Pato Bosich is a remarkable figure on the London art scene. A Chilean-born artist, he brings the Latin, Spanish-speaking world and Western cultures together. His paintings reimagine myth, philosophy, and systems of ancient symbols in a contemporary surrealist idiom. He equally feels at home in ancient cultures and modernist philosophical narratives. You can talk with him for hours—his vision is unexpected, original, and fiercely poetic. You will be equally impressed by the range of his knowledge, the depth of his feelings, and the striking insights you will experience while conversing.

It is impossible to publish the whole interview I had with him—it is so dense in ideas and images that I would probably end up with a small booklet rather than an article. I hope that you will dive into Pato’s world with me and re-emerge astonished, intellectually refreshed, and inspired.

Pato, you have been a painter your whole life. How did you start making art? How did art become your calling?

Yes, this is something I keep thinking about. But the simple answer is: I do not remember. The only thing that I remember is that I would always draw when I was a child.

So, were you constantly doodling as a kid?

I would say yes. And it was very playful, very physical, and very fun. There was a time when parents would give their kids various drawing sets to calm them down and to keep them busy (all this was obviously happening before the internet). Looking back at it, I do not remember starting and suddenly being hooked on art. But now, as a grown-up, I can see that I was destined to become an artist. There has always been such a great sense of adventure in drawing and in games that I was playing. It was a constant part of my childhood world. It has always been there, even before I realized it. Making art and drawing and painting as an adult completely connects me to my childhood.

So, how do you manage to keep alive and nurture this inquisitive, curious spirit that keeps you going?

I like to distinguish between curiosity and wonder. Curiosity is related to the sense of wonder, but it is very specific. Meanwhile, wonder is something more spiritual, more general, and mysterious even. It has the tendency to descend out of nowhere and catch me unawares. I can keep the sense of wonder mainly by making art. I feel the light is growing dimmer when I have not been making art for a long time, you know?

What is art to you in this case?

I would like to go back to this wonderful quote of Nietzsche, who is a source of so many wonderful aphorisms. I have always liked this one: “We have art in order not to die of the truth” (“The Will to Power” §822), so that the reality would not destroy us. Artworks and aesthetic experience can be as vital to humans as the Truth is. To me, Nietzsche’s maxim is like a magical spell or a magical circle to keep the heartache and the disillusionment at bay.

The realm of art, my journey there, precedes me and extends beyond me. And for this reason, I completely disagree with Ernst Gombrich’s famous dictum from the preface to his well-known book “The Story of Art”: “There is no such thing as art. There are only artists." As I see it, the artists are not the source of art. They are not autonomous from the art as a continuity, a process.

The encounter with art is beyond therapeutic and far greater than one’s egotistical preferences, likes, or dislikes. It is “the glue of existence,” something that keeps one’s whole being alive. Reading poetry or reciting it to myself also gives me the same kind of music-like attunement, a similar kind of magic.

In this case, how do music, poetry, and painting interconnect?

Walter Pater, who wrote on aesthetics, famously stated, “All art constantly aspires towards the condition of music.” This is remarkable, because in music, it doesn't matter. Of course, the sound resonates through the air, but in a sense, it is all spirit. In alchemy, one aspires to transmutation, trying to spiritualize the matter. But music is already spiritualized. I like to think that painting aspires to the condition of poetry, because poetry eludes definition or description. Here, I again return to the sense of wonderment about the present, the nostalgia for the present even. Has it happened to you that you have seen something thousands of times, and then suddenly it appears as new and different when you suddenly experience a sense of wonder?

What you are saying here reminds me of Plato, who, through the voice of Socrates, famously stated that "wisdom (or philosophy) begins in wonder” (Theaetetus 155d). This idea then resurfaces in Aristotle’s first book of Metaphysics, stating that “human beings originally began philosophy, as they do now, because of wonder…” And then, of course, Heidegger dedicates his whole lecture to wonder in “The Need and the Necessity of the First Beginning and the Need and the Necessity of an Other Way to Question and to Begin” in 1937-38 and exhorts us to acknowledge that philosophy is not only wondrous in essence but also becomes “more wondrous the more it becomes what it really is.” So, what you are saying about art is very much consistent with a very ancient tradition of philosophical thought that has continued until the present.

Yes, I subscribe to this. Both music and wonder come to you immediately and hit you. However, poetry is demanding; it requires some isolation. And yet, it is so rewarding! You may think these are just some phrases on paper, but they awaken the highest in you, if you connect with them, of course. Some of them can be long exercises in boredom, especially if you do not like certain passages in Milton.

Well, I thought of the poetic and artistic ability to conjure up worlds—they have a lot in common, from my point of view.

In recent years, I have grown more aware of it. Sometimes, when looking at the artwork (I mean, my own as well), I ask myself, "Where's the poem here?" I do not mean in the literal sense of illustrating anything, but in the sense of, “Ok, here is a composition with a man with a helmet and a horse, or a horse and a muse. How do I highlight this relationship?” And recently I began to notice the interrelation between symbols in my own works, as well as the way they are painted and the way they resonate. That made me think about sonnets.

I cannot always fit into the composition everything I wish to express, sometimes because of the size of the painting (or rather, the limits that the canvas imposes on the artist). Nevertheless, I am more aware now of how one painting can echo the other, how they reverberate. I do not think you can depict a sonnet in painting, but I feel like they have a certain tempo, a certain rhythm and regularity, especially the Latin ones. You start with one theme and then look back to the lines previously written, and then a new development of the theme is introduced, and then a conclusion, and then another line. And this is how it goes.

If we look at modern sonnets, particularly those of Gérard de Nerval and his "El Desdichado," written towards the end of the poet’s life, it is impossible not to notice some mysterious connections. I have always loved this poem, for I believe its hidden protagonist is Orpheus. The sonnet is not just a self-description but also a description of the universe. And there are Orphic references in the mention that the protagonist “crossed the Acheron.” He is described as the prince of the abolished Tower and the Black Sun of Melancholia—I think Nerval must have been strongly influenced by Dürer when writing these lines. The understanding of these interconnections comes in a flash, and I feel drawn into this poetic world. It becomes part of me. Nerval’s images begin to inhabit my world, my studio. They become so vivid that I can literally see a siren floating downstairs below. And the studio itself starts expanding. Nerval’s poetry is so condensed, its symbolism has such remarkable density that it sets his readers’ own imaginations on fire.

The experience of such close connection with a poem instantly inspires me to express this in my art. And you might notice some poetic reverberations in my paintings, too.

If one is lucky enough to work uninterrupted, the whole poetic kingdom emerges and grows stronger in art. It starts taking on real meaning and becomes resistant to destructive onslaughts of the real world.

I believe it is equally challenging for an artist, poet, or musician to keep the balance between their own world and the real world outside. If one stays only in one’s own world, one can drown in it, but if one lets the reality in too much, it can destroy the artistic vision and stifle it with routine and everyday problems.

Yes, and the Muse will abandon you, if we are to speak in terms of the Greek mythology.

And yet, you need the outside world to keep sane. So, how do you maintain this balance?

I frankly do not know how I manage it. I do not have any special system. It is a difficult thing with its own dangers.

Talking of danger, it can be productive to a certain degree, because it gives one a sense of urgency. As humans, we opt for something easy and superficial to avoid straining ourselves. I would love to make a great painting in one fell swoop, but it does not work this way, because the quality of the artwork will inevitably suffer. So, one has to struggle, searching for the right expression, but it should not be just that. All great art is not just struggle; it is also a space to breathe. It is flowing and alive, not just labored. Again, we talk here about a different kind of balance needed to produce a great work of art: inspiration and hard work coexisting in perfect harmony.

One can feel proud about being able to survive while following one’s artistic vocation. At the same time, many artists are constantly beset by worries about whether they will be able to continue to do so. Being a celebrity may free one of such worries but can also become a challenge. For instance, rock musician Jimi Hendrix was asked about how he could sing the blues, the music of hardship and struggle, at the peak of his fame and wealth. So, success can sometimes separate artists from their art or curb their freedom of expression.

You have already mentioned art as alchemy, a transformation. Could you explain it in more detail?

Yes, alchemy has lent itself to the likes of Carl Gustav Jung and some contemporary artists, like Anselm Kiefer. Nowadays, we view it as a precursor to science, to chemistry, but it is a whole universe in itself. In the Middle Ages, it was exalted as the art of arts, the wisdom and practice of making the elixir of life, turning dead material into gold. Simultaneously, its hidden aspect taught about the transfiguration and transmutation of the inner self. Alchemical teaching becomes more widespread when the presence of the divine is receding, diminishing.

There are many reasons why obscure alchemical language is so attractive, but ultimately, it focuses on the process of transmutation. Alchemical writings developed their own symbolic and plastic systems, to which I have always felt connected. When talking about art, I keep referring to a metaphor of magic potion: for producing something unique, one might need a flower from the rarest mountain and some cat’s whiskers, but also, metaphorically speaking, a drop of one’s own blood. Art is not necessarily about doing something because one feels like it. It is diametrically different. It is about undergoing the dance of transmutations with elements that are beyond oneself. And this changes everything. Today, you may see lots of artworks in their own trademark style pushed at us, but these artworks lack vitality because the artists have not connected themselves to them and have not “bled” into them. One can engage in endless debates about technique, but art needs to be dangerous and important and essential. It needs to be a matter of life and death. Only then can it reach another person.

So, would this explain the title of your series, “You Bleed Me, I Levitate”? It has taken on a completely new meaning for me now.

Yes, this series with bleeding sun and levitation and metals has a lot to do with alchemy in the sense that the images came to me as representations of actual elements or planets. This is why gold appears as an element of the image of the bleeding sun. In the series “Towards the End,” I made an art book, bound in such a way that the sun represented there is moving along and melting into the earth, and the earth merges into the sun. I would have never arrived at this idea had I not been trying to work on something contingent.

Also, the idea of the Magician has always been very important to me, especially in relation to the “encirclement” practice. In order to perform a magical operation, one must create a sacred space, a circle, upon which the rest of the world cannot intrude. I view this process as analogous to painting, when a magical circle (studio) condenses and enhances the impressions, ideas, and latent forces (without this everything turns into chaos, as in real life). The second verse of the Emerald Tablet reads, “as above, so below,” the fundamental law of correspondences. However, I believe that the reverse is also true: it is not just the universe that impacts us; it can also be influenced by what happens “below,” in the studio.

Many scientific ideas of the early modern and present era stem from the disconnection with the universe. In my opinion, this loss of connection starts with Descartes, the "father of modern philosophy," who ushers in the philosophy of rationalism. All of a sudden, the Moon that was seen as a personification, to which people emotionally connected in the Middle Ages, turns into a dead rock floating in space. The world becomes disjointed, alienated from itself. What I am trying to say here is that Nietzsche, when he proclaimed the death of God, did not mean the literal death of God as a person but rather the collapse of the old belief in divine order that governed the universe. So, I see my task as an artist in re-establishing these lost connections and making the world cohesive again.

Among your media are pencil, charcoal, oils, even wine and ink, and metal leaf. What draws you to such diverse materials, and how do you decide on materiality for a given piece?

I believe that, unwittingly, we explore certain issues and express them in painting. Sometimes, I do not have to think about the choice of materials—the subject itself dictates the medium. So, when I need to make a choice, I feel lost. When it feels like there is no choice, I know exactly what I am doing. And sometimes the next painting is contained within the painting I am currently working on.

The artist’s discovery of their own voice, their own subject, usually comes together with a preference for certain media. I have noticed that in great works of art there is no difference between content and form. It is useful to separate one from the other for the purpose of critical analysis, or at the initial stages, when one is still learning. However, the message and the medium are interdependent. In my case, every new step I made was marked by a transition to a different technique. I always look at the painting and think about what it might need or, rather, what it is asking for.

I have always drawn a lot and for a long time used graphite pencil. In the early 2000s, I was coloring in my drawings, and I was very scared of giving up the line (and I occasionally see this fear in other artists). Gradually, I began to add more color, and the line began to get threatened. I also would draw with charcoal on thick paper and then glue it to canvas and then apply watercolor paints and mix them. Until the moment arrived when I was ready to make an amazing painterly discovery that the line didn’t exist. What one calls a line is, in fact, the point where two forces meet. Alchemically speaking, if you believe that your materials are alive, because they are, you might eventually arrive at this conclusion. If you have a small canvas and very big brushes and you start painting color fields, you will see the lines forming between them.

If we talk about oils, they are a challenge. When I had a go at oils, it was a disaster because I couldn't rely on the line anymore, at least not the way I used to. And I still occasionally struggle with this.

Around the same time, I was introduced to printmaking. I found it to be an interesting process, especially collagraphy and etching.

And the metallic surfaces, like gold leaf or silver leaf—how did they come about? They seem to have appeared in your paintings very recently.

I think that the metals came to me in winter, by the fireplace in my studio. I was working on a painting from “The Ship of Fools” series, and this canvas features orange skies. It was a late night, and I could see golden reflections of fire flames dancing on the surface of my painting. So, I contacted someone about applying the gold leaf, and that person dismissed my ideas. He said I needed a special brush and no wind (my studio is very draughty). So, I ended up applying gold leaf or silver leaf with my fingers. And now I have my own way with metal leaves.

And what about your wine and ink technique?

I've worked with it for a long time, especially when studying the works of old masters at the National Gallery. At that point I realized that the line was not enough. I occasionally used some wine to add shape and texture to my images. And then, after much experimenting, I mixed wine with ink. And when they mix, they create an amazing wealth of textures. To me, it felt like my own artistic voice was finally emerging, because I did not like to just copy in a traditional way.

As you see, different techniques and materials came to me for a particular reason when I was working on various series. They were never an end in themselves. By trial and error, sometimes through much effort and dissatisfaction, one medium would eventually guide me to another.

I think it is crucial for an artist to find their subject, their fate in a way, and to understand what they are good at. We can look at biographies of various artists, and perhaps the best example is Paul Cézanne. Cézanne arrived at his own subject very late in life. If you look at Van Gogh, as he experienced shifts in his vision, his application of paints would also change. You simply cannot separate one from the other.

Which historical or mythological figure would you most like to have a conversation with?

If we speak about a mythological figure, it is Orpheus.

If we think of a historical figure… I had a few dreams in which we talked with Borges and Goethe. I would have really loved to meet with Van Gogh. But I would rather hang out with him than talk. There is an excellent anecdote about Woody Allen and Ingmar Bergman, who met at Bergman’s place in the 1970s. Despite the opportunity to have a conversation, they spent the whole evening without exchanging a single word. Obviously, Allen had seen all of Bergman’s films. So, Bergman’s presence was enough.1

So, if I met Van Gogh, I would have offered him my sympathy and support. I would probably have sat with him in silence. It seems like he was so hungry for friendship and love.

I often think that your art and music go together, so if you could turn your art into a soundtrack, what might that be?

Yes, they do go together, but I am afraid that my works would rather sound like Jimi Hendrix. There are so many different moods in every works! It is rock’n’roll, but not a very structured one, because Hendricks hovered over the abyss, you know? His music travels into places, and I connect with this. His music is not painting, but it is very much like painting!

And Charlie Parker would be my next choice. I am not necessarily saying he is my favorite, but he opens worlds that carry different moods and ideas. And I need to feel this for my art.

An artwork that you wish you had made?

Well, something like “Las Meninas.” It is a whole stage. The moment you look at it, you arrive at such a magnificent event!

What role does philosophy play in your art?

I think philosophy holds a very important role for me, but in the sense of reading it badly, reading it wrong. In the way Jorge Luis Borges did it. On reading Hume, he would not argue with Hume or question his philosophical terms. He would write a short story as if Hume was right. I here refer to his aesthetics of creative misunderstanding, which encourages readers to become active participants in the creative process, transforming the text (or an artwork) rather than passively consuming a fixed meaning. This is also what I practice in my painting. I apply philosophical ideas like brushstrokes: a little bit here, a little bit there.

With different philosophies I can associate different pictorial and mental spaces, the odd ones and the new and exciting ones. I believe that good philosophers can help one get in a poetical mood or inspire one to create, and I like to think along with them. I feel like they are around me. Someone like Goethe, whose works are so vital and full of, surprisingly, common sense but also solid and spiritual, can become a lifelong companion. I would sometimes sit in the kitchen and discuss passages from Goethe’s literary and philosophical works with my friends. Or these could be Michel Foucault’s works. Yes, I do need philosophy.

Your paintings have a certain surreal, dreamlike quality. How does this happen?

Many people have told me that my paintings have a dreamlike quality. Perhaps I am just dreaming in a waking state. I do have that sense of dreaming when I am painting, when I am joining things together or balancing them out.

Dreaming is an involuntary process that reveals hidden or long-forgotten workings of the psyche. As a painter, one also wishes to arrive at the state when something manifests itself through you. At the best moments, painting does feel like lucid dreaming. I like to compare such receptive states to switching to a radio frequency when the signal reaches you without, eh, what's that called? Interference. Yes, without interference…

Pato Bosich was educated at Camberwell College of Arts (BA, Painting), and having exhibited worldwide in Europe, Eastern Europe, Asia, and the Americas, Bosich held his shows at the Museum of Modern Art (MAM) (Chiloé), Porter Contemporary (New York), Courtauld Institute, Somerset House (London), Nationalmuseum (Stockholm), Ateneum Art Museum (Helsinki), National Academy of Arts (Sofia), Museo de Artes Visuales (Santiago), La Fundació Catalunya-Amèrica (Barcelona), and Gervasuti Foundation (Venice), among many others. His works were also acquired into the collection of the Museum of Modern Art (MAM Chiloé).

He co-founded “Three Highgate Gallery” in North London in 2021. Pato’s most recent exhibitions took place at SunGallery (Seoul), and the one at Art&Talking Gallery in Oxfordshire will run until November 30, 2025.

Notes

A Lifelong Liaison.

1 As actress Liv Ullmann reminisced in her 2001 interview with The Guardian: Then there was the night with Woody Allen and Bergman. "I was doing A Doll's House a long time ago on Broadway, and Woody Allen was kind of courting me, probably to get to know Ingmar. Then Ingmar came to New York to see me in A Doll's House. He stayed in a hotel with Ingrid, whom he had just married. I told him Woody Allen wanted to meet him. Ingmar wanted to meet him, and he said, "Come to my suite, and we will have dinner." Woody Allen came to get me, and he was so excited, he was shivering and talking, talking. Anyway, Ingmar opened the door and said, "Welcome." That’s all he said. And the two of them looked at each other. Two geniuses met. We sat down at the table—and this is the honest-to-God truth: Ingrid was sitting there, I was sitting there, Ingmar was there, and Woody Allen was there—and they did not talk. They just looked at each other, almost lovingly.

…And the two of them would look at each other and smile. Look at these two sweet women... They never talked. They never talked. They laughed at each other but never said a word. Then it was over, and they said goodbye. On the way home Woody Allen said, “Thank you. He is an incredible man.” I couldn’t believe it. Then, when I came home, Ingmar called, “Thank you, Liv; what an incredible meeting.”