Paint = pigment + binder. A simple equation for a complicated substance. Tempera, encaustic, watercolour, oil, acrylic… for millennia we have been transforming rocks, plants, and animals into the slippery material known as paint. Ingredients and technologies evolve; the basic concept of colour suspended in medium persists.
The notion of painting is often reduced to the picture of a brush smearing colourful goo across a flat rectangle. An image displayed on the wall at eye level—silent, motionless, kept at a distance. Why be limited to this understanding, though?
I prefer to think of a painting as having a body. A support—be it wall, fabric, wood, or other—provides a skeletal core of strength and shape. A physicality develops; what starts fluid becomes muscular. A painted skin perfectly stretches to protect and contain the layers below. This is not a human body but some other mysterious form.
In the studio, I have an unconventional approach to painting. Instead of brushes and canvas, I take up kitchen tools. My palette is largely restricted to synthetically manufactured pigments—chemical colours that have existed for less than 200 years. From this, I mix recipes for thick acrylic and extrude paint through pastry pipettes onto a wooden support. Small careful gestures accumulate dollops of paint.
Like conversation, this process has an improvisational give-and-take. The artwork may request certain shapes or hues. I respond accordingly. The painting may agree with my translation or may require reinterpretation. Substance flows forth and solidifies, each undulating layer containing mistakes, triumphs, embarrassments and joys. Never satisfied, the body slowly evolves. Pattern accumulates with every fresh passage of paint. The artwork becomes more and more itself each day. This rhythmic dialogue between artist and painting could go on endlessly—the results are unpredictable.
There comes a point when the painting meets the public. Ideally, it is greeted by a real-life audience, face-to-face. Typically, a digital portrait is how my artwork connects with the world. In digital space, both artist and viewer must reckon with a new kind of surface.
What is gained or lost in the translation from physical to digital? On a glowing screen, my artwork transforms into a doppelgänger. The camera’s singular perspective isolates form from environment. The static image suspends time and halts the dynamic play of shifting light. Pixels simplify nuances in pigmented colour. Strategically controlled editing grabs viewers’ attention and guides interpretation. Ultimately, is it satisfactory to trade sensuous experiences for speed-scrolling and casual “likes?”
The difference between an embodied world and a virtual one is nebulous. Within my hybrid artwork, surface and depth are symbiotic, entangled in a body. A painting is a liminality: an image and a form, material and immaterial. As we play and grow, we may conclude that distinguishing between 2D, 3D, and virtual art forms is non-essential. Inside and outside my studio, the ever-shifting conversation between painting and visual culture unfolds. We have been transforming rocks, plants, and animals into the slippery material known as paint for millennia—but that doesn’t make painting immutable. Any historical definition of painting has failed to hold its reign for long. Rather than fixating on old understandings, it may be healthier to respectfully acknowledge the past while finding space to hold fresh dialogues in the present. The evolution of paint will continue. We will find new vocabulary to express a timeless appreciation for colour suspended in medium.
Above: Aralia Maxwell, Monochrome Satisfactions (24) – Carbon, 2022. Acrylic on wood, 9 × 9 × 9 cm. Image courtesy of the artist.
Aralia Maxwell is an artist from Waseca, SK / Treaty 6 Territory, currently based in Montréal, QC / Tiohtià:ke. She holds an MFA from NSCAD University, where she has also served as a painting instructor. Her artwork, research, and writing have been featured in numerous galleries, publications, and platforms across Canada.
Since you're here
BlackFlash exists thanks to support from its readers. We are a not-for-profit organization. If you value our content, consider supporting BlackFlash by subscribing to the magazine or making a donation. A subscription gets you 3 beautiful issues per year delivered to your door, and any donation over $25 gets a tax receipt. Your support helps compensate our staff and contributors for their hard work.
