Marisabel Gonzalez
- 1 day ago
- 4 min read
Marisabel Gonzalez was born in Caracas and now lives in Sydney. She worked for years as a doctor and sonographer, and still does ultrasound a few days a week. Painting started on the side and took over slowly. Her canvases have paint on them but also thread, bandages and bits of text, things she picked up from medicine. She once called art a prescription, meaning it the soft way. One of her pieces, Manifesto, is a long scroll of her own artist statements from different years, piled on top of each other. She is represented by Hake House in Sydney.
Q: Before art, you spent years in medicine, as a doctor and sonographer. How did that transition happen?
A: This transition unfolded gradually. Medicine trained me to observe carefully, and ultrasound, in particular, gave me access to the intimate, shifting landscapes of the body. Over time, I felt the need to respond not just to what I was seeing but also to what I was feeling. Painting became a way to process and expand upon this experience. The shift wasn’t from one identity to another; it was an internal realisation that both practices, medicine and art, are ways of paying attention to what it means to be human. I still work in ultrasound a few days a week, as it continues to influence not only how I see but also how I relate to others.
Q: There's paint on your canvases but also thread, bandages, and bits of text. How did those materials find their way in?
A: I didn’t initially set out to include these elements. They naturally became part of my process, almost as if they grew out of my work in clinical practice. Just like how I mend the body with stitches and bandages, I started to notice how much of my medical language was seamlessly blending into my art. This brought new meaning and texture to my paintings.
Surfaces turned into personal journals; imperfections were embraced rather than erased, reflecting an ongoing process of becoming that shapes the way I express memories and feelings.
Q: Manifesto is interesting. A long scroll made of your own artist statements from different years, piled on top of each other. What was the impulse behind that?
A: Manifesto arises from a place of frustration and curiosity. Writing an artist statement always felt like trying to fix something that, by its nature, is in constant flux. Each version I wrote felt true at the time, but later seemed incomplete. Instead of settling on one, I kept them all. The work functions as a palimpsest, constantly evolving as I revisit it. Every new layer doesn’t erase the ones before but exists alongside them, allowing contradictions, shifts, and growth to stay visible. There’s a certain vulnerability in revealing these layers, but also a sense of liberation. It reflects not only my development as an artist but also a more universal truth: that we are always rewriting ourselves. Manifesto was last displayed in 2023, and I look forward to an opportunity to display its new version again.
Q: Ultrasound textures run through a lot of your work. Is that still a medical thing for you, or has it shifted into something else?
A: It began as a medical language, but it has clearly developed. Medical imaging taught me to perceive differently, recognise patterns, and read subtle variations. I notice these everywhere: in landscapes, water, surfaces, and nature. Over time, this way of seeing has become a bridge between the body and the natural world. What interests me is that both the body and nature are living systems, carrying histories and responding to forces we don’t always see. So while the source remains, the meaning has expanded.
It’s no longer just about imaging the body; it’s about recognising that we are part of, and connected to, a much larger system that we only partially understand.
Q: You've written that you see art as a kind of prescription. Can you unpack that a little?
A: I think of art as a gentle form of care. In medicine, a prescription is a structured, intentional, and designed intervention intended to support healing. In art, the approach is softer, but the intention can be similar. Not necessarily to fix, but to create space for reflection, for pause, for connection. When someone spends time with a painting, something shifts. It might be subtle. A memory, a question, a feeling that hadn’t surfaced before. That moment of recognition, of seeing oneself in something abstract, is, to me, a kind of restoration. I’m not interested in art as decoration alone. I’m interested in what it does to us. How it slows us down, how it invites us inward, how it helps us make sense of being here. In that way, it becomes less about the object and more about the experience it holds.
Q: You've had a busy stretch of shows recently… What's next for you?
A: It’s been a truly enriching time, and I’m embracing it with the same curiosity that drives my work. I'm excited to share that I’ve been named a finalist for the St Columba’s Art Prize for the second year running, which feels like a heartfelt recognition of my evolving journey. Alongside this, I’m thrilled to be collaborating with Krinklewood Wines on designing the label for their SAUVAGE orange wine. For this, I’ve created six site-responsive paintings, using pigment extracted from grape skins, as an extension of my fascination with cycles, transformation, and material processes. I'm also gearing up for an artist residency with The Corridor Project here in Australia, and I’m looking forward to a solo exhibition at LEDA Gallery in Newcastle.
For me, each of these milestones is an opportunity to keep growing, explore new ideas, and spark different conversations across a variety of settings.
