Gommaar Gilliams
Oscillating between abstraction and representation, Gilliams is able to create lush, seemingly timeless scenarios that appear at once familiar and fantastical, visions of a dreamlike, nostalgia-laden utopia: scenes that appear like half-remembered or imagined memories filled with a sense of melancholia and longing. But there is a type of bittersweet reverie to the works, both melancholic and mystical. For Gilliams, the works address themes of transition, duality, desire, myth and memory through iconography drawn from European, Eastern and African storytelling, art and cultural history. The symbols in his works refer to a world characterized by melancholy, desire, and the duality between day and night. Gilliams casts a spell of poetic and allegorical narratives and transforms elements and symbols into painterly motifs
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Gommaar Gilliams's work is featured on the cover of Issue 4 of the Artsin Square magazine, and his interview is also published in this issue. Learn more
Hi Gommaar, tell us about your background. How and when did you first start painting?
It was a late calling, actually. As a child I used to draw a lot, but I only began painting around the age of 22. At the time, I didn’t really understand what painting was about—not just the act of painting itself, but everything that surrounds it. I had to figure it all out on my own. I started out clueless, but with a lot of fire. It took time to understand it, to find my way and my place in painting. Before that, I used to skateboard. Later I started DJing. I often think these are connected to painting. You do it alone, develop it individually—but you do it to share with others, to transmit energy, to reinvent, to bring joy. In all of them, you search for something. You try to express yourself and your thoughts.
I’ve always been searching for something—ever since I was a child. I tried different things to help me in that search. By now, I’ve forgotten what I was even looking for. Maybe it’s not important anymore. But the search continues. That’s the thing—the never-ending search. I’m addicted to it. So I keep making paintings, one after the other. I can’t live without it. It gives meaning to everything. It’s a kind and dangerous friend.
Your painting process involves layering and combining various materials. How does this mirror the conceptual layering of memory and story in your work?
Yes, the combinations of techniques and materials reflect the content of the paintings. A large part of my work deals with storytelling—not a specific narrative, but a combination of pictorial storytelling methods. When a painting is complete, all its elements—the layers, the materials, the cultural and art historical references—are mutually arranged. The surface and energy of the painting tell the story, offering a compositional and poetic reading. The childlike use of paint, the stitching, the soaked sections versus oil layers—they all speak together. They talk about themes like desire, duality, melancholy, memory, timelessness, and play.
You’ve said storytelling across time is more important than specific narratives. Can you elaborate?
Yes—whether it's primitive signs, heraldic symbols, or contemporary logos, people have always told stories: the big and the small, the personal and the universal. Stories unite us, explain, teach, and pass things on. I’m more interested in the visual language of storytelling than specific plots. My work taps into mythology, astrology, fables, allegories, lullabies—elements stored in our collective memory. Combined with historical references, they create a circular, connected feeling. We’ve always been telling the same stories. I like that idea. It allows my work to move beyond illustration. I want viewers to create their own stories, half-remembered and half-imagined—rooted in something deeply personal, yet universal. The materials—soaked fabrics, oil sticks, stitches—work closely with these timeless symbols: moons, boats, birds, castles, flora. They cast a poetic, allegorical spell and transform into painterly motifs. They guide viewers to connect with the work on their own terms.
How do you balance abstraction and figuration?
It’s how I see the world. Whether in art, music, or architecture, I first experience things abstractly—their forms, shapes, relationships. Then I look at what the thing actually is. I first hear the sound and its aura, then the words.
I grew up surrounded by art—mostly Italian medieval painting. Later, I discovered the American abstract expressionists: Motherwell, Diebenkorn, Twombly. My work merges these influences—the Italians and the Americans. Structure often comes from early Russian avant-garde. I started as an abstract painter but needed something more. So I returned to my first love—the Italians. Abstract painting gave voice to the unspoken things I was searching for. It’s about the shadow, not the object. Like Plato’s cave.
Your work fuses global symbols and historical references. What draws you to this?
Abstract alone wasn’t enough—I needed figuration. So I revisited medieval art, frescoes, tapestries, Indian miniatures, folklore. I wanted the sweetness of Piero della Francesca and Giotto, but also the rough, lived-in quality of Tapiès or Twombly.
I’m also a child of now—there’s a love for contemporary pictograms and logos. These visual languages carry historical weight. I don’t need to explain them; they already exist in our collective memory. A swan, for example, brings so many references. The same goes for boats, moons, stars, birds, castles, flora. These are symbols that speak of time and connection and ultimately, it’s all about painting. All serious painting is about painting itself.
How has your practice evolved over time?
It keeps growing. I love the intertextuality in Paul Auster’s novels—how characters reappear, how each book builds on the previous one. That’s how I paint. Motifs grow from small side notes into main figures. Materials shift and evolve. Accidents are important too—but you have to welcome them.
Over the years, I feel like my work and myself have become one—not in a personal, autobiographical sense, but in how I see and move through the world. My life and painting process are aligned now. It doesn’t make painting easier, but it makes it more natural. When you open that door, the rest follows.
What themes do you explore in your work?
Duality is a key theme—day and night, sweet and rough, joy and melancholy. Desire, longing, transition, and play all relate to that. Most of my works look sweet, but there's always a bittersweet undercurrent. I like that contrast. another important theme is timelessness—how stories reappear, how everything moves in cycles. Storytelling is about connecting. That’s what I try to do.
How do allegorical and celestial symbols, and textured elements contribute to the atmosphere of your work?
These elements help to set the tone. They allow the painting to speak in metaphors and feelings, not just visuals. Allegories and celestial motifs—moons, stars, flora—bring in a mythic energy. They don’t tell a specific story, but they evoke one. The textures and layering are part of this spell.
You reference art history often. What role does intertextuality play in your practice?
Art history is full of repeated symbols, shapes, and narratives. They come from different times and cultures, but they connect. I tap into that visual language to create work that feels both ancient and contemporary. This allows the work to resonate emotionally and collectively. I want viewers to see something familiar and feel something timeless.
Your work creates emotional bridges between time periods and memory. What do you hope your audience experiences?
Yes—bridging past, present, future. Connecting the personal and the universal. The sweet and the sticky. It’s circular, lyrical. There’s no big plan behind it—it’s instinctive. I’m just trying to connect. Maybe my lifelong search leads me to create those bridges—for people to feel something unspeakable, to connect and be touched. what do I want my work to do? I love the idea that someone would take a painting from the wall and wrap themselves in it like a blanket—for any emotion: to laugh, to cry, to make love.
What’s your dream project?
Right now, it’s to revisit my Swan Lake works. I’ve used them in an environmental installation before, but I want to connect two of them through a long reflecting pond. Visitors could throw coins into the water and make a wish. I’d call it Only for You. It’s big and universal—but also personal and intimate. Like a folded note passed to someone. That’s what my work is about: finding or redefining Arcadia. An Italian palazzo would be perfect.
