Interview with Irina Metz
Irina, your artistic journey is deeply intertwined with the pursuit and perception of happiness—a theme you have explored across disciplines like literature, sociology, and psychology. How does this conceptual research translate into your visual language, and do you believe art can serve as an antidote to existential discontent?
Thank you for such a thoughtful question. My exploration of happiness stems from a deep curiosity about the human condition—how we seek meaning, connection, and fulfillment in a world that often feels fragmented. Through my research in literature, sociology, and psychology, I’ve come to see happiness not as a static state but as a complex interplay of internal and external forces, shaped by both personal and collective narratives.
This understanding deeply informs my visual language. I often work with contrasts—light and shadow, structure and fluidity—to reflect the tension between fleeting moments of joy and the underlying search for meaning. The textures and colors I choose are meant to evoke emotional resonance, inviting the viewer to confront both comfort and vulnerability.
Art, I believe, has a unique capacity to offer solace—not by providing answers, but by creating a space where questions can breathe. In this sense, art becomes not an antidote to existential discontent, but a companion to it. It allows us to sit with uncertainty, to find beauty in imperfection, and perhaps most importantly, to feel less alone in our search for happiness.
Having studied and traveled extensively across diverse cultural landscapes, your paintings capture ephemeral beauty and deep-rooted human emotions. How do you navigate the tension between personal memory and collective cultural heritage in your work?
That’s a fascinating question. My experiences across different cultural landscapes have made me acutely aware of the delicate balance between the personal and the collective. Memory is inherently subjective—shaped by individual perception and emotion—while cultural heritage carries the weight of shared history and tradition. In my work, I try to weave these threads together, allowing them to coexist rather than compete.
The textures, patterns, and motifs I use often stem from personal memories—a fleeting light on a street in Lisbon, the sound of prayer calls in Istanbul, or the colors of a market in Marrakech. But these impressions are inevitably infused with the cultural codes and symbols of the places I’ve encountered. In this way, the personal becomes a gateway to the universal.
I think the tension lies in honoring both the intimacy of memory and the expansiveness of cultural identity without collapsing one into the other. My goal is not to resolve this tension but to reflect it—allowing the viewer to sense the fragility of memory and the quiet resonance of history in the same frame.
Your technique reflects the influence of contemporary impressionists like Svetlana and Federico Perotti, Igor Raevich, and Bato Dugarzhapov. Impressionism has historically been about fleeting light and momentary impressions—how do you reinterpret this legacy to express themes of permanence, transformation, and inner joy?
That’s an insightful observation. Impressionism’s focus on light and ephemeral moments has always fascinated me, but what draws me to the work of artists like Svetlana, Federico Perotti, Igor Raevich, and Bato Dugarzhapov is their ability to capture emotional undercurrents beneath the surface of fleeting impressions. I see light not just as a visual element but as a metaphor for emotional and spiritual states—an expression of both transience and resilience.
In my work, I try to reinterpret impressionist techniques by layering texture and color in a way that suggests movement and stillness simultaneously. Light becomes a means of exploring transformation—how moments dissolve, shift, and reemerge, but also how traces of them linger beneath the surface. I’m drawn to soft edges and diffused forms because they evoke the way memory and emotion blur and evolve over time.
The idea of inner joy emerges through this interplay of impermanence and permanence. Fleeting beauty doesn’t diminish its emotional weight—it intensifies it. By capturing these subtle transitions, I hope to express not only the passing nature of joy but also the quiet, enduring presence it leaves behind.
You work with both oil and acrylic, two mediums that carry distinct historical and conceptual weight. You’ve mentioned how acrylic embodies the synthetic aspects of contemporary life, while oil connects to classical traditions. How do you decide which medium to use for a particular piece, and how do they converse with one another within your body of work?
In my practice, acrylic and oil serve distinct yet complementary roles. I typically use acrylic for frames and backgrounds because of its quick drying time and versatility—it allows me to build layers and create textures that reflect the structured, sometimes synthetic nature of contemporary life. Acrylic sets the stage, establishing the emotional tone and atmosphere of the piece.
The subject of the painting, however, is always rendered in oil. Oil carries a richness and depth that feels more intimate and timeless. Its slower drying time allows me to blend, soften, and refine details, which helps convey the emotional essence of the subject. The contrast between the acrylic background and the oil-painted subject creates a quiet dialogue between the modern and the classical, the transient and the enduring. This tension—between the immediacy of acrylic and the depth of oil—mirrors the way I explore themes of memory, transformation, and emotional resonance in my work.
Your paintings are characterized by vivid colors and luminous atmospheres. Do you see color as an emotional language in itself? How do you use it to guide the viewer’s perception of happiness, nostalgia, or even inner turmoil?
Absolutely—I see color as a direct emotional language, one that bypasses intellect and speaks to the viewer on a visceral level. Each color carries its own psychological weight and cultural resonance, and I’m very intentional about how I use it to shape emotional tone and narrative.
Warm hues like ochre, coral, and gold often evoke happiness and comfort, while cooler shades—deep blues, muted greens, and soft violets—introduce a sense of introspection or quiet melancholy. I also play with contrast and saturation to create emotional tension; vibrant bursts of color might emerge from softer, neutral backgrounds, mirroring the way moments of joy or clarity break through the haze of memory or uncertainty.
Light, too, plays a key role. I often use diffused or directional light to create a sense of atmosphere—soft glows that suggest warmth and presence or cooler tones that hint at distance and longing. In this way, color becomes more than just a visual element—it’s a tool for emotional storytelling, guiding the viewer’s experience and inviting them to connect with the deeper emotional undercurrents beneath the surface.
We live in an era where reality is increasingly fractured—between digital personas, media narratives, and personal experiences. How does your art address or respond to this contemporary condition, especially in relation to your concept of sublimated identities?
The fragmentation of reality in our digital age—where personal identity is constantly shaped and reshaped by media, technology, and social constructs—has deeply influenced my work. My concept of sublimated identities reflects this tension between the authentic self and the projected self.
In my paintings, I often explore this idea through layered compositions and partially obscured forms. Figures might emerge from abstract backgrounds or dissolve into them, symbolizing the fluid boundary between personal identity and external influence. The use of diffused light and softened edges reflects the ambiguity of selfhood in an era where authenticity is constantly negotiated.
The interplay of oil and acrylic in my work mirrors this duality as well. The acrylic background represents the structured, synthetic nature of contemporary life—social media, curated identities, the external gaze—while the oil-painted subject speaks to the intimate, emotional core of selfhood. By allowing these elements to coexist and even conflict on the canvas, I’m trying to capture the quiet vulnerability that lies beneath the noise of modern identity. My hope is that the viewer senses both the fragmentation and the quiet persistence of self beneath it all.
You’ve said that your work reflects a transformation “from self-destruction to re-creation”—a journey that humanity is undergoing. In what ways do you think artists bear the responsibility of reflecting, critiquing, or even shaping society’s emotional and spiritual evolution?
I believe that artists hold a unique responsibility—not necessarily to provide answers, but to reflect and give form to the emotional and spiritual undercurrents of the time. Art has the power to surface what is often unspoken or unseen, offering a mirror to society’s fractures and transformations. My own journey from self-destruction to re-creation parallels a broader human process of breaking down and rebuilding—a cycle of loss, introspection, and renewal that I think many people are experiencing on both personal and collective levels right now.
Through my work, I try to create a space where vulnerability and resilience can coexist. The contrasts in texture and color, the interplay between abstraction and form—they represent the tension between dissolution and reformation. I think artists are tasked with holding that tension, not resolving it, but allowing it to be seen and felt.
Art, at its core, is an act of translation—turning personal and collective experience into something tangible. In that sense, it’s not just about reflecting reality but about shaping how we process it. By creating space for emotional resonance and quiet introspection, art can help guide society through its process of re-creation—reminding us that beauty and meaning can emerge even from the fragments.
As a PhD scholar in philology, your artistic vision is informed by a profound engagement with literature. Do you ever find yourself thinking of your paintings as visual poetry? Are there particular literary works or philosophies that have deeply influenced the way you construct images?
Yes, I often think of my paintings as visual poetry. Just as poetry distills emotion and meaning through rhythm, structure, and metaphor, I try to evoke similar layers of resonance through color, texture, and composition. There’s an economy of language in poetry that I find parallels the expressive choices I make in painting—how a single brushstroke or shift in tone can capture a complex emotional state.
Literary works have profoundly shaped my approach to constructing images. The novels of Louise Erdrich and Paolo Coelho, for instance, have influenced the way I think about spirituality, fate, and human connection. Erdrich’s exploration of memory and indigenous identity, and Coelho’s focus on personal destiny and transformation, resonate with the emotional and symbolic layers I seek to capture in my work. Narine Abgaryan’s novels, with their deep sense of place and quiet resilience, have also inspired how I depict fragility and strength within the same frame.
Shakespeare’s poetry, with its rhythmic complexity and emotional depth, has taught me the power of juxtaposition—light and shadow, joy and melancholy, presence and absence. Philosophically, I’m drawn to existentialism—especially Camus and Kierkegaard—because of how they grapple with meaning and authenticity in a fragmented world.
I’m also fascinated by the debate between Walter Lippmann and John Dewey about democracy, public perception, and the role of communication in shaping reality. Lippmann’s view that the public is easily manipulated by media and constructed narratives speaks to the tension I explore between appearance and authenticity in my work. At the same time, Dewey’s belief in the potential for collective intelligence and creative problem-solving resonates with my interest in transformation and renewal. My paintings often reflect this dialogue—between disillusionment and hope, between imposed narratives and inner truth.
In a way, my paintings attempt to bridge that same tension between transience and permanence, between the personal and the universal. The canvas becomes a space where emotion and thought, like language and image, intertwine.
Your work has been commissioned for luxury hotels and private collections across multiple continents. How does the experience of creating for a private collector differ from exhibiting in a gallery? Do you feel that commissioned works allow for the same artistic autonomy?
Creating for private collectors and luxury hotels offers a distinct experience compared to exhibiting in a gallery. While galleries provide a platform for dialogue with a broader audience, allowing the work to be contextualized within contemporary discourse, private commissions often involve a more intimate, bespoke process. The collector’s personal vision, space, and sensibilities become part of the creative equation, leading to a dialogue that is both collaborative and deeply tailored.
Artistic autonomy in commissions depends on the nature of the project and the client’s approach. Some collectors seek work that aligns with their personal aesthetic, while others commission artists precisely because they trust their creative instincts. In the best cases, commissions provide a unique challenge—pushing artistic practice into new territories while still retaining the artist’s core vision. Rather than limiting creativity, these projects can expand it, offering opportunities to explore new scales, materials, or conceptual depths that might not arise in a traditional gallery setting.
Ultimately, both contexts—gallery exhibitions and private commissions—offer valuable, but different, forms of engagement. The gallery fosters public interaction and critical discourse, while commissioned work often allows for an immersive, site-specific approach that can lead to deeply personal and enduring artistic expressions.
In a world often dominated by narratives of conflict and uncertainty, you choose to emphasize beauty, joy, and celebration. Do you see this as an act of defiance, a form of escapism, or something more essential to the human spirit? And ultimately, what do you hope your artistic legacy will be?
Emphasizing beauty, joy, and celebration in a world often shaped by conflict and uncertainty is neither an act of defiance nor escapism—it is a deliberate affirmation of what is essential to the human spirit. While acknowledging the weight of history and the complexities of our time, I see art as a space where we can cultivate wonder, connection, and a sense of possibility. Beauty is not frivolous; it is a profound force that sustains us, offering moments of clarity, solace, and transcendence.
To create joy in art is not to ignore reality but to illuminate its richness—to remind us of what is worth cherishing and preserving. If there is defiance in this, it is the defiance of despair. If there is escapism, it is the kind that allows us to reimagine the world, not turn away from it.
Ultimately, I hope my artistic legacy will be one of resonance and renewal. I want my work to live beyond trends, to be a source of inspiration and reflection, inviting people to see with fresh eyes, to feel deeply, and to recognize beauty as something vital—something that, even in the most uncertain times, remains worth seeking.
