A path that began among film scripts and cultural journalism led Mexican artist Román de Castro to explore art as a form of introspection. His work has become a vehicle for understanding the everyday through emotion. Through chairs, phrases, and pigment, he constructs a personal language in which the intimate becomes collective and the simple becomes profound. Through his words, Román de Castro invites us to reflect on detachment, honesty, and the magic of the ordinary as ways to create without fear and inhabit the present.
How did your need to translate ideas into both words and colors begin?
I studied film and then worked for a couple of years as a journalist. Almost my entire father’s side of the family is in journalism, so when the pandemic started, I asked my parents for a job and began writing. I wrote about cultural topics like film and music.
When the pandemic began to ease, I started painting. I’ve always loved writing. In film school, I specialized in screenwriting because my intention was to write movies, although that didn’t end up happening. Even so, I didn’t want to abandon that literary side, so I decided to merge image and writing.
What personal paths led you to inhabit art the way you do today?
It began as an intimate exercise, almost like an emotional purge. I wanted to understand who I was at that moment and what the world around me looked like. And I think, at its core, it’s still the same. Above all, I continue doing this as a way to express myself, to understand myself better, and to better understand the world.
What inspired you to combine objects with poetry in your art?
I’ve always been very practical. If I had something in front of me and could write about it, I would. I’ve never been a purist with materials or formats. I like working with what I have at hand. My relationship with objects also comes from my fascination with the everyday.
I grew up in a suburb, in Ciudad Satélite, a place where, as I always say, every day feels like Sunday at five in the afternoon: nothing happens, everything repeats itself. That routine, that slow rhythm, makes you connect deeply with what surrounds you. In that context, even something as ordinary as a book or a chair can acquire an almost hypnotic dimension.
What leads you to choose certain everyday objects and see in them the potential to become something more within your work?
My obsession with chairs started from the beginning. I once read a text by an artist named Jimmy Durkheim, who said chairs are like spies because they’re everywhere. I was fascinated by that idea. After all, we sit every day—whether to work, eat, travel, or even go to the bathroom—it’s a deeply human action, and I’ve always wanted to write from that place, from something universal.
That’s why chairs, and other objects as well, feel like the perfect vehicle to convey a message anyone can understand. I’m interested in the magic of the everyday, in those elements that are always present to the point that we stop seeing them. I’m drawn to restoring their meaning, not forgetting them, giving them a place in the narrative—even though they’re there all the time, silently.
You’ve mentioned that vulnerability is essential to your work. How does this emotion manifest in your creative process?
I think every creative process is, by nature, vulnerable. Showing what I do already implies openness because it gives others the chance to have an opinion about something that comes from me. In my case, that vulnerability is even more direct because I speak openly about my emotions in the hope that someone might relate.
How does your intuition change when you work outside your everyday environment?
Residencies are challenging because I usually work with what surrounds me daily, but stepping outside that routine always adds something. For example, in Colombia I came across a red metal chair, very different from the typical white Sunday chair in Mexico. Because of its shape and materiality, I had to rethink how to approach it; in the end, as always, I returned to chairs. I’m fascinated by how the everyday shifts depending on the context: suburbia, leisure, and routine exist everywhere, but each culture gives them a different form.
In your exhibition Ojalá Mañana, you explored the concept of letting go. What inspired you to address this theme?
Letting go is one of the hardest things that exists. Personally, I struggle a lot with detachment. I’m very attached to my objects, to people, to everything. That’s why this project began—and continues to be—a personal and emotional exercise to understand myself and the world. Through my work, little by little, I feel like I’ve started learning how to let go.
Your work has been described as a form of visual poetry. How do you see the relationship between literature and your practice?
Words are the foundation of all my work. It doesn’t matter if it’s painting, sculpture, ceramics, or any other format—there’s always something written. For me, words are the starting point. Still, at some point I felt the need to explore both disciplines separately—not to divide them, but to prove to myself that I could also be just a writer or just a painter.
That’s why the book I just published was so important to me: I wanted to confirm that I could write without relying on the visual. On the other hand, I’m now also experimenting with painting without text. I don’t plan to stop combining the two, but I’m interested in seeing what happens when I give them space separately.
What do you think makes the phrases you choose resonate so clearly with so many people?
If I had a secret formula, it would be honesty. I never try to disguise what I write, which is why many of my phrases are simple. I think what allows people to connect is precisely that rawness, that direct way of saying things. Showing everything exactly as it is has always been my starting point.
You’ve said your work seeks to connect with viewers’ emotions. What kind of response do you hope to provoke?
More than offering answers, I’m interested in posing questions. I would like people who see my work to ask themselves how they feel about certain things, rather than reaching catharsis or a definitive conclusion. We live surrounded by stimuli and information, and sometimes that numbs us emotionally. My intention is to open a dialogue, to initiate an emotional hypothesis rather than prove a closed theory.
How has your artistic approach evolved from your earliest works to your current practice?
I think my work has changed a lot and very quickly. At the beginning, I was afraid—especially because I didn’t study fine arts or have formal technical training as a painter. I felt that what I did had to remain simple, almost so it wouldn’t be obvious that I “didn’t know how to paint.” Over time, I realized that many of the painters I admire don’t fit that classical idea of what an artist is supposed to be. I understood that I didn’t need technical perfection to deepen my visual language. That evolution came from letting go of that fear and allowing myself to explore without being stopped by the lack of formal training.
Which artists have influenced your gaze or shaped your visual learning?
David Hockney is one of my favorite artists, even though he does come from an academic background. Also Jean-Michel Basquiat and Edward Hopper—I’ve always felt more drawn to the contemporary. Maybe it has to do with not having studied art formally, but I never connected with Baroque or classical movements.
What currently motivates you to explore new directions without moving away from the core where drawing and literature converge?
I’m very excited about the release of the book, which has just arrived in Mexico. For me, it was a way of proving that I can write without leaning on the visual—and that it works. Now I’m pushing for it to reach more countries; it will soon be published in Argentina and Colombia, and I hope it won’t be the only one. As for painting, I’m heading to a two-month residency in Barcelona. I’m excited to explore where I can take this new stage and everything I want to experiment with.
Interview by: Isabel Flores
Photos: HOTBOOK
