Wim Delvoye has just said goodbye to the monographic exhibition dedicated to him by the Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium, in Brussels, in a risky proposal in which the subversive sculptural work of the artist lived together with the classical pieces of the museum's collection.

Wim Delvoye, installation of “Tabriz”, “Shahreza”, “Arak”, “Karaj”, “Khermanshah” and “Bidjar”, 2010-2016, in the showroom with “Le martyre de Saint Liévin” by Rubens at the background. Photo from: El Gran Otro, by Por Patricia Lago L. and Maximiliano Turri

If something is evident in Delvoye's work, it is his desire to stir consciousness and offer an openly critical reading of our globalised environment. It is not difficult to notice a message that mocks the models established in our society with an ironic language that portrays the hypocrisy of our time. The intentional use of contemporary referents in seemingly absurd or improper contexts produces a clash of ideas that opens the door to reflection. Between disgust and complicity, the spectators of their work face a transgressive discourse that rarely leaves them indifferent.

Wim Delvoye, “Truck Tyre”, 2017. © Courtesy Wim Delvoye / photo: Studio Delvoye, via RMFAB

Another factor that favours the impact of his speech is the choice of formats. Delvoye is not satisfied with small pieces but he goes big, with sculptures and installations that achieve a great presence in space. In this way, the assembly of the exhibitions manages to break the stillness of the rooms and generate a true dialogue between the past and the future. The author, already a veteran in these proposals organised in classical museums, such as the Louvre or the Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts in Moscow, appreciates the opportunity to make contemporary and historical art coexist because it attracts an audience that to some extent has already lost interest in the old. Thus, the exhibition "Sculptures" of Brussels is located in the middle of the halls and exhibition galleries under the watchful eye of the characters of Rubens, arranged in the walls painted in salmon and aquamarine.

Wim Delvoye, “Cloaca New and Improved”, 2001. © Courtesy Wim Delvoye / photo: Studio Delvoye, via sculpturemagazine.art

Delvoye's extensive work also plays with the variety of disciplines and techniques, in addition to the use of classicism and references taken from the entire history of art. The result is disturbing. Long ago he had presented a controversial sculpture in which a Christ was twisted on himself like a pretzel and exposed in front of an oil painting that represented the burial of Jesus Christ. The same can be said of his piece "Cloaca New and Improved", or simply "Cloaca", introduced by a massive sign with this word that emulates the Ford logo, in which it represents, as an assembly line with glass containers and laboratory material, a complete digestive process whose result is as expected: faeces served in a huge beaker. We also highlight the installation "Cabinet", a set of ceramic pieces that represent gas bottles and circular saw blades painted in blue with the traditional Delf style and arranged in a wooden display cabinet handmade in Indonesia. This work seeks to raise awareness about the effects of the colonial occupation and its impact on the course of history, and how this concept is treated forces us to rethink what we see to go beyond the visible.

Wim Delvoye, “Untitled (Fortnite 01)”, 2019. © Courtesy Wim Delvoye / photo: Studio Delvoye, via RMFAB

With an exquisite execution, Delvoye dares with numerous materials that gradually surrender to the impulse of his ideas. Be it metal, or stone, the whole of his work is eclectic and difficult to classify. Perhaps we could group it under a common guiding thread that is the desire to question the status quo of things, the supposed benefits of this galloping modernity that alienates us and traps us, but also gives us the freedom to carry out projects such as the ones this author poses, and make them live with the past of art. We live in a disturbing world. Thanks, Delvoye.

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.