Adrià Miko did not return to art in a single dramatic moment. The return was quieter than that, built across years of working in fields far removed from painting, during which the drawing never actually stopped. Not one day passed without the thought: I am a painter. I will return to this. What that persistence eventually revealed was not just a passion but a purpose, and the distinction matters to Miko. Passion is intimate. Purpose connects outward, into a collective, into a global language that feeds into itself across time and distance. The work that has emerged from this understanding is grounded in necessity, the need to release something too heavy to carry alone, to give form to what is internal, and to build from that private place something that can function as a bridge. What follows is a conversation about how that bridge gets constructed, and what it is made of.

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

I realized it quite some time after finishing my degree. After graduating, I worked in fields far removed from art. However, even while being away from those artistic spaces, I never stopped drawing and painting. There wasn’t a single day when I didn’t think, “I am a painter — I will return to this.”

At first, I understood it simply as a passion. Over time, however, I began to see that distinguishing between passion and purpose is not always so clear. Passion feels intimate — something you do for yourself, even if others can sense the force that drives you. Purpose, on the other hand, becomes part of something larger than yourself.

When you choose art, you also choose to be part of a collective — a vast network that constantly feeds into itself. Realizing that — that you can inspire others and become part of a global language — is what ultimately gave me clarity and allowed me to recognize it as a life purpose.

What do you think is the most meaningful role an artist plays in society today?

I believe this question can be answered in many different ways, depending on the type of artist. For me, art has the capacity to encompass whatever the artist chooses, always within certain limits.

At its most essential level, art consists of giving value to an object or an action. Almost like an act of magic: something ordinary can become a work that brings joy, expresses identity, or addresses political, environmental, or social concerns. It can also become a daily companion — something quietly essential for someone who needs it.And it is not only the object — the act itself can also be art.Ultimately, art transforms ideas: it activates them, propels them forward, and has the power to generate a response.

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

The evolution of a work, in my case, unfolds in two ways: a specific impulse and a more general framework.The specific impulse is the true starting point. It has to be something I need to release — something that feels too heavy to carry on my own. It must come from a place that feels deeply personal.From there, I begin searching for colors that bring me closer to that idea, and for compositions that can be grasped at a glance, yet still raise questions. Then the more general layer appears: the theme — the axis around which a body of work begins to orbit. That core needs to be solid in order to build coherence. At that point, the work stops being isolated and starts becoming part of a broader practice.

Inspiration can come from many places: technical concerns, compositional decisions, the use of color, or a wider narrative. It is a process I find deeply stimulating, although at times frustrating. Finding yourself is not always easy — but when it happens, it is incredibly rewarding.

Is art created for the artist, the audience, or somewhere in between?

Art is not created exclusively for the artist, nor exclusively for the audience. It comes into being the moment something that did not exist before takes form — and from that instant, a viewer is also present.

The artist creates from a necessity. Many creative people live with this impulse from a very early age: the need to express, to transform, to understand, or to give shape to something internal. But the viewer participates through another equally human impulse — curiosity, and the desire to expand their way of seeing the world.

This is why art functions as a bridge. It can broaden perspective, answer questions, or generate new ones. Sometimes it unsettles, other times it comforts — and often it does both at once.Art may begin as something intimate, but once it is shared, it no longer belongs solely to the person who created it.In that sense, art is for everyone.

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

I think authenticity begins with how we process what we consume. It is easy to want to resemble the artists we admire, but the real challenge lies in transforming those influences into something personal.For me, everything revolves around a process of absorption and release: first I take in references, concepts, or forms, and then I push them back out from a personal place. The result often retains something recognizable, but appears shifted — reinterpreted.It is not about being completely original, but about filtering what you have learned through your own perspective. That is where authenticity begins.

What are five steps you’re taking to ensure your continual growth as an artist?

✧Exploring without a fixed outcome
✧Constantly questioning my own decisions
✧Allowing space for play and enjoyment
✧Trusting the process, even when it feels uncertain
✧Embracing mistakes as part of the work

What artistic “superpower” would you choose to have, and how would it shape your work?

My artistic superpower would be the ability to instantly create surfaces to paint on.

There are moments that invite creation, and being able to respond to them immediately — without limitation — would transform the way I work. It would make the act of painting more direct, more instinctive, and more connected to the present moment.

Can you imagine ever choosing to stop creating art?

I don’t think I ever could. In fact, it is one of my deepest certainties. I cannot conceive of a life without the possibility of expressing the reality that lives inside me. It would be like asking whether I could stop speaking or stop seeing.

In a way, that is what gives me the greatest sense of peace as an artist. This path requires endurance — it is a long-distance journey. Everything depends on oneself, and the process can often feel uncertain, difficult, or uncomfortable.Knowing that there is an inner necessity strong enough to overcome those circumstances makes each step forward feel inevitable.

Even in a reality where my work was never exhibited, or no one wanted to see it, I would still continue creating. Because it moves me. It connects me to myself.I feel emotional not only when looking at past works, but also when imagining and discovering what is yet to come.There is something almost spiritual about being creative — a kind of faith in yourself, and in what is happening while you create.

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Adrià Miko speaks about creativity with the kind of calm that comes not from ease but from certainty. The path is long, the process often uncertain, the circumstances sometimes difficult. None of that changes the fundamental fact: the work continues because it must. Even in a reality where nothing was ever exhibited and no one came to look, the creating would go on, because it connects inward to something essential. There is, as Miko puts it, something almost spiritual about it. A kind of faith in oneself, and in what is quietly happening while the work is being made. That faith is not a feeling that arrives and departs. It is the ground everything else is built on.