Richard Zinon’s approach to painting is a dynamic interplay between movement, intuition, and emotional expression. His broad, gestural brushstrokes place the physical act of painting at the heart of his work, evoking a sense of immediacy and raw energy. With a restrained palette and an emphasis on dark hues, his compositions explore the subtleties of light and contrast, creating a space where the viewer is invited to engage beyond intellectual analysis and embrace a more instinctive, visceral response. Drawing inspiration from Japanese calligraphy, Zinon’s works reject figuration and complex reference in favor of pure, unfiltered emotion, making each piece a testament to the power of artistic spontaneity.
In this conversation, Richard Zinon reflects on the philosophy that underpins his creative process, from the intuitive act of mark-making to the contemplative space he seeks to open for viewers. His upcoming exhibition, Peut Être, at Cadogan Gallery encapsulates the tension between possibility and realization, a theme that resonates deeply with his approach to painting. Working without preparatory sketches and allowing the work to unfold in a single, intense sitting, Richard Zinon embraces the uncertainty that comes with each new canvas. Set against the backdrop of his studio in Brittany, where natural rhythms and meditative rituals influence his state of mind, he shares insights into how his environment and daily practice shape the energy and tone of his work.
Peut Être translates to “maybe” in English—what does this title signify for you and your work in this exhibition?
The “Maybe” first refers to possibility, to potential emergence. For this to happen, a great deal of work is required. On one hand, it involves the careful mastery of preparations—canvas, mixing, texture, colors—and on the other, the magic of the moment when what must come into being appears—or does not. I feel as if I am balancing on a ridge, oscillating between the hope that something true will emerge and the understanding that it might not.
It’s a kind of wager—exhausting—but one that sometimes provides a sense of fulfillment so profound that it is worth repeating. When everything aligns—the preliminary steps, a particular state of mind, confidence in the composition, and the energy of the creative moment—the “maybe” shifts toward “May Be.” Something asserts itself. The works presented in this exhibition are, in a way, “maybes” that have revealed their potential or their power. On closer reflection, “Maybe” is not just the title of the exhibition but a way of approaching art itself.
Moreover, “May Be” also refers to the part left open to the viewer’s appreciation. When I have reached the end of the process, from building the frame to the final drying stage, I feel as though my work is complete. There is something sufficiently strong (or pure) and finished before me. At that point, another space-time opens—the realm of the viewer’s emotions, interpretations, and appreciation. It no longer belongs to me; and yet, I hope the work will impact them in some way, whether consciously or unconsciously.
The exhibition explores themes of self-reflection and temporality. Can you share how these ideas evolved during your creative process?
During the creative process, my ideas are constantly evolving. What remains stable is the attention I pay to composition, color, and a sense of balance. What I observe about myself when facing the canvas is the repetition of a method and a mindset. The construction of the frame, the choice of pigments, and the preparation of the canvas channel my ideas—or rather, give them the possibility to be lived and explored until they become strong enough, combining with a state of tension and emotion so compelling that I have no choice: I must paint.
For a long time, I studied the complexity of forms, composition, and figuration to approach the natural. Today, the natural I seek is the perfection of a stroke that corresponds to the movement of the heart, the body, and the mind. Part of my work is about nurturing ideas and then suspending them to make room for emotion. I am, therefore, constantly on the lookout for the emotions that pass through me. I strive to be as truthful as possible in the way I capture the moment, inhabit it, and experience it. Each work carries this within it.
Freddie Burness, the Director of Cadogan Gallery called this exhibition “ambitious in both scale and vision.” How did the scope of this project challenge or inspire you?
It is true that I have created works in very large formats; I imagine that is what Freddie refers to when he speaks of scale. As for vision, I am surely not the best judge of that. However, this project, this exhibition ‘Peut Être’ holds particular significance for me.
Firstly, because its name asserts something inherent to my way of working. It embraces this, it conveys meaning – that is, a profound meaning for me. I feel that what generally challenges me is not so much the people around me but my deeper aspirations – what lies within me and connects me to Humanity, to those who painted long before me and to those who will paint long after me.
When you work with Freddie and the Cadogan Gallery, you are engaging with people who very quickly and instinctively understood this inner need. As a result, they respect and encourage it. They place in me an almost blind trust, focusing instead on what is essential to them – the connection.
Your move to Brittany and the chapel studio seems deeply tied to this body of work. How has the environment shaped your artistic approach?
Everything around me influences my state of mind. I do not seek to reproduce what surrounds me but rather to capture what happens within me. For this reason, it is essential that I feel at ease in the place where I work. In Kerégal, I experience a calm that is conducive to my focus, to my sense of dissolution, to my search.
From the cliffs, I walk down to the sea on foot, sometimes in the mist, sometimes under a radiant sun. I walk along the paths, through the fields, through the forest. This end-of-the-world atmosphere appeals to me. Everything there is simple and natural, yet everything is austere and rugged, almost wild. This inner fullness that I seek to trace, to translate, or simply to live through painting constantly collides with the chaos of the world, with its uncertainty. How can one find a sustainable balance?
You’ve spoken about daily rituals—your meditative walks and the craftsmanship of your materials. How do these rituals influence the mood or tone of your paintings?
Rituals provide me with a framework for creating. I realised that I had arrived in Brittany, at Kerégal, in the far west, in France, where you have the largest tides in the world. Now, tides are the ultimate rituals. Every six hours, the sea rises and then falls again, endlessly. These cyclical patterns offer me a sense of deep breathing.
They set the rhythm of my daily life, and, lulled by these routines, I find myself better able to appreciate the events that occur. They become ‘remarkable’: a solar storm, a miraculous morning of fishing, a dawn swim, a runaway horse galloping down the road, a dead fawn. These moments take on a whole new dimension.
Your painting process seems to require intense physical engagement. How does this connection between your body and the canvas shape the energy of your work?
There is the time before, when everything is possible, when questions flow incessantly, and I channel them by repeating the same gestures. But the moment I am about to paint, at that exact point of tension, I belong to the present. Everything aligns to bring together what I want, what I can, and what I already see. I focus all my energy on that moment of decision. As for my body, I train it to maintain the fluidity of movement. It is what roots me firmly in the present.
Of course, sometimes with smaller formats, it is less severely tested, but often it must remain flexible and mobile enough to serve my emotion. I ask a lot of it: from carrying the weight of the frames, preparing the canvases, achieving precision in the mix, to the speed of the gestures and the accuracy of my steps. The works bear witness to my grounding in space and time.
The act of waiting—trusting the pigments and oils to settle—sounds like a crucial part of your process. How do you know when a painting has reached its final form?
We spend a large part of our lives waiting – for a sign, a person, the right moment, death… I feel that my work also involves waiting; the Greeks call it kairos. It is about seizing the right moment. After painting, I stand before the canvas. I wait, and then I step away. When I return to it, I know that the work is right. Why? That’s hard to explain. Its ‘purity’ is evident; the painting feels right, there is something indisputable about it.
And yet, the work is not finished; it simply leaves ‘my world’ to encounter ‘their world’ – the external world. I must admit, I have always been struck by seeing works in a gallery rather than in the space where they were created. With my studio at Kerégal, this is even more true. The contrast between here and there is so striking
Looking back at your journey with Cadogan Gallery—from your first exhibition in 2022 to now—how has your relationship with the gallery impacted your artistic growth?
I don’t particularly like looking into the past, but I can do so gladly on this subject. I must say that the relationship with Cadogan Gallery and with Freddie has been very special from the start. They respect my timing, my choices, and my desires. With them, I feel listened to, not just heard. When I express my aspirations, they are genuinely interested; they offer me a space for dialogue. Through this partnership, I create in freedom – I can go wherever I wish, take risks, and explore. I don’t think I have ever experienced this before in my work, at least not to this extent.
