The practice of Nicola Barth unfolds through duration, attention, and material sensitivity rather than predetermined form. Painting is approached as an open process—one shaped by layering, resistance, and gradual condensation—where meaning emerges through sustained engagement rather than assertion. Across these reflections, the studio appears not as a site of production, but as a space of inquiry, listening, and transformation. The following interview offers insight into a practice rooted in uncertainty, process, and the quiet discipline of remaining receptive to what unfolds over time.

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Can you take us through the evolution of an artwork, from that first spark of inspiration to the finished piece?

My work does not begin with a fixed idea or a clear image of what the painting should become. There is no plan to execute. What usually comes first is the decision to work — and a blank canvas that offers nothing yet. To break this initial state, I often begin with pencil. Not as a preparatory drawing and never as a sketch of something representational, but as a way to interrupt the white surface and allow something to start happening. Lines appear, hesitate, overlap, dissolve again. The pencil functions as a probing tool, a way of opening the space rather than defining it. From there, the painting develops through an open process. In the early stages, I often work quickly and intuitively, using acrylic or thin layers of paint.

These initial layers are less about composition than about movement. They react, shift, and overwrite one another. The goal is not to make something visible, but to create a field in which something can emerge. Oil enters later and fundamentally changes the rhythm of the work. Oil slows everything down. It introduces time into the painting. While acrylic allows for fast decisions, oil demands patience, repetition, and distance. Each layer remains present, even when it is later covered. Nothing is fully erased. Information is not removed — it changes its status.

This transition is central to my practice. At a certain point, the painting begins to resist. It develops its own internal logic, to which I have to respond. Decisions are no longer driven by intention, but by attention. Often this means going back, layering over, calming the surface, or condensing what was previously fragmented. What may have been loud or restless early on shifts into a quieter, more concentrated state — without eliminating what came before. Long pauses are an essential part of this process. I frequently turn paintings to the wall or leave them untouched for months. Distance is not a break from the work, but an active tool.

With time, my perception of the painting changes, and it becomes clearer whether something is still required — or whether the work has reached a stable state. A painting is not finished when it appears complete, but when it no longer asks anything of me. When it holds an inner tension without needing further intervention. I am not looking for closure, but for a balance between openness and density.

My works are not images of something, nor do they tell stories. I understand them as momentary condensations of ongoing processes. Like still frames taken from a continuous movement, they hold a state without fixing it. Each painting remains part of a larger dynamic and points beyond itself. The process is never linear. It is closer to a circling — approaching, stepping back, and returning again. Painting, for me, is precisely this space: a site where decisions are not made in advance and where uncertainty is allowed to remain present.

If you could communicate just one core message through your entire body of work, what would it be?

If I had to reduce my work to a single core message, it would be this: nothing is fixed, nothing is complete, and nothing exists in isolation. Everything is in a state of continuous transformation — sometimes visible, often imperceptible, always in motion. My work does not aim to explain these states, but to make them experientially accessible. I am less interested in what can be clearly named than in what resists definition: transitions, shifts, in-between spaces. These are not places in a conventional sense, but processes — zones where multiple layers can coexist without cancelling one another out. I do not understand painting as a representation of reality, but as an approach toward something that is constantly changing.

A painting, for me, is not a result but a state. It holds a moment that is already in the process of becoming something else. This openness is not vagueness, but a deliberate decision against closure. For this reason, ambiguity is not a lack, but a value. I do not expect viewers to “understand” my work in a definitive way. What matters to me is what a painting sets in motion — the associations, resonances, and shifts in perception it may trigger. A work succeeds when it does not conclude, but opens.

This position is inseparable from my working process. Decisions are not made in advance, but emerge through sustained attention to the painting itself. The work develops its own internal logic, which I do not impose but follow. In this sense, painting is less an act of assertion than one of listening. A recurring idea in my practice is that transformation does not happen linearly or in isolation. It unfolds through overlap, feedback, and interconnection. What changes in one place inevitably affects another. This understanding of deep interconnectedness shapes both my visual language and my material choices. I see my works as part of an open constellation.

Individual paintings are not closed statements, but coordinates within a larger movement. They relate to one another without repetition or explanation. Each work carries traces of others and simultaneously opens a space for what has not yet taken form. If there is a message at all, it is not a declarative one. It is an invitation to remain with uncertainty. To engage with what is unfinished, unresolved, and in flux.

My paintings do not propose positions; they propose states of attention — moments of pause in which perception can shift. For me, art is not a place for answers. It is a space where questions are allowed to persist. Anyone who enters this space may not find clarity in the conventional sense, but may encounter a different way of looking. And that, for me, is where the work’s strength lies.

How important is it for viewers to understand the intended message of your work? Does ambiguity add value, or do you seek clarity in your expression?

It is not important to me that viewers understand a clearly intended message. My work is not conceived as a vehicle for explanation or instruction. I am interested in states that resist definitive interpretation — and it is precisely there that I see their strength. I work without assigning fixed meanings. A painting does not emerge as an illustration of an idea, but through an open process. The moment a work becomes tied to a specific statement, it loses tension. It closes. That sense of closure runs counter to what I am seeking in painting. Ambiguity, therefore, is not a byproduct but a deliberate quality. It allows different perceptions to coexist without being resolved into a single reading. A work can be contradictory. It can activate several layers at once — visual, emotional, bodily.

This openness means that each encounter with the work can shift, depending on time, context, and personal experience. This attitude extends to the way I title my works. Many of my paintings carry intentionally cryptic, three-part titles — sound-based constructions rather than descriptive labels. They do not function as explanations or keys to interpretation. Instead, I see them as markers or frequencies that open an additional resonance space alongside the image. Like the paintings themselves, the titles resist translation and definition.

Here, too, language is not used to fix meaning, but to keep it open. The title stands next to the work, not above it. In this sense, titling becomes part of the artistic process rather than its conclusion. This does not mean that clarity plays no role in my work. It simply exists on a different level. The clarity I am interested in is formal and energetic: in the rhythm of layers, in the balance between density and openness, in the internal tension a painting holds. A work feels clear to me when it has developed a coherent presence — not when it has become easily readable. I understand the relationship between the work and the viewer as a dialogue, not as a transmission of information.

The painting offers something, but it does not prescribe a response. In this context, misunderstanding is not a failure, but a productive part of the encounter. An unexpected reading can expand a work rather than distort it. If I had to choose between ambiguity and clarity, I would say that ambiguity is the condition. Clarity emerges within this open field — not as a message, but as an experience. My works are propositions, not answers. They operate through presence rather than explanation.

Can you pinpoint a single moment in your life when you realized art was not just a passion but your purpose?

There was no single dramatic moment when I suddenly realized that art was my purpose. Instead, it unfolded as a gradual shift — a process of subtraction rather than revelation. I originally approached the world through language. Literature, theatre, film, and psychology shaped the way I thought and worked. Language was my primary tool for structuring experience, for analyzing and communicating reality.

Over time, however, it began to feel limiting. Not because language is insufficient, but because it ultimately seeks precision. It requires decisions: one word instead of another, one meaning over all others. Painting opened a different space for me. A space where contradictions can coexist without being resolved. My transition into painting was therefore not a strategic choice of medium, but a necessity. I did not begin to paint in order to depict something, but because I realized that certain experiences could not be carried any further by language.

In its early years, painting was neither a profession nor a goal. It functioned as a testing ground — a place where I could work without argument or explanation. I was not required to justify decisions or translate experience into concepts. This absence of obligation was initially disorienting, and later deeply liberating. Painting became a space in which thinking was not abandoned, but reorganized.

Looking back, I would say that my relationship to art shifted at the moment I understood painting not as a form of expression, but as a site of inquiry. A place where perception can change without being verbalized. This realization did not arrive suddenly, nor did it announce itself as a turning point. It settled quietly, gaining weight through repetition. As painting became more central, other options gradually receded. Not out of idealism or defiance, but because they no longer felt necessary. Art was no longer one possibility among others; it became the place where I needed to stay in order to continue thinking and perceiving.

Over time, it also became clear that this way of working implies a broader attitude toward the world. An acceptance of uncertainty, of transition, of not-knowing. Painting allows me to remain within these states without resolving them. It is not a retreat, but a form of sustained attention. Today, I do not see this shift as a departure from language, but as an expansion of it. Many of the questions that once occupied me remain present — they have simply changed form.

What was once articulated through words is now layered, displaced, and condensed through paint. Painting has not replaced language; it has given it a different resonance space. If I were to name a moment at all, it would be the moment I stopped searching for a definitive answer and began working within open processes. In that sense, art is not a destination for me, but a practice — a way of being in the world without needing to bring it to a conclusion.

How do you envision the evolution of your work in the coming years?

In the coming years, I see my work expanding further into space — not as a departure from painting, but as a direct continuation of it. Painting remains the foundation of my practice, functioning as a kind of home base. From there, other forms emerge that allow questions of transition, movement, and transformation to be explored physically rather than pictorially.

A central role in this development is played by recurring figures and concepts that have accompanied my work for some time: astronauts, octopuses, and the Phoenix Photons. These are not narrative characters, but symbolic carriers of states. Astronauts stand for exploration and exposure — for moving through unknown zones without stable coordinates. Octopuses represent adaptive intelligence, non-verbal communication, and fluid identity. The Phoenix Photons function as condensed objects of transformation: hybrid entities between light, matter, and reflection, between destruction and renewal.

Building on these concepts, I am currently developing sculptural spatial bodies — abstract, non-figurative forms that can be suspended, installed, or positioned within an exhibition space. These works are not representations of spacecraft or creatures. They are transitional bodies: objects that occupy the in-between, neither purely sculptural nor purely referential. Their function is not to illustrate movement, but to hold a state of passage.

In this expanded practice, the exhibition space itself becomes an active field. Paintings operate as anchors — points of density and concentration — while the spatial bodies activate the surrounding area as a zone of transition. Viewers do not simply look at individual works; they move through a constellation of relations. The experience unfolds through proximity, distance, suspension, and orientation.

What interests me is how these elements can coexist without hierarchy. Painting, object, and space are not ordered sequentially, but remain permeable to one another. Each element retains its autonomy while contributing to a larger configuration. The work does not resolve into a single statement, but remains open, dynamic, and reconfigurable.

Rather than aiming toward a final form, I see this development as an ongoing extension of my existing questions. The focus is not on adding media, but on shifting the conditions under which perception takes place. The work continues to explore transformation — not as a theme, but as a structural principle that operates across materials, scales, and spatial experience.

Can you share a moment when someone’s unexpected interpretation of your art gave you a new perspective?

Unexpected interpretations are not exceptions in my work; they are an integral part of how it functions. Because I work without assigning fixed meanings, I see each encounter with the work as a continuation of the process rather than a response to a finished statement. There have been moments when viewers described associations that were entirely foreign to my own thinking — references to landscapes, bodies, or emotional states I had not consciously considered. Rather than correcting these readings, I found them productive. They revealed how the work operates independently of my intentions.

What interests me in these moments is not the interpretation itself, but the shift it produces. A painting begins to show aspects of itself that I was not aware of during its making. It gains dimensions that only emerge through dialogue. This does not alter the work retrospectively, but it expands its field of resonance. Such encounters reinforce my decision not to guide perception too strongly. When a work is open enough to accommodate different readings, it remains active over time. Meaning is not fixed at the moment of completion, but continues to evolve through interaction.

For me, this confirms that the relationship between artwork and viewer is not hierarchical. The work does not transmit a message; it offers a situation. Viewers do not decode it; they enter it. In that sense, interpretation becomes part of the work’s ongoing life.

Does spirituality or a connection to something larger than yourself influence your creative process?

Yes, spirituality does play a role in my work — not as a system of belief or as an intentional theme, but as a way of thinking and perceiving that has shaped me over many years. I consider myself a spiritual person in the sense that I am deeply interested in questions of consciousness, interconnectedness, and the relationship between matter, perception, and reality.

My shelves are filled with books by spiritual thinkers and researchers — from concepts such as the zero-point field and the consciousness of matter to models like Transurfing. These texts do not provide answers for me; they open questions. They challenge linear thinking and reinforce the idea that reality is far more layered and dynamic than it appears.

This way of thinking inevitably informs how I approach my work. Not consciously and not illustratively, but as an underlying orientation. I do not translate spiritual concepts into images, nor do I attempt to visualize specific ideas. Instead, these influences operate quietly, shaping how I relate to uncertainty, openness, and transformation.

When I paint, I am not trying to express a spiritual message. What matters to me is remaining receptive — attentive to what emerges in the process itself. Painting becomes a situation in which control is partially suspended and perception shifts. Decisions arise less from intention than from sensitivity and response. In this sense, the process has affinities with spiritual practices, though it remains firmly grounded in material, gesture, and time.

I am particularly interested in states where boundaries dissolve: between subject and object, inside and outside, intention and emergence. These are not abstract ideas for me, but experiential conditions that unfold while working. They cannot be planned, only entered. If spirituality enters my work, it does so indirectly — as a resonance rather than a message. It is present in the trust that not everything needs to be defined, in the willingness to stay with not-knowing, and in the acceptance that meaning is not fixed but constantly shifting.

My art does not aim to make the invisible visible or to illustrate transcendence. Instead, it creates spaces where perception can slow down and where different layers of experience can coexist. In that sense, spirituality is not something I depict, but something that quietly informs how I work, how I attend, and how I remain open within the process.

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Across process, philosophy, and material execution, the work of Nicola Barth resists closure and fixed interpretation. Painting functions as a living state—one that holds tension, transition, and interconnectedness without resolving them into narrative or message. Viewer engagement extends the life of each work beyond the studio, allowing meaning to remain fluid and active. What endures is a commitment to attention, openness, and transformation—an understanding of art not as an answer, but as a sustained condition of thought, perception, and presence.