RAFA GOMEZ

There are artists who construct images, and others who seem to construct emotional states. In the case of Rafael Gómez González, his work inhabits that ambiguous territory where the symbolic and the visceral meet without asking permission. His pieces converse with the sacred and the everyday, with desire and with wounds, as though each image were an attempt to name something that still has not fully taken shape.Between painting, photography, and a deeply contemporary sensibility, his universe feels as personal as it does collective: a kind of uncomfortable yet necessary mirror. In this conversation, we try to approach that place from which he creates, doubts, and transforms.

SN_ Your pieces seem to move between the sacred, the profane, and pop culture. At what point did you realize that intersection was your language and not just a phase of exploration?

RG_ I think it took me a long time to understand that these three words are what best define my artistic narrative, especially in relation to the sacred. I believe there are many ways of relating to this concept and navigating around spirituality. After all, each individual creates their own mystical universe around whatever moves them. Of course, I’m talking about a spirituality that exists beyond ecclesiastical or religious boundaries. It’s more like a point where my nostalgic background collides with my obsessions and eccentricities.

It’s true that my pictorial language first began to take shape through a more literal religious symbolism. There’s something about that deeply traditional spirituality that connects me very abruptly to my childhood and my roots. As a result, I connected with the “profane” as a synonym for paganism — meaning all those references that did not fit within religious narratives became an attractive opposite to me. As for pop culture, I see it as a branch that can belong both to the profane and to the sacred, depending on the kinds of references and popular contexts we’re talking about. No matter how far I move away from mannerisms in my work, I always find myself returning to those three concepts.

At the moment, I’m working on a personal project called The Saint Clement Syndrome, which refers to a literary concept describing the human tendency to hide or construct our lives upon layers and past loves. This metaphor made me reflect beyond its romantic dimension. I think life itself is built upon layers woven together, upon personal sediments of things that have already happened. Whether beneficial or not, every layer a person creates is essential in shaping the self. At the same time, I feel this metaphor extends toward the randomness of destiny, like a network of layers between people and experiences to which you belong, even before they happen. You are tied to your past and, unconsciously, to your future, almost as though it were already written. It could be understood as a form of manifestation.

What I mean is that it wasn’t until developing the conceptual research for this project that I became fully aware that this is the language sustaining my work. Despite the very textual beginnings of my creative process, my narratives have become, in a rather poetic way, a more faithful and refined expression of my work. Even so, although I see myself in constant transformation, I feel that no matter how much my pictorial and creative language changes, it will always rest upon these abstract foundations: the references and symbols that have always accompanied and inspired me.

SN_ You come from a Fine Arts background, but your work also feels deeply personal and intuitive. What part of your process is learned, and what part comes from necessity?

RG_ I believe every act of creation comes from something my body asks of me — I base everything on necessity, honestly. I couldn’t live without creating in general.

Starting with my Fine Arts degree, it left a lot to be desired in terms of a fluid development throughout the years. Each subject was taught very briefly, and you moved quickly between a number of professors, each with their own techniques and preferences regarding timing, expression through color and form, or aesthetics. It was quite confusing when it came to developing a style or pictorial language. I’m not saying the classes were poorly taught, simply that there was no clear communication between professors across the different years in order to establish a consistent and accessible path for the creation and development of one’s own visual code.

Leaving aside that lack of cohesion among the faculty, I think there were only a few subjects I truly enjoyed and from which I gained something valuable. In terms of practice, there were very few opportunities to experiment beyond the pretension of non-figurative art without receiving a theoretical foundation. It’s great to engage in trial and error, to get my hands dirty with paint and explore expressiveness, but if that action doesn’t go beyond forcing us to paint with a broomstick, I think it becomes very limited in terms of growth. On the other hand, most of the theoretical classes I enjoyed — and from which I still draw inspiration and knowledge for my current work — were taught by only one or two professors. From the first year to the last, they introduced us to art through the lens of modern and contemporary philosophical currents.

Those courses sparked my interest in research and in building theoretical frameworks for my projects. I’ve always felt curious about continuing my education, not necessarily within an institution, but through documenting and informing myself in order to construct a kind of theoretical context around my work. I’m not suggesting this is inherently necessary; I do it out of interest. You don’t need to create while strictly adhering to a theoretical foundation.

Within my artistic process, what I retain today from my degree is the theoretical base and curiosity for research. In practical terms, I’d mention pictorial problem-solving through the use of color palettes, as well as technical skill regarding surfaces and materials. Even so, I think I’m still constantly learning on a practical level. Education is something you never stop experiencing, and I believe my way of creating relies heavily on trial and error. Even when I’ve carefully studied the idea behind a piece, I enjoy those moments when I have to abandon an idea and allow new ones to emerge. That’s what connects most deeply to my need to create — not becoming trapped in an overly technical process and allowing myself to enjoy the process just as much as the result.

SN_ In your work there’s a constant presence of the body, desire, and also pain. What role does emotion play in the way you construct images?

RG_ The human figure is the most immediately noticeable aspect of my work. I like to give a piece expressiveness, regardless of its composition, through body language or the face of the main character.

If I’m working from references rather than creating a character myself, I like choosing images with expressive figures. When it’s an original creation, I allow that expressiveness to vary between poses and facial gestures. At the same time, the gestural quality that supports my work doesn’t necessarily have to be related to emotion through the body itself; often it shifts into composition, materials, or symbolism. For example, my latest painting, Everything Perfect, presents a centered female figure in the foreground, quite rigid and hieratic. Aside from an exaggerated contrapposto, her face remains completely expressionless. Yet the composition formed by all the symbolic pop references, as well as the clothes she wears, plays a fundamental role. Emotion does not reside solely in the body, but in the visual language created around it.

I usually work with my friends or family as models for my paintings and projects, mainly female figures or people who embody that energy. Through these figures, I create a kind of Almodóvar-style self-portrait, similar to what the director did in his films: a transformation of myself through the women who inspire me and transmit strength and energy to me. It’s not about hiding behind women as a shield, but rather about honoring them as symbols and tributes. After all, the image of women and femininity has been present throughout my life since childhood — from my mother, sister, grandmothers, and aunts to my friends and the icons of popular culture that shaped my personality during childhood and adolescence.

SN_ References like Saint Sebastian appear loaded with new readings — more contemporary and even political. Are you interested in reinterpreting symbols or rather dismantling them?

RG_ I’m not sure whether both things inevitably go hand in hand, but I know I enjoy both equally. I’m interested in reinterpreting symbols because they’re part of an imaginary world I’ve seen represented everywhere since I was young, especially religious iconography and the universe of hagiography. I find it fascinating how even the most insignificant image can open so many doors to curiosities and symbols. At the same time, when I revisit them through my personal experience and a more contemporary sensitivity, I also end up dismantling or displacing them from their original meaning.

That’s exactly what happens in Martyr of Myself, a work in which I transform Saint Sebastian into my own image and likeness. I was fascinated by the fact that the image of a saint had transcended centuries of history as a homosexual icon. His image as a melancholic young man became associated with the stereotype of the homosexual man, turning him into a homoerotic totem that existed between mainstream and queer universes. While researching this duality, I realized there were really no boundaries when it came to creating personal universes from bizarre concepts capable of escaping established norms. At the same time, I was drawn to the emblem Saint Sebastian became: a saint who stopped being merely a Christian figure invoked against illness and instead became a self-reclaimed symbol for the homosexual community. In that sense, I wanted the image of the martyr to become the starting point for the conceptual narratives I work with and a symbolic self-portrait through which I could also assert myself.

In reality, I don’t feel that I work from a purely political or provocative intention. I’m interested in how a symbol can mutate depending on context, on who is looking at it, or on the references surrounding it. I think symbols function much like memories or experiences: they are built through juxtaposition and acquire new meanings over time. In that sense, I’m more interested in opening those images to new interpretations than in completely destroying them. I prefer to understand them as something alive, capable of transforming and continuing to generate emotion or conflict from different places.

SN_ You’re a painter, but you also work with photography and creative direction. Do you feel each medium allows you to say different things, or are they all part of the same discourse?

RG_ My artistic work mainly revolves around painting. Whenever I venture into another field — photography, creative direction, art direction, and so on — I try to include some pictorial detail or reference, or orient it toward painting and manual work. Even so, one artistic area doesn’t necessarily have to be strictly connected to another. Ultimately, what matters is creating an engaging narrative that represents my artistic vision.

I always try to steer everything I create toward the same discourse, but sometimes there’s no deeper reason behind it — I simply feel like creating within a concept that attracts me. It’s true that each medium allows you to express yourself in very different ways. Creating through painting is not the same as creating through graphic design or photography. At the end of the day, my creative goal is to have fun and enjoy the different artistic processes available to me, to create entertaining universes based on the themes and figures I like, and to frame them through exaggerated and deeply personal narratives.

After all, I spent years studying Fine Arts, which allowed me to learn how to observe beyond being boxed into a single artistic technique. I don’t believe the work of an artist who focuses on only one medium is poor or limited, but if I have the ability to learn and experiment with different approaches and resources, why reduce my work to one thing alone? In any case, my purpose as a person is to create — obviously in order to build a future through it, but above all because I can’t imagine dedicating my time to anything other than art at this scale.

SN_ When you’re creating, do you think about who will look at the work, or is it a completely inward process?

RG_ When beginning a creative process and later creating a work, I think it’s a much more internal moment than anything else. The last thing I’m probably thinking about is a potential audience or reaction to my work.

There will always be some viewers who feel more connected to my work than others, just as there can be many different responses to it. However, the creative process itself is highly immersive. Personally, I like focusing mainly on what I’m going to create, how to shape it, and how to present it in its final form. That said, it’s true that when sharing your work you can feel influenced by the idea of a target audience. Once I’ve finished the creative process and resolved the work itself, the way I present it should remain as faithful as possible to my aesthetic and concept — as genuine as possible. At the same time, I enjoy sharing both the process and the final result as though the only viewers were my friends and family, allowing the work to be received with enthusiasm and care.

I also think it’s important to recognize the idea of art as a vehicle of inspiration and reference for other artists, which is essentially one of the primary goals of art itself. It’s essential to be aware of the role your work can play in that sense, but at the same time artists also have the responsibility of supporting the art of others as viewers. Artists wouldn’t survive without spectators interacting with their work, regardless of reaction or judgment. Ultimately, I think there’s an intrinsic act of offering toward those who experience your work, and that exchange is fundamental. It simply needs to be understood as an artistic exchange rather than a dependency.

SN_ To close: when someone stands alone in front of one of your pieces and connects with it… what would you like them to feel, even if they couldn’t explain it?

RG_ When I present my work, I like people to be able to recognize or intuit the references and symbolism I always include. Not everyone shares the same pop-cultural background I do, and my satisfaction as an artist doesn’t depend on viewers fully understanding every image.

I enjoy when people draw conclusions through their own references and knowledge while standing before one of my pieces. Sometimes they come up with interpretations that have nothing to do with my intentions, but I see that exchange of perspectives as an enriching experience that allows me to see beyond my own viewpoint. At the end of the day, I enjoy when audiences can understand my work and still contribute their own kind of translation based on what they imagine behind a concept or a simple image. Those interpretations are not always related to the concepts or imagery I propose — sometimes I don’t even agree with or like them — but what matters is that different angles emerge from a creation of my own.

At times, I also think there’s no need to fully understand the idea or figure I create in my work. Art can resonate with you in many different ways — through appearance, color, concept, and so on — but in my opinion, what is truly transcendent is the existence of a connection that, beyond any intellectual understanding, is capable of uniting and representing someone regardless of the specific purpose behind what was created.