Diego Vallejo García

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

Diego Vallejo García (Ávila, 1991) has a classical style in his treatment or composition, but with a contemporary theme. He studied Art History before studying Restoration and Conservation, which gives his projects a degree of knowledge that crosses from the theoretical to the practical. His work is representative of the tendency towards fragmented painting and the superimposition of realities, from the abstraction of colour fields to the painted photomontage of striking realism. This photographic exploration is taken to the realm of pictorial distortion.

The artist makes a generational portrait without individualising anyone, seeking to capture the collective personality of his generation, of the customs. He paints everything with oils, glazes and materials that he uses, thinking a lot about the conservation of the pieces and their durability.

Synergies. 2024. Oil on canvas. 114 x 195 cm.

What role does experimentation play in your creative process?

I think that experimentation in the conception of my work is fundamental, as it begins even before dealing with the actual subject matter of the painting. It begins in the configuration of the image, working on it through digital media such as Photoshop or Procreate. However, that image will only be a guide at the moment of painting; as the work progresses and accidents with the material arise, the image becomes detached from the painting, and it is the painting that finally takes control. That is why accidents occur in my painting in which elements are eliminated or appear that were not originally planned.

What are your references?

Well, I have many references. If we start with the classics, the first one I would mention is Velázquez, as well as all the paintings of the 19th century. As for the more current ones, they could be Rubén Guerrero, Ignacio Estudillo, Phil Hale, Sean Scully. They are painters who, in the end, deal with matter rather than image. I think this is the natural process of any figurative painter: at the beginning, trying to capture reality more or less faithfully, and with time you realize that what should take precedence over the image is the painting itself.

Fr Ltsch. 2024. Oil on canvas. 195 x 195 cm.

Why do your works have such an emphasis on nocturnality?

My work is not so much about nocturnality, but rather about light. What nocturnality allows me to do is to work with artificial light, and it gives me the possibility of treating light in its different temperatures and powers to create different sensations or different realities.

Do you feel more comfortable portraying individuals or crowds?

Portraying individuals or crowds pursues the same goal: to seek a portrait of my generation and society through customs and actions. How do I get this portrait without being individual, but collective? By eliminating the faces of the characters.

Nothing Is What It Seems. 2024. Oil on canvas. 146 x 195 cm.

What is the importance of movement, of action, in your works?

Movement and action are related to the previous question, because the movement of those individuals, crowds or characters in the work identifies them with a social movement and a collective identity. Also the movement that is really perceived in the work, of blurring, comes from trying to create a concept of character rather than a character in itself.

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.