Interview with Alex Kuznetsov artist
(recorded in Lisbon, April 2025)
— Your work asks the viewer to slow down. In a time obsessed with speed, why focus on duration?
Because slowing down today isn’t neutral — it’s a decision, almost an act of resistance. I’m not interested in paintings that reveal themselves instantly. I want the viewer to stay, to look, to stay with looking. It’s not about difficulty — it’s about attention. And attention is perhaps the most endangered thing we have. If the work can reclaim it, it already matters.
— You use an aluminum straightedge instead of a brush. Is that just formal, or is there something deeper in that gesture?
It’s both. The straightedge removes the expressive gesture and replaces it with labor — repetition, constraint, weight. The surface grows out of action without impulse. I’m not after expressiveness. I’m interested in what happens when structure and unpredictability meet. When pigment starts to do something you didn’t plan — that’s where it becomes alive.
— Do you feel you’re in dialogue with abstraction today?
Not exactly in dialogue — maybe in tension with it. I don’t look for references or affiliations. But I do feel that abstraction now is shifting: away from spectacle, toward perception. That’s where I position myself — in the space where painting doesn’t show, but insists. Where it doesn’t mean, but holds. If it creates the conditions for attention, that’s enough.
— Your works feel architectural — more like constructions than compositions. Is that intentional?
Very much so. I don’t treat the canvas as a surface to depict, but as a structure to build. Weight, resistance, even gravity — these things matter. That’s why the paintings feel like spaces, not images. They’re not made to be read — they’re made to be entered.
— There’s a quiet kind of resistance in your work. Would you say it’s political?
Not in any explicit way. But I do believe that insisting on presence, on labor, on slowness — that’s a gesture that runs against the dominant visual culture. So yes, in that sense, it is political. I’m not declaring anything, but I’m holding space for something different. That’s a form of position.
— You’ve spoken of perception as a material event. What role does emptiness play in that?
Emptiness isn’t a void — it’s active. It shapes the way we look. The gaps between gestures, the pauses in process — they’re part of the work. I often think of silence as a kind of pigment. It calibrates perception. It slows the eye down. Sometimes, it’s what makes the painting breathe.
— How do you know when a work is finished?
There’s no formula. A painting can be materially done but still feel unresolved. I wait for it to stop needing me. For it to stand on its own. Sometimes it happens quickly, sometimes after weeks. Sometimes not at all. It’s about sensing a kind of inner closure — not visual, but temporal.
— What, to you, is the current state of painting as a medium?
Painting is everywhere, but it’s rarely urgent. It often decorates. But it can also shift perception. That’s what I care about. For me, painting is a way to feel, not to illustrate. It remains relevant as long as it’s tactile, slow, and resistant to easy capture.
— What kind of experience do you want your viewer to have?
Not a visual one, primarily — a bodily one. I want the viewer to feel the density, the rhythm, the surface. To see with their eyes, but also with their skin, almost. This isn’t about interpretation — it’s about presence. Painting can be a space where nothing needs to be understood, but much can be felt.
— Are you afraid of silence — of emptiness in the gallery, or of people not “understanding” the work?
Not at all. If anything, I fear explanation more. I trust silence. I think when a work can exist without interpretation, it’s truly alive. Silence invites attention. It’s not absence — it’s a form of trust.