Antonio Ovejero

CONVERSATIONS WITH MARISOL SALANOVA. INTERVIEW PROGRAM. ART MADRID'25

Antonio Ovejero (Valencia, 1999) explores memory and the retrieval of scenes that dwell in our collective imagination, focusing on the sublime aspects of everyday life. He is fascinated by women adorned with jewelry and large bags, dresses with geometric patterns, and extravagant hairstyles that bridge different eras. Through a kitsch aesthetic, he seeks the ostentatious in attire, the conspicuous, and the pretentious, elements that are often more common and closer than one might expect.

His portraits often highlight the hands, revealing details and the objects they hold, such as a retro handbag. The use of print as an identity and aesthetic tool is a recurring element in his work. For him, the combination of age, the everyday, and elegance forms a constant image. He defines his pictorial project as a neo-pop costumbrista.

What role does experimentation play in your creative process?

I believe experimentation is crucial for any artist, as it is the means by which you discover how to represent what you wish to convey. Since I began painting, I have used various techniques to achieve the results I was looking for.

Oil painting dominates my work. I've always favored this medium because I feel more comfortable with it, and it delivers the results I want. However, when I decided to incorporate printmaking, I sought ways to present it in a more contemporary manner. Initially, I chose photographic transfer because it seemed like an interesting resource that complemented oil painting well. But I later realized I wanted the work to be entirely plastic, with painting as the dominant element. That’s when I began working with silkscreen, a printing technique that allowed for more precise results and integrated well with oil painting.

For this technique, I used acrylic paint because it dries faster and provides a greater margin for error, although it requires a lengthy process that involves more than just painting. This is when I discovered stenciling, a method where I create designs in Illustrator and then cut them out with a laser cutter. Stenciling makes the painting more organic and faster. So, I continue to search and experiment until I find the right means to complete a painting.

I believe using different techniques within one work greatly enriches it. Currently, I am focused on finding a direct way to combine brushstrokes with prints. I am experimenting with animal prints, which are more organic and forge a direct link between the painting and the act of painting itself.

Always matching bags and heels. 2024. Oil on panel. 180 x 140 cm.

What are your references?

To discuss my references, I think I need to divide them into those within my environment and those from outside. I was born into a family where my father was a painter, and my brother Miguel Ángel is also a painter, so painting has been present since my early years. Additionally, my mother always supported my dedication to the art world, and I spent a lot of time with my grandmother, who was a seamstress. Therefore, anything related to textiles, scraps, and printmaking has always caught my attention, and I have tried to capture it in my work.

As for external references, in painting, I think of artists like Marten Ant and David Storey, who work with photographic archives, or Juan Ugalde, who intervenes in photographs to create new narratives, or Gerhard Richter, whose painting is closely linked to photography. I find the union of photography and painting very interesting. I also think that my work has a strong connection with certain cinematic or photographic influences. In this respect, I highlight Martin Parr, a photographer who captures everyday scenes at the beach, focusing on details like wrinkled hands.

Another reference is Eric Persona, a Milanese photographer who explores daily life from a perspective that blends the extravagant with the mundane, creating very interesting images. I am also inspired by Thandiwe Muriu, a Kenyan photographer who creates images in which prints merge with the model, making prints a symbol of identity for Kenyan women.

As I mentioned earlier, my painting has a close connection to cinema, which is why I always think of Marisa Paredes, especially in Almodóvar’s films, where she portrays a woman with a tough life but remains elegant and sublime, something I try to reflect in the female figures I paint. In this sense, Almodóvar is an important cinematic reference. I also think my work mirrors the interplay of patterns and colors in his films. Another reference is Paolo Sorrentino, an Italian filmmaker who blends the glamorous with the everyday, the extravagant with the costumbrista, concepts I also try to incorporate into my work, just as Fellini captured a strange everydayness.

I believe all these references have a direct influence on me and help me create the imaginary I aim to represent in my work.

Your leather bag. 2024. Oil on panel. 180 x 140 cm.

How important is gesture in your portraits?

Throughout my work, I have explored portraiture from various angles, especially in the "Señoras" project, where I wanted to use the portrait as a collective stamp representing the women it portrayed, so that a figure like Conchita or Paca would symbolize all the women of that generation. I think the gesture in the portrait is very important, something I tried to emphasize in my work. Also, depending on how you portray a person, you can convey different things.

For instance, a grimace, a lascivious or defiant look, is also a form of narration within the work. But now, I use portraiture in a different way. I believe that portraying people can also be done by showing the elements that make them up. For example, I now work with close-up shots where elements such as handbags, jewelry, hands, or posture take on great significance. All of these elements also reflect what a person or a group of people is like. So, the current portrait I work on, where I use gestures, relies on the arrangement of elements: how a hand is placed, how a bag is positioned, and how the image I am portraying is constructed.

Whisky on the rocks. 2024. Oil and acrylic on panel. 40 x 40 cm.

What is your favorite format for painting?

I believe the format is crucial in how you want to create your work and how you work. I almost always work on plywood, on a frame, because the strength of the wood allows me to have more impact on the work. Also, I use printmaking techniques that require a more rigid support; if I used linen or canvas, for instance, it would loosen and make the creative process more challenging. That’s why I always work on wood.

I find it very interesting to use the brush more aggressively in the first strokes, the initial stains, which directly relate to the format. The size of the work is very important. I prefer large formats because I feel freer in that space, where the first brushstrokes and stains feel more satisfying. It also creates a connection between the painting and the act of painting itself, which I believe is essential to creation. I think pleasure has a powerful role in the work, as the result greatly depends on whether there is a certain enjoyment or if you are looking for something more perfectionist or precise.

Large formats allow me to develop best, where the work is constructed and the shapes and brushstrokes merge. When I work with smaller formats, I also enjoy the process, but it requires more consistency and thoroughness. The brushstroke has to be more precise, the focus is on a specific part, and the construction process is slower because the combination of tones is more complex.

On the other hand, in larger formats, the tones and brushstrokes come together more easily, and the form is gradually created as I work. That’s why I generally prefer large formats and plywood.

Always matching bags and heels. 2024. Oil on panel. 180 x 140 cm.

How do you think your works reflect temporality?

In my work, I always try to address themes like memory, the preservation of memory, and the passage of time. Since I began creating, this has been reflected in my first projects such as Mujeres sin color (Women without Color), Relato sobre el luto (Mourning Story), or Señoras (Ladies). I depict elderly women who lived through the post-war era and the cultural and belief systems of Spain at the time, and who, in their maturity, have somehow detached themselves from that past.

That’s why I like to represent them in a more ornate and glamorous way, as a sign of empowerment. For me, it’s important to reflect that resilience through aesthetics and print, which I use as an identity resource for a generation like that of my grandmother and her friends, who came from that harsher Spain but are still present in our society. These women, with their rings, dresses, and handbags, are the women I capture in my work.

I believe that ostentation belongs to the representation of a certain empowerment after a life in black and white, so to speak. Temporality plays a fundamental role in my work. The passage of time and how these people were treated is something I focus on a lot. I try to represent them through their objects or scenes that evoke that era, combining the experiences they have shared with me and those I have lived through, creating a whole imaginary that I seek to capture in my work, centered around these women and this society.

The painting of Daniel Bum (Villena, Alicante, 1994) takes shape as a space for subjective elaboration, where the figure emerges not so much as a representational motif but as a vital necessity. The repetition of this frontal, silent character responds to an intimate process: painting becomes a strategy for navigating difficult emotional experiences—an insistent gesture that accompanies and alleviates feelings of loneliness. In this sense, the figure acts as a mediator between the artist and a complex emotional state, linking the practice of painting to a reconnection with childhood and to a vulnerable dimension of the self.

The strong autobiographical dimension of his work coexists with a formal distance that is not the result of conscious planning, but rather functions as a protective mechanism. Visual restraint, an apparent compositional coolness, and an economy of means do not neutralize emotion; instead, they contain it, avoiding the direct exposure of the traumatic. In this way, the tension between affect and restraint becomes a structural feature of his artistic language. Likewise, the naïve and the disturbing coexist in his painting as inseparable poles, reflecting a subjectivity permeated by mystery and unconscious processes. Many images emerge without a clearly defined prior meaning and only reveal themselves over time, when temporal distance allows for the recognition of the emotional states from which they arose.

The Long Night. Oil, acrylic, and charcoal on canvas. 160 × 200 cm. 2024.

The human figure appears frequently in your work: frontal, silent, suspended. What interests you about this presence that seems both affirmative and absent?

I wouldn’t say that anything in particular interests me. I began painting this figure because there were emotions I couldn’t understand and a feeling that was very difficult for me to process. This character emerged during a very complicated moment in my life, and the act of making it—and remaking it, repeating it again and again—meant that, during the process, I didn’t feel quite so alone. At the same time, it kept me fresh and connected me to an inner child who was broken at that moment, helping me get through the experience in a slightly less bitter way.

Santito. Acrylic and oil on canvas. 81 × 65 cm. 2025.

There is a strong affective dimension in your work, but also a calculated distance, a kind of formal coldness. What role does this tension between emotion and restraint play?

I couldn’t say exactly what role that tension plays. My painting is rooted in the autobiographical, in memory, and in situations I have lived through that were quite traumatic for me. Perhaps, as a protective mechanism—to prevent direct access to that vulnerability, or to keep it from becoming harmful—that distance appears unconsciously. It is not something planned or controlled; it simply emerges and remains there.

Night Painter. Acrylic on canvas. 35 × 27 cm. 2025.

Your visual language oscillates between the naïve and the unsettling, the familiar and the strange. How do these tensions coexist for you, and what function do they serve in your visual exploration?

I think it reflects who I am. One could not exist without the other. The naïve could not exist without the unsettling; for me, they necessarily go hand in hand. I am deeply drawn to mystery and to the act of painting things that even I do not fully understand. Many of the expressions or portraits I create emerge from the unconscious; they are not planned. It is only afterwards that I begin to understand them—and almost never immediately. A considerable amount of time always passes before I can recognize how I was feeling at the moment I made them.

Qi. Acrylic on canvas. 81 × 65 cm. 2025.

The formal simplicity of your images does not seem to be a matter of economy, but of concentration. What kind of aesthetic truth do you believe painting can reach when it strips itself of everything superfluous?

I couldn’t say what aesthetic truth lies behind that simplicity. What I do know is that it is something I need in order to feel calm. I feel overwhelmed when there are too many elements in a painting, and I have always been drawn to the minimal—to moments when there is little, when there is almost nothing. I believe that this stripping away allows me to approach painting from a different state: more focused, more silent. I can’t fully explain it, but it is there that I feel able to work with greater clarity.

Crucifixion. Acrylic on canvas. 41 × 33 cm. 2025.

To what extent do you plan your work, and how much space do you leave for the unexpected—or even for mistakes?

I usually feel more comfortable leaving space for the unexpected. I am interested in uncertainty; having everything under control strikes me as rather boring. I have tried it on some occasions, especially when I set out to work on a highly planned series, with fixed sketches that I then wanted to translate into painting, but it was not something I identified with. I felt that a fundamental part of the process disappeared: play—that space in which painting can surprise even myself. For that reason, I do not tend to plan too much, and when I do, it is in a very simple way: a few lines, a plane of color. I prefer everything to happen within the painting itself.