A Conversation with Alexander Tinei

JD

What a pleasure to have you. How have you been? And—forgive me for my curiosity—how did you experience those consecutive lockdowns, with many of your works having a certain sense of isolation? Has it affected your artistic practice?

AT

It’s also my pleasure. Suddenly you realize how important the simple, inconspicuous things you suddenly lost were. And for me, it wasn’t easy to obey the general idea of a lockdown. I would define this feeling of isolation as feelings of detachment and solitude. Lost in solitude. 

Nevertheless, the pandemic didn’t affect my practice. I did the same things and painted similar paintings. It will affect me later. I believe that it takes time to analyze this tragedy. To see what is happening—or has happened—one must approach it from the outside and look with different eyes. 

This takes time, of course. Thus, I am convinced the changes happening inside of me at this very moment will only become visible later on—both to myself and others. Because, as with something big, it needs a certain distance to observe it.

JD

Could you talk us through your creative process, starting with the source material, your intention, and how everything develops, culminating in the final result?  

AT

Regarding the source material, I am constantly accumulating video stills. Sometimes the image itself pushes me to a specific topic. And the theme guides me in choosing the right image. Using Photoshop as an exploratory tool, I create several options for future work before bringing them to the studio and projecting the images onto the canvas. But then, I start to fight. Everything starts to look different. On canvas, the rules seem to be entirely different. I spent weeks grasping what I would like to say. But the painting starts to lead me—often in a completely different direction. 

I often erase and repaint the parts I failed; the hands, faces, eyes, and backgrounds. It’s like editing a movie. The scenes have already been filmed but are not 100% what I need. The actors did their job and are no longer available, so you must try to cut the scenes in numerous new ways to achieve what you’re looking for. This also includes using chemicals, such as acids, to remove the dried paint from specific areas.

For example, my painting Picasso’s Bull (2019-2020) went through all these stages. I decided to remove the girl from the canvas and drew a table with an abstract bull’s head. But then I suddenly decided to leave it all there; the girl, the head, the table, and even the wallpaper. That’s how it works; I paint and repaint, for instance, faces until I am satisfied with the result. Until those faces start to talk to me, and my inner state is reflected in them. 

JD

Would you say your paintings are narrative, suggestive, or conceptual? How does one interpret your works, and how do you want the viewer to approach the image? 

AT

In a sense, everything I create is a reflection of myself and my subjective worldview. So, as a matter of fact, in a way, I am the narrative. I started by looking for my concept of contemporary painting. And if contemporary art reflects or defines time, what symbols and signs should it be expressed? In this case, tattoos and graffiti were something that attracted my attention very much. 

I drew the lines, roots, and flowers on the faces of my portraits. With these lines, my work became so sharp and meaningful.  How difficult it is to imagine cityscapes without graffiti today. Graffiti in urban culture is a similar time-bound sign as the flowers and lines on the faces of my heroes. What these lines mean is to be determined by anyone standing in front of the painting. I like it when the viewer takes part in interpreting my work on their own. Often, it externalizes the viewer’s vision, with art functioning as a stepping stone.

JD

There is this notion of anonymity in the ‘found’ figures you depict in your works. Even though they are individuals, there is a universality in them as they do not seem to intend to depict a specific individual but rather ‘an individual’ or ‘the individual’ as a concept. By doing so, there is a particular connection and impact with the viewer, as if we can connect or identify with the subject. Is this a premeditated strategy?

AT

Indeed, this is precisely one of the main ideas of my work. So, I would say it is, in a way, premeditated. And similar strategies were used before by Pablo Picasso (1881-1973), Henri Matisse (1869-1954), and Amedeo Modigliani (1884-1920).

JD

From this perspective, would you say you are depicting the identity­—or identity crisis—of the contemporary individual and the existential state of collective humanity?

AT

If the word crisis comes to your mind while looking at my paintings, then yes, it definitely is. Because this question comes out of your definition, experience, frame of reference, and personal feelings or ideas when it comes to my work, and this is precisely what is so precious to me. 

My work talks about our inner world, thoughts, and values. It talks about the loss of our ideals, the loss of our morality, the conflict of perception, or the subjective interpretation of morality, which leads to—indeed—a crisis, in my opinion. This is the existential state of collective humanity in my work.

JD

Your work’s existential and dark character was predominantly visible in your earlier works. There is a clear visual transition around 2013-2014. From roughly 2008 to 2013, the paintings seemed to be much darker as the muted skin strongly contrasted with the black backdrop. Trees, roots, and exotic birds are motifs accompanying your figures in those dark spaces or voids. 

AT

Until 2013, I painted on the back side of the canvas, using Francis Bacon’s technique. And later, as you well noticed, I wanted more contrast—not only light versus dark but also in color and how the different parts of the painting are painted. So, I changed the technique and painted on the primed side.

At first, I was primarily occupied with the figure emerging from darkness. I was interested in light, and longing for contrast, separating light from darkness. This was my work’s overall visual concept: a dark background and a bright figure. But rather quickly, it became too simple, so suddenly, I was confronted with my central concept becoming a downfall. 

JD

Thus, as a reaction, this visual transition occurred. The backdrop was no longer a dark void or an obscure environment, such as a lake or a forest. You embraced color, first with the clothes of your figures, then with the backdrop, giving more light to a bigger painting surface. How did you experience this transition? Was it a conscious choice, or did it just simply happen? 

AT

This visual transition directly resulted from a growing dissatisfaction concerning some parts of my work at that time. The crisis came from the inside, so I needed to find new perspectives and new strategies to satisfy my expectations—even though my expectations were not 100% clear at the time. So, it was, in fact, a very intuitive process. Your actions become more selective, selecting whatever feels the closest to your inner feeling as an artist. 

I wanted my work to become more profound and multi-dimensional. I became aware that my work lacked complexity but also subtlety. For a long time, Francisco Goya (1746-1828) was one of my heroes because I was initially occupied with the notion of tragedy and drama. With Goya, those notions are very visible—almost tangible—but also a bit obvious. Whereas with, for instance, Diego Velázquez (1599-1660), the drama is more hidden, but it is there. It resides at a deeper level below the visual façade of the painting, and it requires a more profound experience or interaction with the viewer to access it. 

I was almost afraid of becoming a dramatic artist. When the emotions are too wild and not controllable, you immediately attract the viewer’s attention because of the artist’s dramatic emotional expression. But the painting does not succeed in going beyond this interaction, nor does the viewer experience something more profound than this theatrical visual spectacle. 

In many ways, the apparent tragedy is superficial. So, it had to become more multi-dimensional. You need to be able to approach the picture from different perspectives—not only finding drama in tragedy but also peace, or even happiness. This was my challenge, and this initiated the transition in my work. 

JD

In the backdrop, we notice flat surfaces of color instead of deep voids connected by cracked lines. Would you say those were the trees you used the paint? But now they have become roots, as a visual and metaphorical binding element?

AT

The roots came out of the human skin, but it was no longer the main focus of the artwork. So, it entered the environment of the figure as I was studying the relationship between figure and space. What once was a representational, physical element is now a metaphorical, ornamental element. It no longer resides in one specific place, such as a tattoo on the human body, but it becomes omnipresent and supports the overall image. 

This is also the result of the academic conventions of my fine art training. The figures always had to be connected to the environment, standing firmly on the ground or including reflections of the figure in the background. Academically, the painting needs to be a window in the wall, with visual depth. But I was interested in simplifying this process and making the picture plane flat. 

The underlying desire for this interest was my fascination for texture and the surface of the painting—something I believe is essential, but that was unexplored then in my work. I always had this urge as a painter for texture, even when I was still painting my smooth-surfaced dark paintings. It was hidden in me, and I was searching for a way to express this desire. 

JD

As a result, not only your visual methodology had to change, but also your technical methodology.

AT

Yes, I wanted to show the viewer the materiality of painting, so I had to change my way of applying oil paint to canvas. Instead of using a paintbrush, I started using enormous knives. The narrative moments are hidden in the painting itself, inspired by Per Kirkeby (1938-2018) or Richard Diebenkorn (1922-1993). 

JD

Your picture plane used to have a traditional depth, and the surface of the canvas was smooth or flat—but then, there is a spatial shift. The picture plane flattens, whereas the surface enriches texture, giving actual depth to the materiality of the canvas and paint. Would you say this methodology is a result of your experimentations with collage and repainted photographs? 

AT

With the collages and repainted photographs, you combine non-figurative interventions with the figurative nature of the source material in a single work of art, so you use everything you know to make things work. With these works, I was also inspired by, for instance, Cy Twombly (1928-2011) and how he treats the material. There is something sensual and brutal in his marks but also something sensitive and broken. And there is power in this ambiguity, and it all stems from the material honesty of those marks.

Further, destruction has always been an essential part of my creative process. Please think of the use of acids when I am dissatisfied with certain parts of the painting. They are aggressive, and they leave marks. And in those marks, we can find the drama and tragedy we discussed earlier. They are hidden in the paint—or even beneath the paint—becoming a part of the painterly process. These tools or strategies can grab the viewer’s attention and increase the figure’s power. 

Here resides the parallel with Cy Twombly. Twombly does not only paint his paintings. Sometimes, he makes marks as if the artwork is dirty. Think of finger marks or random scratches. But these marks make the picture real, genuine, and authentic. A testimony of the honesty and sincerity of the artist and their process, resulting in an unexpected harmony. 

JD

It is clear to say collage is an integral part of your practice­—and it has become one of the most pertinent strategies today for contemporary figurative painters. Could you elaborate on the ubiquity of collage in painting? 

AT

When I was young, I came to the studio without knowing what to do. But as a result, I got lost in my ideas. I needed to specify my thinking process to focus on one idea or image. And with collages, you can capture those ideas and store them on your computer. You can try different things with the image, whereas in the studio, you can only try one thing with the painting, and you have to stick with it because you cannot go back. 

But for some reason, a great collage does not always become a great painting. But it is a starting point and allows you to do visual research before developing the actual painting. But the final result always comes from something else. From your intuition as an artist, the intervention or destruction of certain parts of the painting, or even by a random visual encounter—think of a bag on the studio floor that has the exact color your painting needs.

So, on the other hand, photoshop collage can also limit you as an artist. The inconvenient truth for me is that I strongly depend on it. And I sometimes experience this dependence as a prison. I feel the urge to escape. To step away from this process and regain my freedom. 

JD

So, as with your darker paintings from 2008-2013, your primary strategy once again brought you to a crossroads in your oeuvre. Exemplary of the artist’s ongoing struggle, in which the journey can be more interesting than the final destination­—reinforcing the cliché once more. A journey of reflection and of reinventing yourself. And above all, a nascent chapter to—once again—look forward to. Thank you, Alexander Tinei.