Based in LA, Sol Summers has constantly found a fascination with the desert and the truths that arise from the mysterious mythological American West. Although he is skilled at human portraits (his one of Joan Agajanian Quinn featured in Interview), he explains that his favourite pieces to paint are landscapes, as they are perfect places to reflect the changing times and explore his own story too. His paintings are memorable because of the vivid colours, the detailed portrayal of light and the rich textures that evoke nature realistically, taking notes from modern photography.
He tells us that he admires the fragility that arises in deserts from balancing on the edge of the world, as well as the streak of survival and adaptation that makes the desert and cacti an enduring landmark.
With the successful solo presentation Parhelion at the Untitled Art Fair in the rearview mirror, Sol confesses he feels that his body of work is becoming more cohesive than ever and he’s more confident in following his instincts. He has taken this philosophy to the group show Saddle Up: Artistic Journeys Through Cowboy Culture in LA, curated by Devon DeJardin, which is showing until the 29th of March at Albertz Benda. Sol’s contribution understands the West not only as a place, but as a state of mind and a far-reaching environment, one that can encapsulate autonomy, boldness and endurance, both individually and as a society.
How are you? How have the LA wildfires affected you, your people, or your shows?
I’m doing well, thanks for asking. I was actually out hiking when the fires started but thankfully, I made it out safely.
Could you introduce yourself and tell us how you came to find your specific visual identity and voice?
Sure, my name is Sol Summers. I’m a painter based in Los Angeles. As for “visual identity”, I’ve got a mixed relationship with the term. My visual identity isn't something that came about consciously, it was something I arrived at visually. Which makes it hard to put that process into language.
There are two ways to think about identity. George Bernard Shaw said, “Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.” But Michelangelo had another take, “The sculpture is already complete within the marble block. I just have to chisel away the superfluous material.”
I’ve always felt like that sculpture, trapped inside the marble. The process isn’t about adding, it’s about stripping away, unlearning. The core is always there. The goal is to strip everything else away. If there’s one thing that’s always guided me in my creative process, it’s curiosity. That’s where I’ve always started — from a feeling, an instinct, a pull toward something I don’t fully understand. Painting has always been about following that feeling: what stays with me, what lingers long after I’ve seen it.
There are two ways to think about identity. George Bernard Shaw said, “Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.” But Michelangelo had another take, “The sculpture is already complete within the marble block. I just have to chisel away the superfluous material.”
I’ve always felt like that sculpture, trapped inside the marble. The process isn’t about adding, it’s about stripping away, unlearning. The core is always there. The goal is to strip everything else away. If there’s one thing that’s always guided me in my creative process, it’s curiosity. That’s where I’ve always started — from a feeling, an instinct, a pull toward something I don’t fully understand. Painting has always been about following that feeling: what stays with me, what lingers long after I’ve seen it.
You’ve mentioned in other interviews that your paintings are meant to reflect contemporary times. Right now, climate change is threatening life and ecosystems in the desert in ways that often go unnoticed. How does this factor into your art?
The desert is often mistaken for a place of permanence: unchanging, stagnant. But in reality, it’s a landscape shaped by adaptation. It’s adaptation taken to the extreme. The desert is an edge. And I think creative people are drawn to edges, literally and figuratively. Our studios are on the edge of town, the work itself lives on the edge of the familiar. Edvard Munch once said, "My whole life has been spent walking by the side of a bottomless chasm, jumping from stone to stone. Sometimes I try to leave my narrow path and join the swirling mainstream of life, but I always find myself drawn inexorably back towards the chasm's edge.”
Edges are unstable places. That’s why we end up there. That’s why we stay. The edge of thought, the part of the mind where ideas flicker but haven’t yet taken shape. That’s where the excitement is. In these paintings I keep returning to the moments of sunrise and sunset, fleeting windows where the world looks unfamiliar, colour breaks apart, and the whole thing tilts toward something unreal. There’s fragility in those moments. And I think that mirrors the desert itself, an ecosystem balanced on the edge, surviving by adaptation alone.
Edges are unstable places. That’s why we end up there. That’s why we stay. The edge of thought, the part of the mind where ideas flicker but haven’t yet taken shape. That’s where the excitement is. In these paintings I keep returning to the moments of sunrise and sunset, fleeting windows where the world looks unfamiliar, colour breaks apart, and the whole thing tilts toward something unreal. There’s fragility in those moments. And I think that mirrors the desert itself, an ecosystem balanced on the edge, surviving by adaptation alone.
Cowboy culture and iconography have been reinterpreted in pop culture over the past few years, challenging traditional myths of the American West. What are your thoughts on the protagonist of the Western mythos?
The cowboy has always been a figure of reinvention. At its core, the myth of the West is about survival, self-reliance, and the tension between freedom and isolation. It’s a deeply romanticised idea, and one that I connect to in some ways. But I’m less interested in the cowboy and more interested in the landscape and conditions that created them. That’s the real protagonist of the West, in my mind, is not a single figure, but the environment itself.
Cacti are a recurring symbol in your paintings. The resilience and resourcefulness attributed to cowboys are also mirrored in how cacti thrive in extreme conditions. What does resilience mean to you, and how has it shaped your mentality as an artist?
For me, resilience isn’t about brute force or sheer determination, it’s about the ability to change. As Philip Guston said, “We talk about techniques, I think the only technique we can learn is the capacity to be able to change.”
A cactus embodies that perfectly. It has adapted so radically to its environment that it feels almost alien. That’s something I think about a lot as an artist. The work has to keep evolving, has to stay unpredictable, even to me. If you cling too tightly to what’s comfortable, you stop growing. Resilience isn’t about endurance for its own sake; it’s about adaptation, transformation. That’s the real survival instinct.
A cactus embodies that perfectly. It has adapted so radically to its environment that it feels almost alien. That’s something I think about a lot as an artist. The work has to keep evolving, has to stay unpredictable, even to me. If you cling too tightly to what’s comfortable, you stop growing. Resilience isn’t about endurance for its own sake; it’s about adaptation, transformation. That’s the real survival instinct.
Landscape painting is a deeply traditional genre. How do you keep it fresh and innovative?
The fact that landscape painting is so traditional, that it’s been done countless times, is exactly what makes it interesting. How can we look at nature with fresh eyes? How can we see something that’s been seen a million times before and make it feel new? That’s the real question. And it’s a good one, because it demands attention, it forces you to really look.
That’s one aspect. But another is the fact that our relationship with nature itself has changed. The way we see, the way we experience the world, it’s not the same as it was a hundred years ago. Photography, digital media, the constant flood of images, these things have rewired our perception. Elements of photography, like lens flares, have woven themselves into some of my paintings. Just the ability to freeze a sunset, to study its colours in a way painters of the past couldn’t, is something unique to our time. And beyond that, the way we relate to nature, to art, to time itself has shifted. I think there’s still plenty of new territory.
That’s one aspect. But another is the fact that our relationship with nature itself has changed. The way we see, the way we experience the world, it’s not the same as it was a hundred years ago. Photography, digital media, the constant flood of images, these things have rewired our perception. Elements of photography, like lens flares, have woven themselves into some of my paintings. Just the ability to freeze a sunset, to study its colours in a way painters of the past couldn’t, is something unique to our time. And beyond that, the way we relate to nature, to art, to time itself has shifted. I think there’s still plenty of new territory.
Joan Agajanian Quinn mentioned that you completed her portrait in only three sessions. Has that experience made you more open to painting portraits, or does the desert still hold a stronger pull?
Portraits are special because they’re a collaboration. You’re not just painting a likeness — you’re capturing something deeper, something intangible. That being said, the desert has a pull I can’t resist. With portraits, I’m telling someone else’s story. With landscapes, I’m exploring my own. Right now, that’s where my energy is. But I’m always open to revisiting portraits when the right opportunity comes along.
Your recent solo show, Parhelion, at Untitled Art Fair was your first in five years. What made this show different, and what did you learn from it?
Parhelion felt like a turning point. In the past, I sometimes got caught up in perfectionism, but with this show, I let go of that. I trusted my instincts more, which was freeing. The show was also the most cohesive body of work I’ve done, it wasn’t just a collection of paintings; it was a narrative about transformation, resilience, and light. The response was incredibly humbling, and it reaffirmed something I already suspected: the best work happens when you stop second-guessing and just follow what excites you.
You’re part of the current group show Saddle Up: Artistic Journeys Through Cowboy Culture at Albertz Benda LA. What are you bringing to the table, and what does the West mean to you?
For me, the West isn’t just a place — it’s a state of mind. It’s about vastness, self-reliance, the search for meaning, and the ability to change. My contribution to Saddle Up focuses on the desert as a metaphor for endurance and change. The cactus, the shifting light, the intensity of colour, all of it speaks to the extremes of the Western experience, both physically and emotionally.
