Muted and warm, the paintings of Israeli artist Sasha Shnaiderman (@alex.shnaiderman) depict quiet mundane scenes, but are at the same time full of powerful, often mystical or religious symbolism. These oil canvases mimic pastel with their light layers of paint, which overlap and border negative spaces — this infuses the pieces with an almost illusory quality: they are liminal in essence, although one can clearly identify the everyday subjects. We asked Sasha about her unique approach, about how reality is refracted in her work, and bout how personal and subjective events can encapsulate universal states of mind, relevant to everyone.
Sasha, let’s start with an oddly straightforward question: how did you become an artist? Was it something you’ve always wanted or did things just turn out this way?
No, this never was the end goal, it just happened organically. When I was younger I did of course play around with art materials: paints, crayons, you name it. But this did not continue into my teenage years, so when I started to draw again in my late twenties you could say that it was after a very long pause. You might also say that it happened by accident: I just decided to go to a drawing class, got really interested in the process, and kept coming back every week. Just like anyone else, I started out with charcoal drawings, but after a while I slowly transitioned into painting with oil, and this required me dedicating more and more time to my practice, so I guess this was the tipping point.
By simply looking at the images of your works I would’ve guessed that they were made with soft pastels instead of oil. The muted colors and the strokes give off the impression that the paint was mixed on the canvas, and there are not very many layers to them. How does this fit into your approach, in terms of working with material?
It wasn’t always like this. I used to paint with stronger brush strokes that are more typical for oil painting and I had a lot more layers of paint — and thicker layers as well. But in the last couple of years my practice has developed in such a way that I now work a lot with cleaning up the layers that I’m painting and then going over them again and again.
It’s something that I just stumbled upon, I really like the results that this process yields, and now I continue to work this way — I enjoy the negative space, the feeling of air and the thin layers, that are a bit like coral or maybe pastel. But when you see the painting up close, you know that it’s oil paint, the canvas cannot hide it. Even when I remove a layer of paint completely, something always stays behind, so there definitely is a feeling of layers — just not in the usual sense.
As an example, I recently saw the works of Tal R [Tal Rosenzweig – ed.], who is on the opposite side of the spectrum — seeing as he uses very thick layers of paint. So, there are numerous possibilities and it is quite interesting to see how different painters develop vastly different techniques as well.
You’ve mentioned that this particular style wasn’t something that you’ve had from the outset — it’s something that you’ve developed. Is it safe to presume that there is a body of work that looks vastly different to what we’re seeing now? Maybe you could share some inspirations that drew you precisely to this sort of expressive manner?
I’m always studying other artists! Lately I’ve been fascinated by Piero [della Francesca – ed.] and Balthus [Balthasar Klossowski – ed.]. Their colours and the overall palette is something that I really like and take a lot of inspiration from. Then there’s also Giorgio Morandi, but he uses thicker layers of paint. So it is fair to say that I was inspired by them, but I took their approach and shifted the underlying idea to another state — in terms of finding what works for me, what fits my workflow.
I understand that you have quite a rich and interesting background, which must have influenced how your artistic practice has developed. Do you see any immediate connections yourself?
Yes, I can point to a few of them. For example, I’m practicing calligraphy now, which requires a lot of balance — and not only in terms of form. Every character has a specific meaning, and their combinations can create poems or Zen sentences, so there’s a philosophical level to it beyond the aesthetic level. Studying calligraphy and diving into Japanese culture has taught me much about composition, because it’s vastly different to the European composition that we’re used to seeing, where most things are centered. Here, the balances are more gentle, and in many cases there’s a lot of meaning behind negative space — so this definitely now comes into my practice more and more.
Dealing with other cultures in general can be very informative — especially if it’s an in-person experience. Whenever you go anywhere, you form a subtle unconscious connection to the place, and then the memory of this encounter stays with you and informs your creative practice as well. This is true of my Russian ancestry as well, coming from a place where Christianity coexists with traditional theology and beliefs, and the mystical always persists in the background — this influence definitely plays a role. And even broader — religious symbolism in general is something that I feel connected to, whether it be through studying Piero della Francesca, or through personal experiences.
Your paintings do indeed have some very strong visual symbols in them from all over. Would you say that this is something that you have as an intention when starting off on a painting, or does it appear or come up on its own when you’re already working on a piece?
It’s definitely part of the creative process. I usually start with a reference — whether it’s a picture or a memory, and then I let the painting lead me, from that point on I just follow the process. So when mystical symbolism appears in my work, it’s not something that I’ve planned ahead before even starting on the painting — I never see the final result when I begin a new piece, so they evolve organically as I am painting them.
Besides, many of these strong symbolic images are not graphic or intended to be deciphered by the viewer. I never intend to tell a literal story through my work, this imagery appears from the necessity of creating an atmosphere within the painting. It needs to have a balance of elements that communicate with each other and make the whole piece work. And of course some of these elements don’t work — for instance, when I feel that they lead to a loss of balance within the painting, or when the whole becomes less interesting with the addition of an object that draws too much attention, leading you away from the whole.
Tell me more about this idea of tension. Some of your works are diptychs, is that also something that you do in order to create balance, tension or interplay between two separate canvases?
It is an interesting element to add to a piece, although it does have some limitations. Using two canvases for one scene that is broken down into two separate parts allows to increase the overall space with which you can work (from a purely technical standpoint), but also helps create a break in the middle, splitting the scene in two. In this sense one part can be dedicated to a still of everyday life, where nothing really happens, whereas the other can provide deeper insight into this stillness, contextualise it, and play off of the ambiance of its counterpart.
Of course this trick can also be an obstacle, but this forces me to work around it and find different solutions, which I personally enjoy doing. In some cases I can move the pieces around for instance, creating a different composition, which was never intended in the first place — this also allows to open up another dimension of the scene, as if you had changed your point of view and the emphasis has shifted to something that was previously seen as unimportant.
You’ve said that your paintings draw inspiration from your daily life, mundane occurrences and personal experiences. Would you say that when these are manifested in a painting, they come to encapsulate a more broad and general idea, that reaches beyond your personal life and taps into something much bigger?
Of course. I tend to think that if a painting is too sentimental and personal, it’s not particularly interesting — meaning that you need to understand this personal context first in order to appreciate the piece. But when this sentimentality is channeled into notions or ideas that are applicable to anyone and everyone, it’s much easier for the viewer to relate to. So in this sense when I work off of personal experiences and share moments of my life, they are never only that — they are always a gateway or a manifestation of the universal experience of life that each of us possesses.
As for the references, I think I can share a little secret here — I usually use images taken by my husband, who is also an artist. Not just because they are very special and dear to me, but because they already have a filter on them: they are his images, and I’m looking at all the things and scenes that are familiar to me through his eyes, from a perspective that is different to my own. And from here I can take this subject matter and adopt into a very reflective and psychological approach, trying to encapsulate the two impressions of a particular object or scene in one painting, which inevitably revolves around the notion of atmosphere for me — whether this atmosphere is created with colours, palette, angles or composition. And it is the atmosphere that resonates with the viewer, because it always transcends the particular.
So you share a very creative relationship with your — in terms of both of you being involved with the arts, and also in terms of balancing each other’s perspectives and playing off of each other’s strengths?
We also both have studios in the same building we live in! So there is naturally a great deal of movement between the living spaces and studio spaces, many interactions that happen along the way, and all these small instances definitely have an effect — it’s like a feedback loop of influences. And this type of lifestyle is not uncommon to other artists, especially when you look at some of the well-known names from the 20th century. For example both Alice Neel and Picasso during his Paris years were in a very similar situation, essentially living at their studios and painting whatever was immediately available — which most often were either their belongings, everyday scenes or occasional visitors.
And I do think that for the past ten years this lifestyle has given my creative practice an invaluable boost. Being a family member, a mother, and an artist are all very demanding — both in terms of attention and time, and I am certain that I wouldn’t be able to develop and move forward if I was performing only one of these functions at any given time instead of combining all three.
Let’s take a moment to step back from the personal to the general. Both you, I, and a lot of other people are finding ourselves now in a set of very complex and taxing historical circumstances. When it comes to art being a vessel for ideas that address those circumstances, how do you see its purpose, or maybe its course of action?
I do feel like we’re currently in the eye of the storm — both in terms of what has been happening in Israel and globally. For me personally, being an artist in these kinds of circumstances is about supporting your local community through your practice, especially because you are able to capture the essence of these transformations much more precisely. There is something very very sharp about living in the ‘here and now’ of the moment, when your artistic instinct kicks in as an involuntary reaction to the external stress factors.
But at the same time, this experience feels very surreal, because it’s as if the reality is split into two — life in Tel Aviv is quite mundane, but there is that knowledge in the back of your mind that some hundreds of kilometers to the north or the south people are going through some of the most horrible experiences of their lives. This is a shock that most of us weren’t able to imagine before, and are struggling to comprehend now, so in some ways it is to be expected that such a strong emotional reaction manifests itself in artistic practice — as well as other socially meaningful involvement.
Naturally, there is a growing sense of needing to move forward. How does artistic practice come into that? Can it even help — or can it only be a therapeutic solution that doesn’t provide any answers?
I do believe that although art has always been a therapeutic, introspective and reflective tool — primarily for those who paint, it also has the capacity to help envision a possible future, other ways of cooperation, and in this form it can become a political tool as well. Whenever people disagree with a destructive course, this opposition always has multiple outlets, and if some of them, say, protests, are not available to the public, it will manifest in art, literature, or any other means through which their views can be expressed. And this ability that art has to become an outlet for voices that are not being heard through mainstream media is especially important in times of political uncertainty or turmoil.
Of course you can also flourish in a quieter environment, using nature or people that surround you as inspiration, but external pressure forces artists to search for possible answers, to create more socially and politically informed art, which is quite often very sharp and strong. It goes without saying that this same external pressure brings forward a lot of fears and anxieties, and as much as this is necessary for societies to transform, no one wants to exist in this state permanently. There are times to artistically express tension, confusion and strife for change, but there also should be times to express other sides of humanity, such as compassion, empathy or harmony.
Let’s try and end on a high note. What is your attitude moving forward — in general and in terms of your personal practice?
I’m optimistic. I do believe that the world has a way of organising things, that whatever needs to happen, happens — even when it’s out of our personal control, and in the end things will settle and become balanced again, because the natural state of the universe is an equilibrium. I really believe in that, and I’m also starting to feel this confidence guide me whenever I’m painting — allowing things to happen, and exploring rather than looking for issues to be solved.
So my practice moving forward is probably going to rely more on this sense of exploration, on letting the influences and things come to me — and in general on fostering it to become wider rather than narrower. I see myself leaning more into the abstract, moving away from exclusively painting the immediately observable. In any case though, all these plans and ideas rest on how well we can navigate this historical downtrend, and I do sincerely hope that people come to their senses and things will change for the better — hopefully sooner rather than later.
