Andrew Sendor

The build-up was exciting! When I look back at the solo presentation at Art Brussels this year, there was a real sense of critical engagement and contextual awareness with the European art community. So my solo exhibition at Newchild gallery unfolds as a continuation of that presentation. In terms of the space itself, the gallery's architecture is absolutely exquisite, and it's an honour to be collaborating with Newchild’s founders: Chandler, Diego, and Sarah.

Generally speaking, the titles of my solo exhibitions only reveal themselves once the body of work feels fully realised; when its overall narrative, conceptual framework, and internal logic have crystallised. In my last few solo exhibitions, the titles were based on the internal workings of the underlying fictional narrative, like a symbol or sign that adds another layer to how the work can be approached. For example, my last solo exhibition in Los Angeles at Make Room was titled Salome & Solvej, Apollo & Farne, after the four central characters in that narrative. So for this exhibition, it naturally follows the same approach, with the new narrative unfolding through the perspective of a young aspiring writer, River Wright.

Sure. My process has been following the same trajectory that I’ve been exploring for over a decade. It always begins with constructing a fictional narrative. I’ll witness an internal vision and suddenly see a character, or a group of them, within a particular setting, almost like a cinematic mise-en-scène. As soon as that vision appears, I start writing about it, and this writing process typically continues for two or three weeks. From there, it will develop into a story of approximately three to five thousand words in length.
Once the narrative framework takes shape, I begin thinking about who might inhabit those roles. A key part of this creative journey is collaborating with actors and performance artists who bring these characters to life, which naturally leads to a type of casting process. After the performers have been selected, I then source costumes and move toward a full orchestration of these performative events, which involve set construction, lighting design, and a kind of dramaturgy that underpins the entire sequence. I describe them as performative events rather than performances because they’re not intended for a live audience; they’re private moments, just one step in a larger sequence of creative actions.

The purpose of the performative events is to physically animate key scenes of the overarching narrative. Throughout the duration of these events, I’m constantly documenting through photography and video. That visual documentation essentially becomes the source material for the imagery in the paintings. And it’s worth noting that each work isn’t necessarily based on a single image, but rather a composite, a visual lexicon assembled from moments within the performative events, ultimately shaping the ontology of images that informs the visual language of the paintings. 

It’s an intriguing point you raise. If we go back to that internal vision, it’s a sort of hybridised vision, a fictional world charged with real-world human psychology. Each figure has its own specific role in the narrative, but within this expansive world exists a broad range of psychological archetypes and affective states that I’m also tapping into.
When looking at this show and my most recent works, many of the central characters are children and teenagers. As a parent of two, I do my own research into developmental psychology and have come to understand that children naturally embody a sense of curiosity and wonder; they’re constantly engaging with the world and discovering new things. But they also carry vulnerability and fear as they navigate new emotions and relational dependencies. 
I think that by grounding these characters in this broad spectrum of human psychology, with its tensions between curiosity, fear, and resilience, I’m interested in creating an environment in which audiences can empathise with these characters, almost as an act of intersubjectivity.

It’s an interesting question, and I appreciate you delving into the technical side of my practice. Over the years, I’ve accumulated hundreds of brushes, mostly with synthetic bristles, and I think for me, the choice of brush really depends on the scale of the work, the surface texture of what is being portrayed, or the level of detail I’m aiming for. A question I’m routinely asked is, do you use one-hair brushes to achieve that level of detail? And while I do have some very fine liner brushes, I also rely on older, worn-out brushes. For example, when the bristles are splayed on a worn-out brush, it can be very useful in terms of how it drags paint across the surface — it’s perfect for articulating things such as hair or passages of ocean imagery.

The frames are very important to me, to the point where others have commented that I have a frame fetish! At this point, I often refer to my works as ‘objects that contain painted images rather than paintings.’ Each piece emerges not only from the imagery but also from a measured consideration of its objecthood and materiality, its physical presence in the world. For me, the mounting and framing are integral to the work’s identity, every square centimetre is considered. 
The support on which the paintings are executed (matte white plexiglass) is itself a material choice that defines the physical character of the work. Once the paintings are completed, they are then mounted onto various species of wood, which are stained with a mixture of satin varnish and oil pigments — a custom solution I’ve developed after numerous experiments. They are then set within either a wooden or aluminum-welded frame. For this part of the process, I will work closely with two fabricators: one who handles all the woodwork, following my specifications for the wood species and stain colours, and the other who fabricates the aluminum welded frames. 
I should also note: prior to mounting a painting, I’ll prepare six to eight stained wood samples across different wood species, balancing the chromatic register of the painting with the frame colour and the stained wooden support. I’ll then position each painting against these various stained wooden supports to determine which pairing feels right. And when I say ‘feels right,’ I’m referring to the mounting and framing combination that amplifies the tone and drama inherent in the painting.

With each piece drawn from a key scene within this overarching narrative, I’m always striving for a palpable psychological tension. Sometimes the scenes emerge from a state of becoming, while at other times they arise from the instability of an existential crisis. There are also moments of discovery, elation, or enlightenment, derived from pivotal moments within the performative events that give rise to the ethereal, glowing quality you mentioned. I wouldn’t say I deliberately attempt to achieve this effect; I think this luminosity emerges organically from the emotional states expressed by these characters and, in turn, weaves a connective thread between the works.

When I was a child, if something captivated me, it immediately required my full attention, and I think it’s that kind of intensity which still shapes my relationship with art today. For me, art transforms the simple act of creation into an ongoing phenomenological conversation with myself, and by extension, the world. It’s through this sustained dialogue that ideas evolve and the work begins to take on an ontology and presence beyond me, almost as if it were a kind of transcendence.  
When I post the Dear Painting notes on Instagram, they are direct reflections of what I’m thinking about while working in the studio: unfiltered, raw thoughts. What’s been interesting about these posts is how they’ve resonated with other artists around the globe. Making art can be such a solitary experience, and I think in those moments of connection, we can create a larger creative dialogue — one that grapples with the demands of the process but also opens up space for others to share their personal experiences within its mysteries, paradoxes, and indeterminacies.

That’s a big question! There are so many ways I could explore this important topic. I want viewers to see the work as an invitation, not only to contemplate the imagery but to also reflect their own position within contemporary visual culture. Each piece is intended to operate as an object of inquiry, where narrative, materiality, and affect overlap. I don’t want viewers to extract one definitive meaning, but rather they notice a multiplicity of readings, where questions take precedence over conclusive thinking. What excites me about this exhibition is the possibility of creating a visual and sensory experience that cultivates a space where perception itself becomes elastic, encouraging reflection on how a handmade artwork can still be a vital, resonant component of contemporary culture.