a connection between natural phenomena and artificial light. By weaving together the scientific aspects of light with artistic expression, I aim to create neon artworks that not only captivate the eye but also provoke thought about the nature of light and its role in our perception of the world. The interplay between colour, light, and concept transforms each piece into a multidimensional exploration of both science and art.
Can you tell us a bit more about your collaborative project “La – La Studio” bringing together yourself and English musician Callum Wright?
La – La Studio is a collaborative collective that I founded with English musician Callum Wright, who is known for his work under the alias D/R/U/G/S. Our partnership explored the intersection of art, science, and sound in new and exciting ways. In the project, “WFP Dance ” I created a dynamic visual installation that showcased the intricate patterns of cancerous cells, marked by green fluorescent protein. These visuals were intended to be both striking and intellectually engaging. Callum contributed by crafting bespoke soundtracks that harmonised with the visual components. Together, we aimed to create an immersive experience that transcended traditional artistic boundaries. The combination of his musical landscapes with my visual work was designed to provide a multi-sensory journey that connected viewers with both aesthetic and scientific elements. “WFP Dance”was showcased at Sonar 2024, where it challenged conventional perceptions of art and technology, inviting participants to explore and engage with the microscopic world in a profound and innovative way.
Many of your installations incorporate light in dynamic ways. How do you see light as a tool for communication in your work?
Light is a central element in my installations, and I view it as a powerful tool for communication in several ways. Light helps in shaping narratives and guiding the viewer’s experience. Through dynamic lighting, I can highlight specific aspects of an installation, draw attention to particular details, or create visual pathways that lead viewers through the piece. This storytelling aspect of light allows for a more immersive and engaging experience. In some of my works, light interacts with the audience. For instance, some installations respond to movement or touch, creating a dialogue between the viewer and the artwork. In essence, light is not just a visual element in my installations; it is a communicative force that shapes experiences, conveys emotions, and deepens the conceptual impact of the work. Through its dynamic and multifaceted nature, light becomes an integral part of how I express ideas and connect with viewers.
Laura Benetton’s studio
In your opinion, what is the role of neon art in contemporary society? How does it resonate with today’s cultural or technological landscape?
Neon art fascinates me because it bridges the gap between art and technology. The way neon lights work—through advanced technological processes—mirrors our ongoing fascination with tech and its integration into creative expression. It allows me to explore how art can incorporate and reflect technological progress, creating a dialogue between the two realms. Visually, neon art is incredibly striking. It’s bold colours and glowing forms have a way of cutting through the noise of our visually saturated world. In an era where we are constantly bombarded with stimuli, neon’s ability to stand out and make a powerful statement is both captivating and relevant. Culturally, neon art often delves into themes like identity, consumerism, and urban life. It offers a lens through which to critique and reflect on contemporary issues, making it not just an aesthetic choice but a medium for cultural commentary. Moreover, in a time when interactive and immersive experiences are highly valued, neon art’s ability to transform spaces and engage audiences on a sensory level aligns perfectly with this trend. It’s not just about creating something visually stunning; it’s about crafting experiences that resonate on a deeper level. Finally, there’s a certain nostalgia associated with neon. It harks back to mid-20th-century aesthetics but is reimagined through a contemporary lens. This revival of retro appeal, combined with modern artistic techniques, creates a unique connection between past and present, making neon art both timeless and current. I feel that neon art is more than just light and colour. It’s a dynamic reflection of our era—an intersection of art, technology, and culture that continues to evolve and captivate.
Are there any new directions or mediums you’re excited to explore that might further integrate neon with other forms of art and science?
I’m excited to delve deeper into the realm of programming and coding as a means to create sensory-based light and touch experiences. My vision involves developing interactive installations where audiences can immerse themselves in expansive spaces and engage with light in real time. This approach allows for a dynamic interaction, making the art more accessible and engaging on multiple sensory levels.
Additionally, I would be really excited about continuing my collaborations with scientists, particularly in the fields of microbiology and microscopy. I find the concept of bio-light—a sustainable alternative to artificial light—extremely compelling. My ongoing journey to create a bio-light lamp, designed to replace traditional neon light tubes in my artwork, has been a challenging yet incredibly rewarding project. Over the course of two years, during my Master’s I’ve been exploring the potential of using marine bacteria as living light sources, which not only bridges art and science but also aligns with contemporary concerns about sustainability and environmental impact.
This project has pushed me to think beyond the conventional boundaries of art, inviting a dialogue between the living and the inanimate, and offering a glimpse into a future where art and nature coexist in harmony. Exploring these new directions allows me to redefine the possibilities of light as a medium, transforming it from a static element into a living, breathing part of the artwork. I’m eager to see how these experiments can further evolve and inspire new forms of artistic expression
During Benetton’s artist in residency at Laszlo x Artiq Gallery
How do you envision the future of neon art, both in your own work and in the broader art world?
As we move into an era where technology is increasingly intertwined with our daily lives, I envision a future for neon art that embraces low-consumption lighting technologies like LED, while also pushing the boundaries of what light can represent in art. In the broader art world, I anticipate a shift towards integrating more sustainable and energy-efficient forms of lighting, driven by both environmental concerns and technological advancements.
In my own work, I am deeply interested in exploring light not just as a tool, but as a natural power source. I am particularly intrigued by the anthropological and biological dimensions of light, and how these can be harnessed to create art that is both innovative and environmentally conscious. I imagine a world where light-based art, lamps, and tools are illuminated by living organisms—such as bioluminescent bacteria or algae—highlighting the synergy between art, nature, and science. This approach not only challenges the traditional uses of neon but also reimagines the role of light in art as something that is alive and evolving.
Given that our planet’s resources are finite, I believe it is crucial to explore more sustainable directions in art. This could mean developing new technologies that mimic natural light sources, or even creating artworks that are powered by renewable energy. By experimenting with bio-light and other sustainable materials, I hope to contribute to a future where art doesn’t just reflect the world around us, but also participates in a dialogue about our planet’s ecological future.
I see the future of neon art as an exciting convergence of tradition and innovation—a space where the glowing allure of neon can coexist with new, eco-friendly technologies, challenging artists to rethink the way we use and perceive light in art.
As you hungrily scour what’s on offer, a growing calendar of events can easily tip into overwhelm. So, we’ve gathered a selection of hidden gems for you to uncover within and beyond the London Frieze festivities this year.
By Sophie Heatley | 20 Sept 2024
Once again, galleries, collectors, artists, art connoisseurs and their dogs are all deep in preparation for the hotly anticipated Frieze fair to recommence. Five days of ooh, aah, and ogling at the crème de la crème of London’s art scene, this year promising a yet more artist-led programme in support of new voices and the fair’s commitment to building global connections across its ever-expanding network. Keep reading to build your art agenda.
Untitled 24 (Collage, Oil on Belgian Linen, 2024, 160 x120 cm). Enquire for details.
Nelson Makamo: IN CONVERSATION
Curated and produced by Rise Art’s CEO, Scott Philips, and previous Head of Curation, Phin Jennings, “Nelson Makamo: In Conversation” is a solo exhibition that invites audiences to explore the powerful, diverse responses evoked by Makamo’s work. Through themes ranging from the Black experience to the joy and innocence of childhood, his paintings and drawings stir something deeply personal and universally resonant. Each piece speaks for itself, drawing viewers into an intimate and unspoken dialogue with the artist—one that, Jennings believes, is both spontaneous and impossible to resist.
8th October – 12th October 2024, 67 Great Titchfield Street, London, W1W 7PT
The latest show by Antonio Tarsis, a Brazilian immigrant artist based in London, reflects both the modest and profound in his work. The old English expression, typically signifying an exaggerated reaction to minor issues, takes on new meaning as Tarsis reclaims it to address deeper, turbulent histories of socio-historical, racial, and xenophobic violence. His work, created from humble materials and tools, critiques the hegemonic dynamics of colonialism and industrial labour—juxtaposing the violent processes of empire with the meticulous care of manual craftsmanship. We’re looking forward to seeing how Tarsis offers a poetic denunciation of exploitation and survival in the face of adversity.
20th September – 19th October 2024, Carlos∕Ishikawa Gallery, Unit 4, 88 Mile End Road, London E1 4UN
Lygia Clark, Diálogo de Óculos (Glasses Dialogue), 1966, Photo: Eduardo Clark. Courtesy Associação Cultural O Mundo de Lygia Clark
“The I and the You” marks the first major UK public gallery exhibition of the influential Brazilian artist Lygia Clark (1920–1988). Focusing on her artistic evolution from the mid-1950s to the early 1970s—a time of significant political and artistic upheaval in Brazil—the exhibition explores Clark’s central role in the Neo-concrete movement. Alongside her contemporaries, she sought to break free from the constraints of geometric abstraction, emphasising experimentation, expression, and audience participation. Featuring paintings, works on paper, her iconic ‘Bichos,’ and participatory pieces, the exhibition highlights Clark’s journey toward blurring the boundaries between art and viewer, exploring art’s philosophical and therapeutic potential.
Excitingly, the show is presented in dialogue with “Sonia Boyce: An Awkward Relation” (Galleries 8 & 9): inspired by Clark’s participatory and experiential practice, which Boyce encountered in the 1990s, this exhibition showcases pivotal and rarely seen works exploring themes of interaction, participation, and improvisation. Featuring Boyce’s explorations of hair as a cultural signifier and her multimedia installation We move in her way (2017), the exhibition delves into the complex relationship between artists, artworks, and audiences, inviting visitors to engage with the art in unscripted, tactile ways. By pairing works from both Boyce and Clark, An Awkward Relation examines their shared interests, while acknowledging the distinct socio-political and artistic contexts that shape their practices.
2nd October – 12th January 2025, Whitechapel Gallery, 77-82 Whitechapel High St, London, E1 7QX
Veiled/Unveiled byMarcia Harvey Isaksson (photo-triptych on aluminium, 2021, each 50 × 70 cm). Photographer Ylva Sundgren
Mimosa House presents “transfeminisms: Care and Kinship”, the fourth chapter of a major touring exhibition addressing the urgent issues faced by women, queer, and trans people globally. Featuring works by Sonia Boyce, Marcia Harvey Isaksson, Lubaina Himid, Gulnur Mukazhanova, SaVĀge K’lub, and Buhlebezwe Siwani, this chapter celebrates community, collective ritual, and ancestral connections.
Exploring resilience, spirituality, and healing through diverse media—including weaving, film, sound, and collective making—”Care and Kinship” highlights strategies of resistance and solidarity. “transfeminisms” traces feminist art’s legacy while embracing inclusive, decolonial, and transcultural perspectives, proposing a transformative vision for a more equitable future.
12th September – 26th October 2024, Mimosa House, 47 Theobalds Rd, London, WC1X 8SP
Not really a hidden gem but a gem that you absolutely want to get your hands on. Sadly, if you didn’t hear about this first, you probably don’t have a ticket. Tickets to Yayoi Kusama’s fourteenth solo exhibition with the gallery sold out almost instantly. Any cancelled spots are placed on resale though, so you may still be in with a chance! Offering a rare opportunity to experience a new Infinity Mirror Room, the exhibition introduces works from the artist’s latest series of paintings and sculptures featuring her iconic visual language installed across Gallery I and Victoria Miro’s waterside garden.
25th September – 2nd November 2024, Victoria Miro London, 16 Wharf Road, London N1 7RW
Sabrina Shah’s previous exhibitions have drawn our attention to food and relationships, particularly the dinner table as a site charged with emotion and the potential for something, anything, to happen.This setting becomes a space where everything is “on the table”—an enticing yet petrifying prospect for many artists on the verge of laying themselves bare.
It’s perhaps for this reason that I’m not that surprised to see so many chickens in Shah’s workshop. Not real chickens, of course—that would be chaos. But chicken sculptures, chicken drawings, and even a broken chicken that Shah has been attempting to piece back together after it smashed in transit. Its cartoonish eyes eerily gaze up at me, its little chicken head caved into its pot body, awaiting its fate.
Detail from Chicken by Sabrina Shah (acrylic on canvas, 2023, 40 x 30 x 5 cm)
“I like chicken,” she tells me. “I like the word chicken, I like the way it sounds.” I reflect on this as I leave, swirling the word in my mouth; the snap of the tongue against the roof of the mouth, the closing of the jaw on the “ch,” and the pull back of the lips on the “ken,” almost like taking a bite. Even for a veggie, I admit the word is quite delicious to sound out.
But it’s more than just the sound that attracts Shah. Chicken, as a word and a concept, brims with topical and propositional possibilities. “I think I’m poking fun at the fear factor,” she muses. “You’re a chicken/you’re not a chicken!” This internal dialogue, I gather, is one Shah is all too familiar with when daring herself to take the next step with a piece. Will you be the chicken served up on the table of doom? Or will you be brave?
Takeaway by Sabrina Shah (acrylic and mixed media on canvas, 2023, 170 x 130 x 5 cm)
This playful yet poignant engagement transforms “Chicken” into a vehicle for deeper reflection, inviting viewers to consider the self-destructive mind games we play with ourselves and each other. Through this lens, “Chicken” becomes a symbol of the wider human experience, highlighting our fears about not being good enough, the complexities surrounding personal and social identity, and our innate ability to manipulate.
Life Cycle by Sabrina Shah (acrylic and photography on canvas, 2022, 115 x 85 cm)
Unlike any chicken I’ve ever met, Shah is a solitary creature. Announced if not by her quiet demeanour but the fact she’s chosen a storage unit as her studio. She prefers spaces away from the main road and the bustling environment of shared studios, where her work can be “safe” and uninterrupted by other humans. I suddenly feel very privileged to be in Shah’s personal space.
I’m openly intrigued by the contrast between the artist—polite, kind, and attentive to details, kindly offering me water, Coca-Cola, and fruit, on several occasions, to make sure I feel at ease—and her art, which is fierce, unapologetic, and sensorially demanding. Initially, it’s challenging to connect the two. Where Shah is softly spoken and mindful of her words, her work is loud and provocative.
Sabrina Shah in her workshop next to the broken chicken pot
Something that does strike me as a similarity is Shah’s non-linear thought-processing, a verbal accompaniment to the layered nature of her work. I can almost hear the cogs turning as she contemplates her response, connecting seemingly unrelated concepts before they dip back beneath her waves of consciousness, perhaps to resurface later. Her work, in tow, does not unfold in a clear sequential manner or unravel in straight lines. It weaves a complex narrative.
Juggling by Sabrina Shah (acrylic on board, 2024, 40 x 30 x 5 cm)
Shah’s work is inherently inconclusive; I think it’s fair to say that Shah does not draw conclusions. While her pieces are rich with hidden meaning and intricate in structure, they resist systematic composition. Through cutting, sticking, smudging, layering, and repeatedly deconstructing her work, Shah pulls in elements from various time periods, historical references, and phraseology. The result is art that communicates energetically—visually, emotionally, and intellectually—yet deliberately withholds answers, leaving the truth elusive and unsettling.
CHECK MATE (acrylic and fabric on canvas, 2024, 60 x 60 x 2 cm)
Indeed, Shah’s work is filled with contradictions, creating ambivalent and enigmatic storylines. In Bullseye, the word is imposed over a cheerful bull figure, subtly questioning power dynamics and (dis)honesty: Who holds the power? Who is the victim?
In Half Full, a frenzied feast takes place—Shah flipped the canvas over several times during its creation, a process consuming more than a few years—producing a topsy-turvy landscape where up and down, left and right resist meaning. Beneath its playful surface lies an unnerving darkness: gushing blood-red tones, violent shards of light, and glimpses of infamous cartoon characters like Tom and Jerry buried beneath layers of paint. Their half-obscured fight points a haunting finger at hidden conflict and unresolved hurt. Shah’s work powerfully embodies how joy can quickly twist into terror, how consumption can spiral into excess, and how the line between light and shadow is often blurred.
Bullseye by Sabrina Shah (acrylic and fabric on canvas, 2024, 70 x 50 x 4 cm)
I’m intrigued by Shah’s way of describing her creative process in terms of problem-solving; aesthetic elements or the placement of new figures “offering a way out” or “a way in,” depending on your perspective.
Further to this conundrum is her blend of stylistic and thematic tensions. Her artworks balance surface tension—with ripples of paint, impasto smudges, and collaged pieces like paper, fabric, and photographs—against thematic tensions that leave you questioning whether something is good or bad, happy or sad, excited or stressed, as inferred in Bullseye, above, and in Half Full, pictured below. Viewers can follow the evolution of each piece, challenged to abandon the need for control or resolution. Instead of approaching her art as a puzzle to be solved, I feel dared to surrender and embrace the uncertainty of it all.
Half Full by Sabrina Shah (acrylic on canvas, 2024, 170 x 120 x 5 cm) surrounded by smaller works by the artist
I’m conscious that for many artists, it’s uncomfortable to explain why they’ve done something in their work. I’m careful when asking what, exactly, needs to be solved, or where, exactly, there should be relief. “I don’t really know why I do things sometimes,” Shah quietly announces. We discuss how trying to theoretically deconstruct paintings can explain them away. Maybe this is why Shah sometimes prefers to be among her paintings rather than in society. Justifying your art is tiring, at times unproductive, and easily turns into a therapy session nobody asked for. We both agree—let the art speak for itself. If we rely too heavily on spoken language to understand art, we limit our ability to connect with it on a deeper level and, arguably, to connect with ourselves and others.
Mixed media paintings by Sabrina Shah, available individually and as a series. Contact us for more details.
“Do you know the Philip Guston quote?” She asks me.
When you’re in the studio painting, there are a lot of people in there with you – your teachers, friends, painters from history, critics… and one by one, if you’re really painting, they walk out.
Painting is one way to really get quiet. To let the deluge of inner thought and confusion out. To set all the voices and opinions you’ve consumed from those around you free.
And,if you’re really painting, you walk out too.
Shah’s paintings draw in all the noise and the chaos; they are not conductive, they absorb, insulate, and digest the external into their own hidden world beyond the exterior of the canvas. With their loudness and luminosity, they boldly stomach all that we’re trying to rid our minds of, allowing us to seek a little peace.
Interestingly, I don’t think it’s the chaos that scares us most. It’s the quiet. So maybe the closing question is: are you brave enough to seek peace? Or are you a chicken?
Your work delves into the invisible life of emotional and sensorial experiences. How do you translate such intangible feelings into the physical act of painting?
Well, it’s something I was doing without realising it at first. For me, painting is a physical activity. I don’t start with a thought—a plan—or the intention to translate something specific; I just prepare a canvas and begin, following my impulses and desires. I feel good when I’m fully immersed in this activity. Over the years, I’ve come to realise that I’ve been translating sensations. At different times, I’ve depicted my organs, like my lungs and kidneys. I even painted recognisable faces without noticing them at first; I had to turn the canvas to see them. So, essentially, I paint what impresses me—not by choice, but because it naturally emerges.
Laura Basterra Sanz in her studio
I’m a highly sensitive person, and that means many things—one of which is that my senses are heightened. I pick up much more information than the average person, whether it’s the energy in a room, or the subtle changes in people’s moods, feelings, or intentions. Painting is my way of digesting overstimulation. I think it’s fascinating to see these invisible aspects of life take shape in the form of an image. It’s like crossing senses—smelling music or tasting an image. It feels like an alchemical process as if I’m cooking a picture. I could probably paint something else, but it wouldn’t feel authentic. Plus, I love the thrill of watching something I’ve never seen before appear in front of me.
You describe your gestural abstract paintings as encouraging the “body’s intelligence to flourish.” How does your body inform your process, and do you see it as a tool of expression or a collaborator?
The way you ask the question makes it seem like my body is something separate from me, like a tool I use, almost as if my body were a brush. But it’s not like that. It’s more about creating space for my energy to extend onto the canvas. Through this, I depict who I am in all my complexity and context—beyond materialistic constructs like gender or belief systems. Maybe it operates on a more energetic level.
My studio is a safe space where I can explore authenticity, whatever that means in each moment, including authentic movement. Whether I feel like dancing one day or sitting still the next, all these emotional states find their way into my work.
My practice is also shaped by experimenting with my body—through yoga, meditation, and breathing exercises—that help me connect my mind and body. This connection is essential for my well-being, especially since I tend to live in my mind. Our bodies are incredibly intelligent, and if I pay attention, the sensations guide me toward the best choices and outcomes in my work.
How does your fascination with fluidity manifest in your painting practice, and do you see the concept of fluidity as a metaphor for your emotional or creative life?
Fluidity reflects the essence of life for me. In my painting practice, I pursue fluidity in both decision-making and materials. I seek to be in contact with water, both when I paint and in choosing the location of my studio, as context greatly inspires my work. This may explain why I don’t enjoy working with dry mediums or being in dry places and why I prefer paint.
Fleeting by Laura Basterra Sanz (Acrylic on Belgium linen, 2021, 130 x 160 cm)
Since moving to Belgium, I’ve become much more aware of the elements, especially water and wind, which are more present here than in Barcelona. Volunteering in two permaculture projects before moving also taught me a lot about nature. Now, I spend time wandering in the Sonian Forest, paying attention to trees, plants, insects, and animals, which deepens my connection to the natural world and the elements. I also go often to the coast to experience the empty vast beaches, tides, dunes and wind. Fluidity feels more literal than metaphoric, although perhaps it operates on both levels at once.
The concept of freedom is central to your exploration. In your opinion, is true freedom a physical experience or more of a mental construct? How do these philosophical questions unfold through your work?
I believe freedom needs to be a physical experience. I try to embody that sense of freedom through movement and action when I’m in the studio. It’s reflected in the way I work—my methodology when painting and using text—almost like nobody’s watching. My brushstrokes, in a way, carry this quality, as if freedom is part of the DNA embedded in them. It’s something I strive for in my practice, and I hope to bring that same experience of freedom into my relationships with others.
Colour plays a central role in your work as a representation of frequency or energy. Do you consciously select colours based on these energetic qualities, or do they emerge more intuitively through your process?
Lately, I’ve been grappling with the term “intuition.” It’s vital to both my artistic practice and my life, yet it can be undervalued in painting. Listening to my intuition often leads to choices that feel right and bring me joy; it feels like my best form of intelligence. However, I worry that relying solely on intuition might suggest a lack of effort or depth in my work.
I believe that truly engaging with my intuition is a significant undertaking. I often set aside time to wander the streets, allowing my instincts to guide me without a specific plan. It’s not only a way of living but also a quiet rebellion against the dominance of the rational mind—the left brain, which still holds too much sway in our lives. When I look at nature, I don’t see the rational mind at work, yet nature functions perfectly. Intelligence, to me, includes much more than just logic; intuition feels like a natural, inner intelligence.
When it comes to colour, I consciously select hues based on their energetic vibrations. I feel drawn to certain colours, and this attraction shifts frequently. I spend a lot of time painting in sketchbooks, experimenting with a broad palette to visually train myself. I’ve learned that relying solely on intellect in choosing colours can prevent the magic of unexpected discoveries during the process—especially when mixing colours in response to the moment.
The Way It Used To Be by Laura Basterra Sanz (Acrylic on Belgium linen, 2022, 140 x 120 cm)
You express a deep connection to the musicality of language in your text-based art. Could you explain how this sonority and rhythm influence the way you work with words, and does this overlap with your approach to visual art?
I think it’s about how much attention you pay to sound, how well-educated your ear is, and the subtle awareness of musicality. It may also have something to do with the way my brain works, but I can’t say much about that. When I was born, my older sister was already playing the piano at home, and she continued throughout my childhood. I also played the piano for a while, and music was always present—we had records playing constantly. In many ways, music has been my companion. It teaches me, helps me connect ideas, and evokes feelings. I’ve always been drawn to rhythmic sounds and patterns, and I think I naturally have a mind for beats.
In my artistic practice, text feels like the beat—structured and rhythmic—while abstract painting represents the melody, flowing and emotional. I often think of my work as creating visual music, where the two overlap. There’s a connection between text, sound, and visual art in my mind that I haven’t fully analysed yet, but I think it’s tied to the body-mind relationship that interests me deeply.
You say, “We are nature.” How do you see the role of nature, not just as a subject, but as an active participant in your art, particularly in your installations?
When I say, “We are nature,” I’m thinking about how our organic bodies function on their own, mirroring the rhythms and cycles of the natural world. It’s amazing to reflect on! In contrast, there’s a stark dissonance when we exist in concrete jungles, surrounded by car exhaust and hard edges—it feels so far from our essence.
In my installations, I strive to create spaces where people can connect with a sense of freedom and reflect on their emotional state in the present moment. I invite others to tune into their senses, encouraging a deeper presence. This approach is a natural extension of the way I’ve chosen to live my life.
Laura Basterra Sanz in front of The River by the artist (Acrylic on raw canvas, 2024, 170 x 140 cm). Contact an advisor for further details.
You mention that the resolution in your work must “organically grow from the process of painting itself.” Could you explain this approach?
In the beginning, my approach was more aligned with action painting. I had to physically throw away feelings of discomfort, and that technique appealed to me. Over time, I experimented with different supports and states of being—painting quietly, sitting or standing, on the floor, on the wall, on a table, or standing while painting on a table. I also explored painting from various emotional states, developing this vocabulary on my own. I’ve learned that overthinking a painting rarely leads to satisfying results, and I’ve recognised the importance of letting go when I get stuck.
Confidence, I believe, is key, and I’ve gained it through practice. My gestures have become bolder and more assured over time, allowing me to better distinguish what to keep and what to discard. I’ve also realised that my spontaneity and playfulness operate within a framework—a method I’ve developed that evolves with me. While my work may appear spontaneous, it’s built on preparation through bodywork, healthy habits, and exercises such as morning pages or intuitive walks. That doesn’t mean I don’t struggle; I often do, but always return to what feels right.
I’ve come to believe that every artist needs to find their own methodology for creating. I realised this after visiting many artists’ studios. I used to think it was obvious, but I’ve learned it’s not for everyone. Artists who feel lost in their practice might be forcing themselves into something that doesn’t come naturally, which, in my view, is the wrong approach. Whether in art or life, forcing things rarely leads to true, organic development.
Laura Basterra Sanz’s works on display at the “Coup De Coeur” group show, We ART XL 2024, held at the cloister of l’Abbaye de la Cambre in Brussels
How does your creative process serve as a means of introspection or personal transformation? Do you find that it helps you understand or process your own experiences as much as it expresses them to others?
For me, creating is a dialogue between my left and right brain—between thought and feeling, or what I see as a balance of masculine and feminine energies. This process feels like a form of self-therapy, a quiet yet profound way to understand myself better without needing to talk about it. This introspective journey aligns with what Dr. Elaine Aron describes as the experience of a highly sensitive person, where there’s a constant drive for insight and understanding.
Yes, I believe my work does help me process my experiences. I’m less certain about how much of that reaches others, though. While many artists hope their audience will find their own meanings, I’m less focused on any specific interpretation. My hope is simply that my work resonates on a sensory level.
I’ve found that people who share similar sensibilities tend to connect with my work. I’ve received positive feedback from respected industry figures, but I try not to dwell on how others perceive it. For me, the most important thing is that my creations feel true to who I am.
We caught up with contemporary artist Rachel Mercer on overlapping disciplines, capturing the “presentness” of a moment through direct mark-making, the multi-dimensional nature of memory, and more.
