Alex Shnaiderman’s studio is located directly above her family home. She is a self-taught painter who draws on Zen philosophy and Japanese calligraphy and creates immersive works that demand a slower pace of looking. Elephant sat down with Alex to talk about her intuitive approach to composition, and the ‘magical realism’ that emerges when one dives into the muddy waters of the subconscious. Words by Ann Azzens.
At this moment, how do you relate to the contemporary art world, and to your own practice?
To be honest, this feels like my first real step out of the comfort zone of my studio. For the past fifteen years, I’ve been almost entirely focused on the work itself. I’m largely self-taught; I’ve learned by looking at other artists rather than through a university or formal program. Because of that, I’ve felt like a bit of an outsider. However, I am currently becoming more fluent in the language of contemporary art and also in my understanding of where I belong in this landscape. I am also becoming more certain about how to play in this field.
That’s a very honest starting point. How does your daily life feed into that studio practice?
Since my studio is located directly above my home, my creative practice is seamlessly woven into the fabric of my daily life as a mother. There is no real boundary between the two. For the past seven years, I’ve maintained a disciplined, daily ritual of drawing and painting from reference, capturing those moments. My life feeds the studio, and the studio, in turn, helps me process my life.
You’ve mentioned that martial arts and Japanese calligraphy are also significant parts of your life. How do these seemingly different disciplines bleed into your oil paintings?
It’s not always direct, but it’s there. I’ve studied Japanese calligraphy for six years and I’m drawn to Zen philosophy. It shows up in how I handle measurements and composition, a certain reduction in volume.
I also work on fairly large canvases (up to two and a half meters). I need that scale because I’m interested in moving my whole body while I work. It gives me the freedom to explore the link between figurative art and abstraction. I usually start with a specific reference, like a photo, but then I slowly move away from it. I start responding to the painting itself. It’s a difficult, unclear place to be, but that’s exactly where I want to go.
Your work clearly goes much deeper than just a demonstration of technique. What is the core meaning or question it communicates to the viewer? What is the art actually about for you?
I’m still learning to play with words, but certain concepts are rising to the surface. One is the subconscious, both personal and collective archetypes. I was born in Crimea and moved to Israel at nine, so I carry these cultures with me, Russian fairytales, Greek mythology, even iconography.
Another theme is motherhood, but viewed through small, intimate moments like a David Hockney scene that suggest a much wider psychological atmosphere or mood behind them.
Your palette is very specific; there’s a distinct melancholy to it.
I seem to have a natural tendency toward those colours. I call it ‘swamps’. I like things that aren’t crisp. I like a certain muddy quality or lucidity where things aren’t clear. That lack of clarity allows creatures or less pleasant things to emerge from the subconscious.
How exactly does colour operate for you? Is it like a lever you’re able to turn to affect more tension and emotion in the composition?
Exactly. I am generally more interested in how colours play off each other rather than having a strong, rigid outline. A sharp outline forces an immediate explanation, whereas letting the colors live together allows a shape or depth to slowly emerge on its own terms. For me, it always starts with the underpainting. I layer those muddy, swampy tones until they strike a chord, turning that emotional lever to build tension.
That sounds very much like Magical Realism. Artists like Peter Doig work in a similar vein creating an alternative, shifting reality that is both beautiful and unsettling. Your work requires the viewer to slow down, almost into a meditative or Zen-like state, to let the mind relax so the world can open up.
Exactly. I don’t want to offer a new explanation of the world, but rather a different way of perceiving it through a meditative, intuitive lens. To me, this internal friction or tension is everything, it’s almost the exact opposite of something academic. Academic painting tells you exactly what you are looking at right away. Tension, on the other hand, demands that the viewer slow down. It invites people into that meditative space where the unclear becomes lucid, and the subconscious can finally speak.
