Mark Kenneth
- Anna Lilli Garai
- Apr 28
- 3 min read
Mark Kenneth Bambico paints like he’s trying to stay honest in a noisy world. Trained as an animator but shaped by life outside the frame, his work rejects precision in favor of something looser, more felt. His figures shout, stretch, unravel — built from muscle memory and bursts of color with no theory to restrain them. What begins as a doodle often turns into a story, full of tension and rhythm. Whether painting through silence or sound, he stays tuned to what the canvas gives back. These are paintings to live with, not just look at — restless, raw, and quietly evolving.
Q: You start with muscle memory and doodles. What tells you a shape is worth chasing?
A: Just letting my hand move before my mind catches up. But something shifts when a shape or a stroke feels like it’s speaking back. It might have an unexpected rhythm, a balance that pulls you in, or a tension that begs to be explored. It’s not always logical; sometimes it’s just a gut feeling, like, this has something. That’s when I know it’s worth chasing — when the shape feels like it’s not just mine anymore, like it has its own energy and wants to become something.
Q: Your figures feel loud and loose. How much are you actually controlling what shows up?
A: It’s all spontaneous and accidental at first — I let things happen without trying to steer too much. But as the piece progresses, the chaos starts to narrow. The parameters get thinner, more focused, almost like being funneled toward a finish. So it starts wide open, full of instinct and mess, then gradually sharpens until it lands in a place that feels right.
Q: You moved from painting isolation to painting sound. What clicked?
A: My current experiences inspire what I put into my paintings. During COVID, I explored a lot of figurative forms, using the edges of the frame as boxes or traps. It was a time of healing for me, as I was also going through a separation from my ex-wife.
After COVID, my band got back together and we played as many gigs as we could. I also had the chance to collaborate with different musicians, doing recordings and session work during that time.
Q: Your color choices feel quick, even risky. How do you know when to stop?
A: I stop when the paint tube or container runs out. I also stop when the frame looks “full” to me. The colors I use are just the basic ones from the store — I don’t know how to mix them.
Q: Animation’s tight and structured — what does painting let you do that it didn’t?
A: I do animation for clients abroad. It’s all their ideas — we just bring them to life. They give us the parameters for each project, and I don’t get a say in any of it. It’s the complete opposite when I paint. I break the rules — even my own. I decide what goes on the canvas, when I work, and who gets to see it.
Q: You say your paintings are meant to be lived with. What do you hope sticks around?
A: When I say my paintings are meant to be lived with, I mean I want them to feel like quiet companions — something that continues to speak to you long after the first glance. I hope what sticks around is a sense of emotion, atmosphere, and curiosity. Maybe it’s a mood, a memory, or just the texture of a feeling that can’t quite be named.
Every time I walk past the paintings on our wall, they tell me a different story. I often discover little parts that were obscured or unnoticed when I was making them — like they’re slowly revealing themselves over time. My daughter and I will sometimes stop and just stare at them together, looking for something new or being reminded of a moment we had. It becomes part of our daily rhythm, this shared pause. That’s the kind of presence I hope my work offers — something quietly alive, open to rediscovery.
