Clara Rival
- Anna Lilli Garai
- 9 hours ago
- 7 min read
Clara Rival lives and works in Barcelona. She works with painting and drawing, returning to the same canvas multiple times as the image changes. Influenced by architecture, vegetation, and the visual environments she spends time with, her use of color and structure helps organize the surface without pointing to a specific place.
In our interview, she talks about how she works through revision, what drawing allows her to test and rethink, and how she recognises when a painting is complete.
Q: When did you first start painting spaces that mix real places with imagined ones?
A: I’m not entirely sure when it began. Even when I was painting more literal figures or landscapes, there was always an invented element woven into them—perhaps because I work more from the memory I have of an image than from the image itself. Even when I used photographic references, a process of displacement was always taking place: through the exaggeration of certain forms, the intensification of colour, or subtle shifts in scale and atmosphere. I’ve always been interested in bringing attention to something that isn’t immediately visible—something extraordinary within the ordinary, an underlying intensity that emerges depending on how we look.
Q: When a new painting begins, what usually comes first for you?
A: The way I begin a painting is constantly shifting. Sometimes the starting point is chromatic—probably for a background—while in other cases an image or an idea appears first and enters into dialogue with another. At that intersection, a kind of mental collage begins to form, and new fragments (and old ones) are gradually added. I’m interested in assigning meanings to these elements, even when those meanings remain personal, and in establishing internal connections within the work as a whole. I always keep notebooks where I write down ideas I want to incorporate into my paintings. I’m not very orderly, so I have several notebooks in use at the same time and rarely remember which is which. I open them at random, reread notes, and allow new works to emerge from there. Often the process is triggered by a quotation or a reference from a text I find suggestive. I like to think of process as something mutable. If I work in the same way for too long, I get bored, so I tend to constantly reinvent my methods, looking for new points of departure. I’ve noticed that the process becomes more fertile when I develop several sketches simultaneously and only begin painting once I have a group of them in front of me.
Q: How do memories of real journeys find their way into an invented landscape?
A: One of the things I enjoy most about traveling is the experience of seeing something for the first time: sensing something new, looking at what I don’t fully understand, and slowly discovering what it is. I’m drawn to a way of moving through places that is closer to drifting than to arriving—walking without clear expectations, allowing things to appear, guided by curiosity. This encounter with the unknown can also occur while wandering through familiar streets, simply by paying attention to something I hadn’t noticed before. I’m deeply drawn to unfamiliar territories and to the idea that there is always more beyond what we already know. Perhaps that is why paths, bridges, stairways, or doors often appear in my paintings—as invitations to cross into another space, to shift from where we are. My landscapes are rarely static; movement and displacement tend to operate as a central axis. When I paint something that originates from a journey, I’m guided mainly by sensations or impressions rather than specific images. I try to return to an atmosphere, to a certain state of mind, and begin from there. I also repeat certain elements or landscapes across different works as a way of revisiting a place. For example, there was a window from an apartment in Rio de Janeiro, in the Botafogo neighborhood, through which I could see botanical forms crossed by an almost unreal light. I painted that window in at least four works—always different, always placed in settings where it could not have existed. It functions as a quotation, or a quiet tribute, to something that was meaningful.
Q: Your art moves between figuration and abstraction. How do you decide how far to go in either direction?
A: I don’t think I have complete control over that space. Sometimes I do: I choose an image, develop it, and aim for a more painterly finish. But at other times, I simply begin painting and engage directly with the material—the layers, the textures. At that point, decision-making becomes more intuitive, and the process turns into an experience. Afterwards, I step back and observe what has emerged. I’m very interested in the intersection between figuration and abstraction. I like the idea that there can be something recognisable, alongside another part that communicates only through the gesture of the material itself. This contradiction mirrors the act of painting, and in many ways, my own internal contradictions. Texture and paint as material are central to my practice. At the same time, I enjoy drawing and allowing more defined elements to surface—elements that introduce ideas or add a conceptual layer to the painting. This coexistence feels like my own visual language.
Q: Color plays a strong role in how your spaces are built. How do you choose a palette for a painting?
A: In many cases, a painting begins from a previous work. When I arrive at a colour combination that feels compelling, I often carry it forward and allow it to become the basis for the next piece. I frequently isolate fragments from paintings—both my own and others’—zooming in on specific passages of color and then amplifying them. My relationship with colour is largely intuitive. I usually establish an initial palette, and as the process unfolds, I begin to sense what the painting needs—what colours should emerge, recede, or intensify. I go through phases of becoming absorbed by certain combinations. I tend to gravitate toward bold, experimental palettes, even when I’m not entirely sure they’ll work; I prefer pushing things slightly too far rather than playing it safe.
Q: Light often feels like it is about to change in your scenes. How do you think about light while painting?
A: I think of light as an enveloping presence—a layer that permeates everything, appearing both in front of and behind the forms. I’m particularly drawn to the luminous moment just before a transformation, a liminal state that evokes both temporality and intensity. In that space, the painting mediates between perception and anticipation, highlighting the temporal and affective dimensions of experience.
Q: Nature and architecture both appear in your work. How do they come together in an image?
A: Nature is my main source of inspiration—not only in terms of subject matter, but also as a way of thinking. Whenever I feel stuck, I go walking in nature; it helps me step away from the work and allows new ideas to surface. In my paintings, nature and architecture often exist in a state of tension. In some cases, nature expands over built structures, as if reclaiming its own territory; in others, architecture appears inserted into a wild or abandoned landscape. I’m interested in how these two worlds interrupt one another and in the forms of coexistence that emerge from that friction. I’m also drawn to architectural structures that function as thresholds—constructions that invite movement, allowing the viewer to enter the image, pass through it, and emerge on the other side, as if that passage enabled a shift in perspective.
Q: You work in layers and glazes. What does taking time with a painting give you?
A: Working in layers operates on several levels for me. There are the physical layers of material I build up in each painting, but also layers of ideas—thoughts, songs, and readings—that accompany the process and quietly settle into the work. Through the act of layering—covering certain areas while allowing others to surface—I enter into a dialogue with the painting. Each layer carries both a physical and symbolic residue, encoding traces of time, thought, and affection that interact across the surface. Depth, fog, and mist allow me to work with moments that feel unstable or fleeting, as if they are in the process of evaporating, or with something that hasn’t yet fully arrived. In that sense, the paintings are less about depicting a territory and more about holding a sensation. They are connected to perception, and to both personal and collective memories and imaginaries that remain open, unfinished, and in motion.
Q: How did working in different countries shape the way you think about atmosphere and space?
A: Much of what I paint—particularly elements related to light, transitional atmospheres, and shifts in chromatic intensity—is shaped by the experience of having lived in different places. Skies and clouds take on very distinct qualities depending on the territory; the way they move and reconfigure themselves throughout the day varies greatly. I spend a lot of time observing the sky, and from each place I’ve lived in I retain a different impression—sometimes tied to color, sometimes to the speed of change, and at other times to sensations of haze or atmospheric density. Architecture and landscapes in my work are also influenced by the places I’ve moved through, particularly in Latin America. My time in Brazil and Mexico feels especially present in the paintings, along with an ongoing sense of transformation and the impulse to interweave different geographies—jungles with fragments of forest or desert—within a single landscape.
Q: What kind of places or moods are you most interested in painting next?
A: I feel that my painting is currently in a process of transformation. My landscapes have become slightly less luminous, and more melancholic tones and increasingly enigmatic atmospheres are beginning to emerge. I’m working with fragments drawn from what I think of as memory boxes—some my own, others belonging to other people—as well as references to old films and music. Different recollections merge and fold into one another. I’ve also begun to include animals more frequently—figures that look directly at the viewer, almost suspended in time. In my next paintings, I’m interested in incorporating references to collective imaginaries, as subtle signals that invite a search for something not yet fully revealed.
