"I was born beside a volcano, and that telluric energy remains present in my work."

Spanish artist Fernando Bosch creates mixed-media abstract paintings inspired by the Earth’s surface. Growing up beside the Bandama Caldera in the Canary Islands, he was surrounded by volcanic rocks that developed his early sensitivity to texture and color. Fernando’s creative interests began with music, which he studied for several years at a conservatory as a child, followed by literature and painting. Encouraged by his teacher, he decided to pursue art and brought the landscapes of his childhood into his painting. He works on the floor of his spacious, white studio, furthering the connection between his art and the earth. When not making art, Fernando enjoys walking through the countryside and draws inspiration from the natural formations around him.

In this interview, Fernando talks about his family, inspirations, and the landscapes that shape his work.

Please tell us about yourself. What’s your home life like? What are your special interests?

I live in Torrelodones, near Madrid, with my wife, who is a lucid and strategic presence in my life. We have two children: the younger studies electric bass at the Royal Conservatory of The Hague, and the older is a philosopher and writer, currently between Uruguay and Brazil. Though each is on their own path, we remain connected not only by phone, but through an internal form of listening that transcends distance.

My home life is shaped by silence, concentration, and rhythms that allow painting to emerge. I paint in a space where gravity has a voice, where matter transforms slowly. I’m drawn to processes that reveal rather than impose: light, weight, color, time.

What are you most proud of—whether in art or another part of your life?

I’m proud of my children, of how each has found their voice in such different worlds: my son in music and my daughter in philosophy and writing. Watching them unfold with freedom and depth is a form of beauty that moves me.

I’m also deeply grateful and proud of my wife, who is a light. Her clear gaze and way of being sustain and guide me, both in the everyday and the essential. She has accompanied my artistic practice without trying to define it, and that has been a gift.

As for my painting, I’m proud of having sustained a search that hasn’t yielded to ease or immediacy. I’ve learned to listen to matter, to let gravity speak, and to trust that gesture can summon presence.

Do you have any studio rituals that help you get into a creative flow?

Before painting, I need the space to be silent. It’s not so much a technical preparation as an internal disposition. Sometimes it’s enough to observe how light falls on a surface, how dust moves, how the air tightens. I want the body to be available, attention to be sharpened.

There are days when I simply clean the studio, without intending to paint, and that gesture already prepares something. Other times, I reread fragments of philosophy or poetry—not to illustrate anything, but to refine my listening. I paint when I feel matter can speak, when gesture seeks not to control but to accompany.

And there’s always a memory that accompanies me: the volcanic rhythms of the Canary Islands, where I was born. There I learned to listen to the silence between stones, the gravity of the landscape, the vibration of what remains unsaid. That mineral memory is present in every work, like a pulse that returns me to origin.

How do you structure your day?

My day begins early, with coffee, toast, and silence. I like the first hours to be free of external noise, as if the world hasn’t fully awakened yet. I usually meditate and read. I don’t always start by painting, but I do start by refining attention.

Then I move to my studio and work in blocks, letting the body set the pace. If painting doesn’t appear, I don’t force it. I go for a walk, prepare something, and return. Some days the concentration is intense, while on others the gesture needs air. The rhythm isn’t fixed, but it is ritual.

The memory of the Canary Islands also structures my day, even from afar. The slow pulse of the volcanic landscape, the gravity of the stones, the way time settles into matter, all of that accompanies me, even in the most domestic moments.

Where do you find inspiration for your art?

The memory of the volcanic landscape of the Canary Islands is always present. There, I learned that matter has a voice, that time settles into stones, and that emptiness is also form. That mineral memory runs through my practice—not as reference, but as impulse.

I’m also inspired by everyday gestures, rhythms that don’t seek to be seen, tensions that hold without breaking. I paint to accompany those presences, so that something may manifest without being explained.

Tell us about your evolution as an artist.

I was born beside a volcano, in the Canary Islands, and that telluric landscape shaped how I see the world. From a young age, I felt that matter had a voice, that color could vibrate like lava, and that painting was a way to express that silent energy. I was fascinated by Van Gogh: his intensity, his way of seeing, his need to paint as if breathing.

I was lucky to have an art teacher who encouraged me early on to follow that impulse. At 18, I held my first printmaking exhibition, and it was a sales success. That confirmed for me that painting was not just a passion, but also a way of being in the world—and making a living.

Over time, my practice became more abstract, more ritualistic. I learned to work with layers, with weight, with silence. I paint as one who accompanies a transformation, without imposing a form. Each work is a listening, a tentative presence. And in that gesture, I continue to recognize the volcano’s pulse.

How do you decide when an artwork is finished?

There’s no fixed rule, but I know a work is finished when it stops asking something of me. When there’s no longer tension between what is and what could be. I paint from listening, and that listening tells me when to let go.

What is the most interesting observation someone has made about your work?

I’ve heard many things that have touched me. One of the most frequent is that my painting hypnotizes—that people can’t stop looking at it, as if something holds them without knowing why. That insistence of the gaze, that suspended time before the work, moves me deeply.

I’m also often praised for the color, for the strength it conveys. People speak of a physical vibration, of an energy felt beyond the visual. Some say my paintings seem to have weight, as if the matter were alive. Others speak of a sense of silence, of suspension, as if time folded into the canvas.

What I value most in these observations is that they don’t try to explain the work, but share what happens to them while being with it. And that, to me, is essential: that painting summons a presence, that it doesn’t exhaust itself in the gaze or in discourse.

Is there an artwork from another artist that has had a significant impact on you

From a young age, I was fascinated by Van Gogh. His way of painting was like breathing urgently, as if each stroke were a vital need. I was moved by his intensity, his way of seeing the world through pain and beauty.

Later, “Autumn Rhythm” by Jackson Pollock shook me—not for its composition, but for the pure energy it transmits. It’s painting as living matter, as revelation. I’m drawn to that kind of gesture that doesn’t represent, but appears. That doesn’t seek to please, but to manifest.

But perhaps the deepest experience I had was in front of Picasso’s Guernica. One day, I went to the museum and stood before it from opening to closing. I couldn’t move. I felt the painting spoke to me from a place beyond reason. It was pain, history, body, scream. It pierced me. That day was a kind of rite, a confirmation that painting can contain the uncontainable.

What’s your favorite museum?

The Reina Sofía Museum holds a special place for me, especially because of Picasso’s Guernica, a work that marked me deeply. I’m also drawn to the Prado Museum for its pictorial density, and the Musée d’Orsay—particularly the 19th-century French academic painting section, where I study structure, tone, and anatomy.

I know my painting sits far from those classical languages, but that’s precisely why I value them. Pictorial history is fertile ground—not to repeat, but to understand where we come from. I believe that without that memory—without that dialogue with what precedes us—there’s no way to build a meaningful future. For me, that’s evolution. My work doesn’t seek to break with tradition, but to transform it from another pulse—more telluric, more abstract, but equally attentive.

As I learned at the Academy of Fine Arts: “Everything that is not tradition is plagiarism.”

Is there anything else you’d like to share to help viewers better understand your work?

I want viewers to approach without haste, without expectation. To allow themselves to be with the work as one is with a stone, a cloud, a body. To listen to what the painting returns to them, even if they can’t name it.

I was born beside a volcano, and that telluric energy remains present in my work. I paint from that geological memory, from that tension between what emerges and what endures. And though my language is abstract, it’s full of history, tradition, and listening.

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If you enjoyed this article about Fernando Bosch's life and artwork, we recommend reading our interview with landscape artists Theresa Andreas-O'Leary and Jay Jensen.