Eddie Martinez, the uncompromising painting fury

Listen to me carefully, you bunch of snobs! I have something to tell you about Eddie Martinez, that furious shaman of painting who never apologizes for his frenetic vitality. While you sip your bad champagnes in your pristine galleries, he pours torrents of paint onto enormous canvases with the urgency of a boxer, a sport he loves to compare to his artistic practice.

Martinez paints as if tomorrow does not exist, as if each brushstroke were an existential affirmation. Lately, his fame has exploded, representing San Marino at the 2024 Venice Biennale with “Nomader”, solo exhibitions at Space K in Seoul and the Parrish Art Museum in New York… but don’t think his painting has become tame or domesticated. No, it remains wild, raw, visceral.

Look at his “White Outs”, where he partially covers serigraphed silhouettes in white, creating a ghostly choreography of forms that fade and reappear. This technique eerily recalls Mallarme’s poetry and his plays with the space of the page ^[1]. Like the symbolist poet who used whites to create visual silences between words, Martinez employs white as an active tension space. It is not simply a color, but a structural element that organizes chaos, creating breaths in his frenetic composition.

Martinez’s work is deeply rooted in the history of modern poetry. When he partially erases his own marks, when he lets forms emerge half-visible under layers of white paint, he reenacts Mallarme’s gesture of “giving a purer meaning to the words of the tribe” ^[2]. He purifies his own visual vocabulary, but without ever yielding to the temptation of total erasure. The phantoms persist, the traces remain.

This dialogue with Mallarme is not merely formal. The poet wrote: “Paint, not the thing, but the effect it produces” ^[3]. Is this not exactly what Martinez does when he transforms his small Sharpie permanent marker drawings into enormous paintings, not to reproduce the drawing faithfully, but to capture its energy, its spontaneity, its immediacy? He does not paint objects, but the effect they produce on his psyche.

But do not be mistaken: Martinez is not a precious intellectual. He is an obsessive tennis maniac who compares his creative process to that of Roger Federer, whose grace on the court conceals relentless work. “I want painting to be like a good punch in the jaw sudden, energetic and not entirely agreeable,” he might say, paraphrasing Elaine de Kooning’s observation about Stuart Davis ^[4].

If Mallarme’s poetry infuses a structural dimension to his work, it is German expressionist cinema that reveals its psychological dimension. The deformed shadows of “The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari” (1920), where the architectural space was deliberately distorted to create a sense of unease ^[6], find a contemporary echo in those tortured silhouettes that Martinez brings forth from his paintings ^[5], notably in “Primary” (2020), where he juxtaposes primary colored forms against an immaculate white background. The thick black outlines delimit areas of red, blue, and yellow that seem to float in an undefined space. The way he uses black and white in his “White Outs” directly recalls expressionist photography, where brutal contrasts created an atmosphere of existential angst. The winding streets of Holstenwall find their contemporary equivalent in Martinez’s sinuous lines.

Expressionist cinema used shadow as a visual metaphor for the subconscious. Similarly, Martinez projects the shadows of his own obsessions onto his canvases these cranes, these birds, these organic forms that haunt his compositions. Like in Murnau’s “Nosferatu”, where the vampire’s shadow precedes his physical presence, Martinez’s silhouettes seem to exist in a realm between materiality and immateriality ^[7].

But Martinez is not just a tortured pessimist. There is a wild joy in his painting, a celebration of the act of creating itself that transcends expressionist angst. “It’s all I really want to do, paint,” he says ^[8]. This simple yet powerful statement reveals the essential: Martinez is above all a painter who finds his salvation in the very act of painting.

Martinez’s relationship with his materials is almost erotic. He caresses, violates, seduces them. He uses “everything in front of him” knives, brushes, pigment sticks, spray paint ^[9]. He does not hierarchize his tools, does not sacralize one technique over another. This irreverent attitude towards the pictorial tradition is refreshing in an art world often sclerotic with its own conventions.

Martinez has stated: “I am interested in speed, really. That’s what excites me the most, something that is done without much reflection” ^[10]. This valorization of immediacy, of instinct, brings us back to German expressionism, where the direct expression of emotions prevailed over the faithful representation of reality. Expressionist filmmakers sought to represent the mental state of their characters through deformed decors and exaggerated shadow plays; Martinez expresses his inner world through rapid gestures and bold juxtapositions of colors and forms.

You might think that this intuitive approach leads to chaotic, structureless painting. Think again. Martinez is a rigorous composer who knows precisely where to place each mark. Like expressionist directors who meticulously planned their visual distortions, Martinez orchestrates his chaos with precision.

Take “Emartllc No.5 (Recent Growth)” (2023), where a “bufly” (a term invented by his son to say “butterfly”) on the left of the canvas seems to trigger an explosion of activity on the right. This composition is not accidental. It tells a story of transformation, of potential energy becoming kinetic. It is a controlled migration of forms, a visual narration that does not need words to be understood.

The dynamic of this painting recalls the dream sequences in expressionist films, where logical narrative was replaced by emotional logic ^[11]. The abrupt transitions, the distortions of scale, the unexpected juxtapositions all these elements are found in Martinez’s work, creating a visual experience that defies rationality but speaks directly to our subconscious.

Martinez constantly deconstructs and reconstructs his own visual language. He does not hesitate to destroy a painting to create a new one, as he did with “Bad War” from 2009, which he covered to create a new work ^[12]. This approach by successive layers creates paintings with a historical depth, layers of decisions and gestures that accumulate like geological strata.

Critic David Coggins wrote that Martinez “revitalizes still life… in a spirit of lucid exploration rather than postmodern posturing” ^[13]. This observation hits the mark: despite all its historical references, Martinez’s painting is never cynical or calculated. It is profoundly sincere, almost naive in its belief in the transformative power of art.

What truly distinguishes Martinez is his ability to navigate between abstraction and figuration without ever seeming forced or artificial. His “blockheads”, those square heads that periodically appear in his work, are not motifs he exploits for commercial ease, but forms that naturally emerge from his creative process. “When it feels right, I do it, and when it feels wrong, I don’t,” he explains ^[14].

This authenticity is rare in the world of contemporary art, where so many artists seem to produce works according to market trends. Martinez follows his instinct, his inner rhythm. He is like those jazzmen who improvise without a safety net, while maintaining an underlying structure that gives meaning to their exploration.

Speaking of exploration, we must talk about his relationship with drawing. Martinez draws constantly, everywhere at home, on trips, on notepads, napkins, any available support. These drawings are not mere preparations for his paintings, but an autonomous practice, a visual journal that documents his daily life ^[15]. It is what Wim Wenders would have called a “visual notebook” in reference to auteur cinema ^[16].

Indeed, Martinez’s drawing practice strongly evokes the approach of Nouvelle Vague filmmakers, who used lightweight cameras to capture spontaneous moments of daily life. Like Godard who said that “cinema is truth 24 times per second”, Martinez uses drawing to capture immediate truths, fleeting impressions ^[17].

This diaristic practice then informs his more elaborate paintings. In 2015, he began serigraphing his small Sharpie drawings onto large canvases, then developing them with paint. This technique allows him to maintain the spontaneity of the drawing while exploiting the possibilities of the large scale. He calls this series “Love Letters”, as many of these drawings were made on stationery that he and his wife, artist Sam Moyer, had received from their real estate agent ^[18].

There is something profoundly touching in this anecdote. It reveals how Martinez’s art is anchored in his daily life, how he transforms mundane objects into vectors of artistic expression. It is an art that does not take itself too seriously, does not drape itself in pretentious grandiloquence, but finds its poetry in the ordinary.

This democratic quality, this accessibility, is one of Martinez’s great strengths. His art can be appreciated on different levels for its pure visual energy, for its historical references, for its technical skill, or simply for its raw vitality. It does not exclude you if you do not have a doctorate in art history, but it does not underestimate you either.

In “Olive Garden” (2024), presented at the Venice Biennale, Martinez plays with our expectations. The title deliberately evokes the American restaurant chain, but the work itself is an explosion of colors and forms that has nothing to do with commercialized Italian cuisine ^[19]. It is an ironic wink, a way of saying: do not take art too seriously, but do not underestimate it either.

This tension between the serious and the playful, between tradition and innovation, between abstraction and figuration, is at the heart of Martinez’s practice. He rejects simplistic dichotomies, easy categorizations. “I am the kind of painter that I am, and I am influenced by what influences me, so I am never going to make a solid black square and call it abstraction. That is what I think abstraction is,” he asserts ^[20].

This declaration of independence is refreshing. Martinez does not seek to fit into a particular artistic lineage, to follow a pre-established aesthetic program. He takes what he needs from art history the Abstract Expressionists, CoBrA, Neo-Expressionism, Philip Guston and creates his own synthesis.

But do not see this as superficial eclecticism. Martinez’s art is deeply coherent in its apparent incoherence. As he himself says: “I don’t want anyone to feel obliged to think anything. I have nothing specific in the work that I want people to see, I want everything to be interpreted” ^[21].

This openness to interpretation is a mark of confidence, not indifference. Martinez believes sufficiently in the power of his art to let the viewer find their own way in it. He creates paintings that, like great poems or great films, resist definitive interpretation while inviting deep engagement.

What makes Martinez’s work so captivating is that it exists simultaneously in several temporal and stylistic dimensions. It is both contemporary and timeless, personal and universal, learned and instinctive. It draws from the past without nostalgia, looks to the future without pretension.

And it does so with a contagious energy, an almost childlike joy in the very act of creating. As he simply puts it: “I just want to make paintings that give me an erection” ^[22]. This disarming frankness reminds us why we love art in the first place, not for its market value or cultural prestige, but for its ability to move us, to excite us, to make us feel alive.

So, you bunch of snobs, stop looking for complex explanations and just let yourself be carried away by the Martinez wave. Feel the rhythm of his brushstrokes, the pulsation of his colors, the urgency of his lines. And perhaps, just perhaps, you will feel this primitive excitement, this aesthetic erection that is the true measure of great art.

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1. Mallarme, S. (1897). A Throw of the Dice Will Never Abolish Chance. Editions Gallimard.
2. Mallarme, S. (1887). The Tomb of Edgar Poe. In “Poems”.
3. Letter from Mallarme to Henri Cazalis, October 30, 1864.
4. De Kooning, E. (1957). Critique of Stuart Davis in ARTnews.
5. Eisner, L. (1969). The Haunted Screen: Expressionism in the German Cinema and the Influence of Max Reinhardt. Editions Ramsay.
6. Kracauer, S. (1947). From Caligari to Hitler: A Psychological History of the German Film. Princeton University Press.
7. Elsaesser, T. (2000). Weimar Cinema and After: Germany’s Historical Imaginary. Routledge.
8. Simonini, R. (2012). “The Process: Eddie Martinez”. The Believer.
9. Ibid.
10. Pricco, E. (2019). “Eddie Martinez: Fast Serve”. Juxtapoz Magazine.
11. Kaes, A. (2009). Shell Shock Cinema: Weimar Culture and the Wounds of War. Princeton University Press.
12. Simonini, R. (2012). “The Process: Eddie Martinez”. The Believer.
13. Coggins, D. cited in the archives of Mitchell-Innes & Nash.
14. Pricco, E. (2019). “Eddie Martinez: Fast Serve”. Juxtapoz Magazine.
15. Chen, P. (2023). “Eddie Martinez Defers to the Desires of His Paints”. The New York Times Style Magazine.
16. Wenders, W. (1991). The Logic of Images: Essays and Conversations. Faber & Faber.
17. Quote attributed to Jean-Luc Godard.
18. Chen, P. (2023). “Eddie Martinez Defers to the Desires of His Paints”. The New York Times Style Magazine.
19. Artforum (2024). “Venice Diaries: Eddie Martinez at San Marino pavilion”.
20. Tiernan, K. (2017). “Eddie Martinez: ‘I just want people to interpret the work how they want'”. Studio International.
21. Ibid.
22. Simonini, R. (2012). “The Process: Eddie Martinez”. The Believer.