Landscape, ancestry, and spirituality form the foundation of Ana Won’s artistic practice. Born in Tucumán in northern Argentina, a region where Indigenous cultures, ancient cave imagery, and Catholic traditions coexist, Ana Won developed a visual language shaped by layered histories and powerful natural surroundings. The forests of the yungas, the presence of mountains, and the collective spirit of community continue to inform the materiality, symbolism, and emotional tone of the work. Painting emerges not only as a creative act but also as a ritual space where memory, bodies, and territory intersect. In this conversation, Ana Won reflects on instinctive creation, spiritual dialogue through art, and the role of affection, shared knowledge, and collective sensitivity within contemporary artistic practice.

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How has your upbringing or cultural heritage shaped the themes and techniques you explore in your art today?

I was born in Tucumán, a province in northern Argentina where powerful influences converge: cave art, Indigenous cultures, and the Catholic Church. These images and aesthetics—which might seem like an unexpected combination—were fundamental in shaping the materialities and forms I use in my work today. I grew up surrounded by nature—the yungas forests and mountains on the horizon—which nourished my fascination with forms, colors, and the vitality that inhabits them. This constant presence of the landscape deeply shaped my visual sensitivity. I would also highlight that I grew up in an environment where community and others occupy a central place. That collective dimension is an essential theme in my work: shared memory, the ancestral, and the connection between bodies and territories run throughout my practice.

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

I felt it from a very young age as the union of those two things: passion and purpose. There was no specific moment of revelation, but rather an inner certainty that was always there. I feel  it as an overflowing passion that gives meaning to my life. Art is not something I do—it is the way I exist.

How do you reconcile the tension between raw, innate creativity and the discipline required to master your craft?

It’s an interesting question because I am a self-taught artist and I deeply believe in instinct and in unconscious knowledge. I think that If you focus intensely on something and repeat it over time, you will  begin to discover patterns, methods, and techniques of your own. I trust on that power of self-discovery. I don’t think about discipline as something rigid or external. For me, discipline is devotion. It is returning to the work again and again. It is obsession, but it  also means  listening. I don’t separate creativity and technique. They both develop together when there is a genuine commitment to the process.

Have you ever felt drawn toward a conventional career path? What made you take the "creative leap" despite the risks?

I never really considered following a conventional path, but I  sometimes questioned myself whether it had been the right decision or  not to attend university. I have a deep respect for the  academia, and sometimes I feel the weight of not having gone through that experience. However, I have always trusted on my work. I became deeply absorbed in it and sought to educate myself through unconventional ways. The work itself kept me guiding forward. I don’t feel there was a sudden break or “leap,” but rather a sustained trust in my relationship with what I do. I have always bet on that.

Art is often chosen as a medium for its freedom. Why do you personally turn to art, rather than another form of expression?

For me, everything was always art. The real decision was to take responsibility for that and explore it fully. I never experienced it as a choice between different options, but rather as embracing what it  was already my natural language.

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

Spirituality is a central force that gives  my work movement. I feel that art anchors me in the present while at the same time it  allows  me to communicate with the divine. It is almost a ritual practice, a space where the visible and the invisible enter into dialogue.

How do you reignite creativity during those inevitable periods of self-doubt or stagnation?

I try to give myself space for silence. I might not go to the studio for an entire month, and then return and produce wildly, without a stop. I try to respect my emotional states and not to force the process. I use those moments of apparent stagnation to think, observe, or simply let my mind rest. I trust that creativity never disappears—it withdraws, and then returns with even greater intensity.

Do you believe an artist's passion is something destined or a conscious choice?

I have a rather romantic view of life, so I inevitably believe in destiny. But I also believe that destiny can bend or become distorted. At that point, choice appears: the possibility of supporting, sustaining, or even pushing that destiny so that it does not collapse. For me, artistic vocation emerges from that tension between something that seems already given and the conscious decisions we make to allow that path to unfold.

How does your art engage with or comment on pressing contemporary issues—social, political, or environmental?

I believe my work engages with politics through what I call a politics of affection. My work focuses on others, on emotions, on shared knowledge, and on collective creation. I am interested in thinking about art as a space where it is still possible to produce sensitivity, encounter, and listening. In a world that I perceive as increasingly frivolous and insensitive, I believe that politics of affection will become more and more necessary.

How do you measure the impact of your work—by its reception, its personal meaning, or something else?

In truth, I do not measure the impact of my work. My concern lies more in the process: creating the work consciously and maintaining the most sincere relationship possible with what I am doing. Once the work enters the world, it no longer completely belongs to me. What happens to it is no longer under my control, and I do not feel the need to control it.

What unusual or unexpected sources of inspiration have deeply influenced your work?

I think something unexpected—even for myself—has been the spiritual connection I have with painting. I feel that painting has a power over me, and that I am still only at the beginning of that exploration. There is something mysterious in the process, a kind of dialogue with what has no name but nevertheless returns in  forms, visions in colors, and gestures. Today I feel that painting is a bridge that allows me to communicate with something much wiser and more beautiful.

Do you have any rituals or habits that help you enter a creative state of flow?

When I take breaks between paintings, I go through something almost like a ritual. At first I feel as though I must drag myself toward the blank canvas—there is a lot of anguish and resistance. Gradually, however, I begin to let myself be carried by the process. It often becomes an emotional bombardment of doubt, fear, and frenzy. But in the end, almost unexpectedly, the painting appears finished in front of me, and in that moment the pleasure is infinite.

How do you respond to debates about the accessibility of art—should it be exclusive, or is it for everyone?

Art clearly belongs to everyone. Even though some may try to convince us otherwise. Art is an inevitable impulse. It is communication, sharing, and thought, and all of that has always been a profoundly popular act. The essence of art is to be popular. Even if the current context sometimes tries to present it as something reserved for a few, I believe that essence cannot be shaped or restricted. It is something implicit that every one of us carries within.

In an increasingly globalized world, how can artists preserve authenticity and cultural integrity in their work?

I think it will be a major challenge. We are living in a time full of changes, with historical moments unfolding one after another, and we still do not fully know how this will impact artists. In my case, the decision to live in northern Argentina, in a small city surrounded by mountains, helps me lower my anxiety and maintain a certain clarity. I only travel when I need to present an exhibition or take part in a residency elsewhere.

If you could sit down with any creative mind from history, who would it be and what would you ask?

I would sit down with the Argentine poet Alejandra Pizarnik and ask her why art was not enough to save her. 

 
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Throughout this reflection, Ana Won returns to a vision of art rooted in devotion, instinct, and spiritual connection. Painting unfolds as both a personal practice and a collective gesture, shaped by memory, landscape, and the presence of others. Questions of politics, community, and cultural continuity appear not through direct statements but through what Ana Won describes as a politics of affection—an effort to cultivate sensitivity, listening, and shared experience. Within this approach, art remains a living space where the visible and the invisible meet, and where creation continues to serve as a bridge between the inner world and the collective human experience.