Irfan Ajvazi
- Anna Lilli Garai
- Mar 14
- 4 min read
Irfan Ajvazi’s work feels like stepping into a fleeting moment—something seen out of the corner of your eye, half-remembered but full of meaning. Blending figurative painting with an almost cinematic sense of observation, Ajvazi captures quiet, everyday moments that hover between memory and reality. His compositions, often based on personal photographs, film stills, and historical references, transform the ordinary into something evocative and layered.
An autodidact who found his artistic footing through deep engagement with painting, Ajvazi draws inspiration from the Dutch Old Masters, yet his approach is distinctly modern. His works, whether watercolor, acrylic, or oil on paper, carry a raw, sketch-like immediacy—gestural yet intentional, intimate yet open-ended.
Photography plays a central role in his process, not just as a reference but as a way of seeing. He isn’t after perfect documentation but rather the feeling of a moment—the way light falls on a figure, the way memory alters perception. His fascination with Baudelaire’s ideas on modern life is evident in the way his paintings blend fleeting contemporary moments with a sense of timelessness, making his work both personal and universal.
Q: Your work often feels like a glimpse into someone’s private world, almost like a passing memory. What draws you to these quiet, everyday moments?
A: I’m drawn to moments that feel both familiar and elusive—scenes that exist in the periphery of our attention but hold a quiet significance. There’s an intimacy in the ordinary, a kind of poetry in the way light falls across a room or the way a figure lingers in a space. These moments, fleeting as they are, carry an emotional weight that I try to capture in my work.
Q: You’ve mentioned that photography plays a big role in your process. How do you balance the immediacy of a snapshot with the slower, more deliberate act of painting?
A: Photography allows me to capture a moment as it happens, preserving its rawness and spontaneity. But painting slows everything down—it’s about distillation, about deciding what to keep and what to let fade. I don’t see painting as a reproduction of a photograph; instead, I use the photo as a point of departure, a reference that evolves through memory, intuition, and the physicality of paint.
Q: There’s a strong sense of atmosphere in your work—especially in pieces like "The Studio" and "The Bridge." How do you approach composition and color to create that feeling?
A: Atmosphere is everything—it’s what gives a painting its emotional resonance. Compositionally, I think a lot about balance and negative space, about how a figure or an object can feel both present and distant. Color plays a huge role in setting the mood; I tend to mute my palette, allowing color to emerge subtly rather than dominate. It’s often about restraint—letting a shadow, a reflection, or a haze of color do the work of suggestion rather than statement.
Q: You’re largely self-taught, yet your work carries references to historical painting traditions. What role do the Old Masters play in your artistic development?
A: The Old Masters have always been a touchstone for me—not just technically, but in their sensitivity to light, form, and atmosphere. Artists like Vermeer, Hammershøi, and Bonnard understood how stillness could speak volumes. I’m particularly drawn to their use of space and the way they handle the presence (or absence) of figures. Even though my process is contemporary, I see my work as being in conversation with these traditions.
Q: Baudelaire’s writings on modern life seem to resonate with you. How do you interpret his ideas within your work?
A: Baudelaire had this incredible way of capturing the fleeting nature of experience—how modern life is both beautiful and melancholic, constantly shifting. That sensibility aligns with my own interest in transience and memory.
I think my paintings function in a similar way to his concept of the flâneur—they observe, they linger, but they never fully reveal everything. There’s always something just out of reach.
Q: Your paintings often feel unfinished in a way that makes them even more compelling. How do you decide when a piece is complete?
A: I try to leave room for ambiguity. A painting doesn’t need to say everything—it just needs to feel right. Sometimes that means stopping before it looks conventionally “finished.” I want the viewer to engage with the work, to fill in the gaps, to sense the presence of something unspoken.
Often, I’ll step away for a while and return with fresh eyes—if the painting still holds its tension, then I know it’s done.
Q: What’s next for you? Are there any new directions or materials you’re excited to explore?
A: I’m always experimenting, but lately, I’ve been interested in pushing my work further into abstraction—finding ways to suggest presence without relying on direct representation. I’ve also been exploring different surfaces, like working on raw canvas or incorporating more mixed media. I want to keep that sense of discovery alive, to let the work evolve naturally.