There is an injunction, demanded by the popular imaginary, for clarity in visual art (as well as writing and films)—we want to know what a creation means. Without this, the modern viewer feels dazed and disoriented: The work seems empty, devoid of anything substantive; we dismiss it. One does not want to look at art if one cannot read the wall-text and immediately understand it.
Of course, an entire arena of modern art is dedicated to challenging the impulse for clarity, namely abstract, non-figurative art. Yet, non-representational art’s purpose is broadly transparent: It lies in its very defiance of directness. But what about art that falls somewhere between? Pieces that supply the viewer with an occasional figurative subject and subtle hints of meaning, here and there, but deny them the directness one desires, relying instead on self-effacement and obscurity.
Garo Hakimian, a Montreal-based artist, situates his work at the precise juncture between an enigmatic confusion that frustrates clarity and purposive substance—chaotic, wildly drawn pieces punctuated by their own furtive inner-iconography and titles like WWIV, Fish of God, and Dog Eat Dog.
Hakimian does not set out to necessarily be conceptually cogent or formally inventive, instead adhering to an instinctual sensibility that orients his work—allowing technique and form to bring him there. Beginning with a guiding instinct, he uses oil, charcoal, spray paint, and the materiality of the canvas to achieve a faithful representation of that initial amorphous idea, arising from an incommunicable feeling.
I interviewed Hakimian to discuss his first international solo exhibition, Layers of Transformative Journeys, on view at SPACE776 in New York, until May 21st. His responses, like his work, approach truth obliquely (using the material of words instead of image), which may be the only way to reach a certain kind of truth.
Teddy Duncan: I wanted to begin by asking about the title of this exhibition, Layers of Transformative Journeys. Could you tell me about this title and how you feel it captures the artwork in this exhibition? Are the pieces themselves the “transformative journeys”?
Garo Hakimian: The title came to me the way memory returns — layered, fragmented, sacred. Each piece is not a statement, but a shift — a scar becoming color, a failure becoming form. Nothing is ever finished for me. Each painting carries echoes of the last and the promise of the next. They are not works; they are mutations. This is not an exhibition. This is a living archive of my evolution.
The press release mentions that these pieces reflect an “inner journey” for you as well as the viewer. Can you talk about that inner journey and how it shows up in the work?
I was an easy child, but I didn’t bend. I broke things to understand them. I still do. Losing my father — that was the fracture that never closed. Everything I paint comes from that wound. Not to make it pretty. But to make it real. Every mistake, every love, every scar, every silence — it’s all here. I think people see that, even if they don’t know why. And maybe it gives them permission to look at their own scars differently.
Formally, these paintings employ a fusion of street art, non-figurative abstraction, and representational art. Why did you choose to bring these formal elements together? How does this help you achieve the exhibition’s thematic message of transformation?
I never studied form to follow it. I listen—not to theory, but to instinct. Sometimes the image comes through clarity, sometimes through chaos. Street art, abstraction, figuration — they’re all just different dialects of the same emotional language. Oil and spray paint let me move without needing to explain myself. I destroy, I rebuild, I smear, I let go. That’s transformation. Not the neat kind. The violent, beautiful kind.
Some of your pieces appear to use graffiti as a means of erasure, obscuring the image or contributing an element of chaos to the composition. Is this how you view your use of graffiti?
Maybe. Maybe I’m erasing a thought before it becomes a prison. Maybe I’m trying to outrun myself. Spray paint lets me do that — erase not just form, but mood. It’s a snapshot of a feeling that’s already vanishing. Sometimes it’s rage. Sometimes it’s mercy. It’s the closest I come to prayer.
Two paintings seem to operate along these same lines of purposive obscurity: Fish of God and Jail Time. Both pieces rely on spray paint to generate a sense of chaos, yet they both also transfigure the materiality of the canvas. Fish of God is crumpled; Jail Time has strips torn, resembling bars. Does the play with the materiality of the painting serve the same function as spray paint, or do you view it differently?
Let me first say — Jail Time was my sister Nanor’s title. I later renamed it Man (Self- Portrait) in Cross. Because that’s what it is. A man trapped in something sacred. The tears and rips — they’re not aesthetics. They’re wounds. And in Fish of God, the crumples are waves, or maybe prayers. The canvas stops being surface and starts being skin. I treat every material as equal — none holier than the other. Even destruction is sacred in the right hands.
There are two pieces you’ve made, WWIII (which is not in this exhibition) and WWIV (which is in this exhibition), that display the mass suffering of war and a feeling of geopolitical dread. However, there’s a shift between WWIII and WWIV. In WWIII, humans were central. In WWIV, it’s a reptilian or non-human presence. Why that shift?
Because I no longer trust the idea of the “human” as sacred. I don’t see humans and animals as separate. We devour each other the same. We obey instinct. WWIV is the aftermath of ego — what’s left when the mirror breaks. We think we’re the main character. But evolution doesn’t care about that. The reptile survives the war.
Certain images are repeated across your work — the fish, the cross. Do these become a kind of iconography? Or is each use distinct?
Titles and symbols are a struggle for me. They feel like cages. But yes — the fish, the cross — they return. Sometimes they mean resurrection. Sometimes they mean drowning. The fish is life. The cross is what it costs. But I don’t assign fixed meanings. I let them shapeshift, like dreams. The viewer will find their own gospel.
A kind of visceral suffering permeates these works. From the auto-cannibalistic tangle in Dog Eat Dog to the ambient chaos of Man (Self- Portrait) in Cross. Why does suffering seem central, and how does it shape your process?
Because I don’t trust peace. Not the kind that ignores what hurts. My life, like most people’s, has been a war between yearning and silence. Suffering is not the theme — it’s the soil. And from that, something grows. Sometimes it’s grotesque. Sometimes it’s holy. But it’s always true. And I didn’t choose art. Art chose me. I’m just trying to be honest with the gift… and the cost.
