With the winter around the corner, we make a brief review of how the artists got inspired by this season for their works. These dates are usually associated inevitably with the end of the year and the abundant parties, but the beginning of winter has traditionally been a time celebrated by many cultures as it gives way to a period of growth of days and a stage of preparation for the upcoming cycle. Even Greek mythology has a story for this phenomenon. Demeter, goddess of life and earth, separated from her daughter Persephone, who had been abducted by Hades and condemned to remain in the underworld, agreed to spend half of the year in her company and the other half on Olympus. Demeter was sad in the months when she was not with Persephone, which correspond to autumn and winter, leaving the earth neglected and withered, as opposed to spring and summer, time spent with her daughter.

Camille Pissarro, “Avenue de l’Opera. Efecto Nieve 1”

From the classicism, winter was approached with naturalistic perspective. This approach goes through the different artistic branches and has also served to feed the nineteenth-century narrative that represents this season in a raw way to underline the social differences that many characters of the literature of the time should pass through. As for the visual arts, authors opted for more realistic expressions, an exercise that often served as pictorial analysis on the depiction of the natural state, the changes of light, the reproduction of textures, volumes... in scenes dominated by snow in the rural environment.

Stepan Kolesnikoff, “On the way to market”, 1942

The winter, present with its hardest, implacable and almighty face, composes a mental image fueled to a great extent by the literature of the late nineteenth century as well as by the recurrent representation of realistic painting that began to pay less attention to elitist themes. The flight of pictorial productions of religious content or portraits by order gave way to a real concern for society, for the situation of the individual in their daily lives and the expression of an authentic and not always docile life that required, among other things, facing the winter in unfavourable circumstances. In this naturalistic trend, one sees the will to change the focus of attention of the aristocracy to the ordinary people, and to elaborate an egalitarian discourse that does not highlight the powerful over the weak but treats all individuals equally.

Jason Paul freerunning in Harbin, China © David Robinson

Our perception of this season has changed in recent decades. The linking of these dates with the grand celebrations make up an inseparable whole in which consumerism has absorbed the beginning of the season and almost goes unnoticed. The current representation of winter connects with snowy prints, red lights and smiles on the face. There is, in all this, a search for the ideal beauty, a compositional artifice that floods all our behaviours in society and reaches, even in a false way, the very strength of nature. Today the winter, after having surpassed in the arts the traditional pictorialism, is represented mainly through photography, a discipline that dares to recreate nature in a more wild and challenging. In fact, documentary photography is a very exploited line in our days, and the result is images of high visual impact.

The artistic practice of Chamo San (Barcelona, 1987) revolves around a poetics of attention, in which the seemingly insignificant acquires a singular reflective intensity. His works emerge from a persistent observation of everyday life, understood not as a narrative repertoire but as a field of shared experience. Within this framework, the minimal gesture becomes a form of sensitive knowledge, placing the viewer before scenes that are both recognizable and, at the same time, estranged by their temporal suspension.

The progressive shift toward a more atmospheric painting has allowed the environment to cease functioning as a mere support and become an active agent of meaning. Restrained color ranges and carefully constructed spaces generate a sense of stillness that evokes a pictorial tradition attentive to duration and waiting. The human figure—a constant presence in his work—is presented immersed in contexts that amplify its affective and existential dimension.

The silence permeating these images is not absence but condition; it constitutes a space of resonance in which the time of doing and the time of looking converge. Situated between compositional control and openness to the contingent, Chamo San’s work affirms painting as a territory where planning and accident coexist.

Bathtub. 2018. Ballpoint pen on notebook. 14 x 18 cm.

Many of your works show meticulous attention to the smallest gestures and seemingly trivial moments. What interests you about these micro-choreographies of everyday life?

The seed of my work always comes from the sketches I make from life in small notebooks that I can carry with me at all times. Later, I either transfer them to another format so I can work on them more calmly, or they become the final piece in themselves.

Composition, staging, and perhaps those micro-choreographies are what I allow myself to bring to the scene as an artist. For me, these everyday moments are the most direct and honest way to connect with the audience because—even though they are intimate—they reflect universal experiences.

Feet. 2023. Oil pastel on paper mounted on board. 30 x 30 cm.

In your pieces, the presence of sober tones seems to generate a particular type of atmosphere. How would you describe the way that atmosphere emerges during your work, and what role does it play in the overall construction of the image?

Atmosphere and colour are relatively recent additions to my work. Previously, I focused exclusively on the figures as the central element, and they were often left floating in a kind of void. It was when I realised the need to provide context—especially as I began working more closely from the notes in my notebooks—that I came to understand the importance of the environment for the character.

The human figure will always remain the main element for me, as it is through its representation that I find the greatest enjoyment. However, little by little, I have become interested in exploring what surrounds it. I see the creation of an environment and an atmosphere as essential in order to situate the figures within a more complete and fully constructed scene.

Mamant. 2025. Colored pencils on notebook. 14 x 18 cm.

Are the silences in your works inherited from real experiences, or do they emerge during the painting process?

The silences in my work are inherited from real experiences. When I capture those small moments of everyday life—which is essential for me—I tend to be focused and quiet. At the same time, I also believe that the contemplation of artworks naturally invites this kind of calm. In that sense, for a brief moment, both the artist—throughout the entire creative process—and the viewer, when engaging with the work, can meet in the same state of tranquillity and silence.

The Kiss. 2024. Oil pastel on notebook. 14 x 18 cm.

To what extent do you plan your works and how much space do you leave for the unexpected to happen?

Some of my works are very planned, even excessively so, with lots of sketches. On the other hand, I always have that starting point that appears in my notebooks, and I leave experimentation and the unexpected for the end. Although it's also true that when I've thrown myself into improvisation from the beginning, wonderful things have happened, so now I try to combine those two worlds as organically as possible.

Cinema. 2025. Ballpoint pen and oil pastel on notebook. 14 x 18 cm.

Although your work has shifted towards the pictorial—with an aesthetic closely linked to cinema—echoes of illustration can still be seen in your visual language. Which elements would you say remain, and which have undergone a radical transformation?

For me, illustration has been an intense learning process. I deeply admire artists who have combined commissioned illustration with studio work for galleries, such as Ramón Casas and James Jean. I believe these two worlds can connect on a technical level, but their language and purpose are fundamentally different.

The existence of a unique, original work allows for accidents to occur—things that are very unlikely to happen in illustration. It is this condition of uniqueness, and above all the intention behind it, that makes the two practices radically different.