George Bezani
- Anna Lilli Garai
- May 27
- 6 min read
Updated: May 28
George Bezani’s paintings move fast, but they don’t lose their weight. His figures come in fragments—repeated, cut up, pushed into new rhythms. The human form is there, but always shifting, like a memory seen from different angles. Working mostly in acrylic, he stacks layers until they start to pulse. Movement, emotion, and form all seem to overlap at once. There’s a rawness to it, a feeling that something’s just been torn open or about to snap back together. His paintings stay open, alive with tension and repetition.
Q: "TenShen" explores big pressures—tech, war, climate. What pushed you to turn all that into painting?
A: It’s the reality we live in. We’re a biased, informatively fragmented society, where people exist in separate bubbles. For some, these facts are abstract—dismissed as conspiracy theories. As an artist, observation has been the key to guide my life. I constantly study my surroundings on both micro and macro levels; it’s something I’ve done since an early age. It felt organic to connect these pressing topics with my painting practice and to research them through the lens of my mark-making process. In his famous play, Berthold Brecht says, “The war is over, be afraid of the peace!”—a sentiment that deeply resonates with me. We seem to be incapable of existing in peace.
Apart from the horrors of real wars, what we are additionally experiencing now is a new kind of war—abstract, shape-shifting, all-consuming. Leading us into a highly ungovernable chaos.
Q: You use imagery from CT scans and surveillance. What do these sources give you visually?
A: To me as a painter, these are incredibly useful materials. I conduct ongoing studies of human conditions, often depicting figures in a state of escapism—nowhere, yet everywhere, interacting across various domains, absorbing massive amounts of information without retaining any of it. Surveillance has become an essential part of who we are.
Every movement, every interaction, every transaction is recorded. We are surrounded by CCTV cams—from major capitals and buildings to smaller towns and venues—where you endlessly observe the movements of humans who seem to be going nowhere. I try to project this sense of constant supervision in my paintings. We all live in our own "Truman Show(s)," but who is watching? And more importantly, why are they watching? I pay attention to every detail. It’s a state of immense concentration, a sophisticated pattern of hyperconsciousness to follow during the long hours of painting.
Q: How does your fashion background sneak into your painting process now?
A: It’s been a while since I’ve worked in fashion. I was mostly involved within the creative framework of the industry. I was never drawn to trends or the ideas of developing marketable products. My research was complex, focused on questions around the “second skin” we wear, including accessories. I’m proud that my collections still feel relevant. They spark ongoing conversations around gender, identity, religion, and the history of dressing. I began working in fashion very young. It gave me great joy, shaped my evolution, and largely impacted me, becoming the artist I am today. It allowed me to grow creatively and essentially transition to painting, which I admit fascinates and constantly challenges me with its infinite possibilities—unlike fashion, which does have its limits by becoming repetitive.
However, some things never change. The narrative approach I once applied to collections is the same I now apply to paintings.
Scrapbooks, literature, film, and endless curiosity serve as the ultimate engine, leading me to unexpected, enticing places. But other than that, the fashion chapter of my creative life is closed, for now.
Q: Your works feel fragmented and tense. How do you decide when to stop?
A: It’s an individual experience. I’m not sure I would call the work fragmented. For me, it’s a tightly connected network of images and events, composed through concentrated brushstrokes. I’ve spent years developing a distinctive and original visual language through mark-making. I believe these works carry futuristic messages about human existence and will continue to evoke multiple interpretations. They depict iconographic moments from the current psychological war on humans—a war in which we comply willingly, like excited volunteers, practically demanding to be harmed, without realizing the cost. It’s a self-destructive process, filled with techno-perversity and addiction, where the enemy holds a perfectly engineered weapon. If the past were defined by colonization of territories, we are now living through the colonization of the human mind. It’s a totally different ball game, happening on a global level—therefore it’s very intense. I usually stop when my body tells me to take a break. Despite all the advances, there’s only so much you can do with the biology of an organic human being. Even the greatest minds and bodies need to repose and aliment in order to regenerate. However, the terrifying twist of these transformers is that they don’t need to stop, therefore they accelerate our levels of reactions and actions to extreme, unknown levels. I profoundly believe that in life at large, either personal or professional—it is paramount to know when to stop, no matter what.
Q: Escapism shows up often. What does that look like for you personally?
A: Escapism is organic. Humans cannot continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality, which is why we invented fiction. We are the only species who masterfully stage lies, to tell each other stories which might or might not exist. To quote the great Pedro Almodóvar: reality needs to be completed with fiction to make it tolerable. This explains escapism—especially in hyper-normalized societies which lead double-triple lives.
It’s not a coincidence that the official Soviet newspaper with the highest circulation of over 15 million daily copies was called "Pravda" (meaning "Truth") in a country where everything you experienced was hardly ever true, and “truth” always had several versions—very much like Kurosawa’s "Rashomon," very much like today.
However, what we are additionally experiencing now are digital earthquakes, causing escapism tsunamis. You don’t have to wait for a certain time slot one day a week to watch your favorite show; you can binge it on various devices, over and over continuously, like a broken record. Japanese cosplay is a great example of collective escapism—people dress and act like anime or manga characters on a daily basis, actively trying to blur the lines between actuality and fantasy. It’s more visible in large cities, in New York for instance, where I live. It’s a strongly present, widespread rejection of reality—people refuse to confront what is directly in front of them, both literally and symbolically. They retreat into a filtered, avatar-like existence, experiencing the world through screens of often artificial, staged “lives” of others.
Recently, I had the opportunity to work with kids of various ages in NYC public schools. It’s startling to observe their tech addiction, and even more alarming is how underdeveloped their cognitive thinking skills are. Closing your eyes isn't going to change anything. Nothing's going to disappear just because you choose not to see what's going on. In fact, things will be even worse the next time you open your eyes. We are already seeing the consequences manifest themselves in our fragile, easily manipulable societies.
I personally enjoy escapism for a short period of time—for the sake of entertainment or change of scenery—but I think that the act of being present in your life as yourself, to find, develop, polish, and become a better version of yourself, is a crucial act of existence/resistance. Especially for an artist who, according to Tarkovsky, should serve as a conscience mirror of society.
Keeping your eyes open takes courage—but we don’t have the luxury to stop trying.
Q: What kind of space or setting do you picture these paintings in?
A: That’s a great question—thank you for asking. I often think about the scale of these works and where they could be presented so that it suits their energy. I imagine them as large murals installed under bulletproof glass shadow boxes, in heavy metal frames. Public spaces like subways, railway stations, or airports would be ideal. These are venues where humans and their belongings constantly lose and find each other. Places where we often say goodbyes to our loved ones, causing sorrow, while those next to us cannot hold their tears of joy after reuniting with their biological or logical family members. These are rigid, industrial, commercial, often outdated, filthy spaces—and yet somehow they awaken the most genuine human emotions, without us caring to be seen or judged. People from all walks of life pass through them. I would be honored to think that the right audience would encounter my work unexpectedly at some airport—perhaps pausing, analyzing, questioning, or simply being present in the moment.
Gallery spaces don’t necessarily fascinate me. They tend to feel interchangeable, serving multiple yet similar purposes. But working with the right curator who truly understands the core of my work could open doors to more inspiring and unconventional venues. To be completely honest, in an ideal world, I dream of seeing my work in complete silence—installed in an old, Japanese architecture/garden-style venue, surrounded by serenity and her majesty—Mother Nature. That would be the most beautiful experience and the greatest honor I could dare to envisage.