At a time when visual arts seem to have exhausted much of the traditional resources, artists dare with new techniques and methods to enter an unknown soil where everything is possible. Thus, there is room for surprise, innovation and exploration, in a novel and, at times, risky forms of expression.

One of these examples is the resource to X-rays to capture images. The use of radiographs in art is not entirely new, although its applications have been mostly for study purposes, to discover the invisible layers of paintings, analyse pieces in authentication processes or look for hidden brush-strokes of the great masters, with the will to better understand their creative process. The use of this technique for genuine artworks, however, is quite recent, but its appeal is such that some artists have specialised in imitating the aspect of an X-ray in their proposals, as so the Londoner Shock-1 does.

Beyond the curiosity of analysing objects from their deepest layers, the truth is that its visual impact allows getting unexpected results, with an undeniable artistic potential. This is the path that some creators have followed, in which some have ended only by chance or derived from a professional speciality that is in direct contact with this technique. For this reason, many authors of radiographic art are scientists or doctors who have known to see in their daily images a different creative application. We share some of their proposals with you.

Photographer Nick Veasey explores a more human and active side in his proposals. The use of X-rays for this author has a more analytical and less compositional aim. As he himself explains, his work tries to transcend what’s visible in a world dominated by the image. This way, all the connotations that we associate with an ideal appearance of wealth, power or status dissipate. He aspires to look for what is beyond, in the essence of what makes us equal, while revealing hidden details about structure, form or movement. His photographs are fascinating and captivating.

Arie Van’t Riet, L: “Art, flowers” - R: “Sandersonia Dragonfly Butterfly”

Arie Van't Riet is a medical physicist who ended up making art through X-rays. In his interior studio, provided with three X-ray machines, he composes his floral still lifes, in which the elegant delicacy of the petals, the transparency of the leaves or the fragile structure of the butterfly wings are always visible. The of Van't Riet combines this work with a digital colouring task, to give rise to these images full of harmony and balance.

Steven N. Meyers, L: “Celosias” - R: “Red Magnolia”

Steven N. Meyers moves in a similar way, although this author dismisses digital colouring in his compositions. In that sense, his work is more naturalistic and offers results closer to traditional screen printing or lithography. But what he also shares is the search for balance in the image. His choices are never left to chance. There is a serene elegance based on the structure, the staging of the elements and the purity of the light. Therefore, the whole of his work manages to convey a great hidden beauty.

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.