Behold, and Be a Genius, marks a shift toward a unique way of working on canvas. What drew you to this new approach, and how does it feel different in the studio?

For me, it’s never been about why to paint or how to paint, but what to paint. That said, the how sometimes informs the what, which leads me in a new direction. Much of my artistic process is experimental; not knowing what the outcome will be is half the fun. Roughly half of scientific experiments are successful. With painting, the success rate is much lower.

When you’re experimenting with new materials or processes, how do you recognize when something is working?

In recent paintings, the discovery of a latex resist has changed the way they’re made. By isolating certain parts of the surface with this resist, I’m able to control the edges of the forms. It also protects areas from subsequent glazes. This gives me the freedom to be more impulsive and gestural while still maintaining a level of control over what the physical paint does. It’s a balancing act between chaos and cohesion.

When the image feels complete, the resist is peeled from the surface, revealing unexpected results. I’m reminded of how a photograph comes to life as it’s bathed in the developing agent.

Your use of text has such a distinctive voice—sharp, funny, and disarming all at once. How do the phrases find their way into a painting?

I’m interested in texts that are at once absurd and profound. I like the idea of exalting the debased and debasing the exalted. It’s important to use language that has more than one meaning; sometimes the meanings of the words echo the aesthetic quality of the space they inhabit—other times, they contradict it. There’s a gestation period for these phrases; they don’t grow on trees. When one resonates with me, I explore different versions and variations of it.

One piece in the show, I Did It Your Way, turns Frank Sinatra’s classic song “I Did It My Way” on its head. Humour meets heartache, sacrifice, and giving in to powers beyond one’s control—a good example of text that echoes the aesthetic space it inhabits. Another painting, Untitled, Apprentice Work, quotes the author Philip Roth. Here, he describes the basic trajectory of a writer’s (or any artist’s) career: first comes the “apprentice work,” then the “burst of originality,” then “self-imitation,” and finally “trailing off.” Notice the gradual decrease of colour and form as your eye moves from the top of the painting to the bottom. On a broader note, this painting speaks to the inevitable failure of the creative act and, ultimately, death.

The exhibition title comes from Paul Harding’s Tinkers. How do literature and other forms of storytelling influence your visual language?

Concerning literature: a painting is the short story; the museum show is the novel. A painter can hide in the shadows of the work, whereas writers—if they’re being honest—are exposed to things they should probably keep to themselves. Sometimes the physical properties of the book itself are more interesting than the storyline. A word on the page is like a brick—you build the wall one brick at a time. The space between the words, the way your eye moves across the page—all these things can inform the way a painting is constructed.

I know you often have music playing while you paint. What was on rotation in the studio while you were making this series?

I grew up playing in garage bands. Volume, pitch, frequency—these dynamics can be applied to the act of painting as well. A painting can be loud or soft, fast or slow. Paintings can also exist in different time signatures. Now that I’m in my 60s, my musical taste has become more particular (no offence to the Sex Pistols!). I listen mostly to jazz in the studio. Improvisation is contagious—it’s all about the interaction between the players. Songs with lyrics throw me off balance, so I stick to instrumental music. Whatever works… I heard that Stephen King listens to heavy metal when he’s writing!

Graham Gillmore and Michaela Mitchell in conversation, November 2025, Vancouver. Images courtesy of Graham Gillmore, depicting studio views of work in process, 2025.