THE CURVE DOES NOT CONFORM 

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Interview to Juan Donado Peris (b. 2001), lives and works in Madrid, Spain.

I meet artist Juan Donado Peris at her studio at Servicios Generales, a space where her paintings pile up in a curious mix of discord and fragility. Pointy heels intertwine with snakes, swans, hybrid beings, and delicate faces—details seemingly disconnected from the strangeness of the scenes they inhabit.

In her paintings of varying sizes, historicist elements, sharp metals, and curving bodies come together in a constant search for tension: “Honestly, I’m a bit of a magpie—I like shiny things, historical themes, metals…” Juan began her artistic journey studying video at the TAI School, progressively transitioning to painting while maintaining a strong interest in almost theatrical scenography. Influenced by an eclectic mix of references—ranging from fashion shows and erotic photography from the 1970s to religious triptychs—Donado plays with contrasts, exploring the tension between metal and flesh, the organic and the artificial. Her hybrid characters, somewhere between human and animal, seem to exist in a distant, unreachable world.

We chat for a long time while Juan unrolls canvases before my eyes, pointing out impossible clavicles and legs, figures, and postures that repeat in a constant obsession with representing all that is material. The rest, I’ll leave to her answers:

Hi Juan! You studied video at the TAI School, afterwards transitioning into painting. How was the process of moving from one field to another?

Yes, I started studying at TAI School, mainly focusing on video, although initially, I had thought about studying architecture. I enjoy video because of its narrative possibilities for storytelling, artistic direction, costumes, and teamwork. I’m also interested in appearing as an actor—not so much being the protagonist, but sometimes I image a character and see myself in that role.

I began painting more seriously in the final year of my degree. One of my first significant pieces was a sphere I created for my final project. Initially, I was drawn to anachronistic or seemingly “mundane” scenes—still lifes or simple images with a small twist to make them intriguing. I didn’t want to get caught up in the pressure of being "original" all the time. Since then, my work has evolved into more complex scenes, but always with characters who seem unaware of being observed, as if we are watching them through a pane of glass.

In the process of making your paintings more complex, how has your perspective on pictorial aesthetics evolved?

What has always seemed most important in my work are the physical, aesthetic and material aspects. That’s where everything begins and ends. If that part is done well, I believe it inherently carries everything else—no need for explanations. The message, the intent—it’s all contained at the visual level.

Today, we’re bombarded with images, which complicates everything. My early paintings were bron from much simpler concepts. I remember starting with scenes like a small donkey or goats—anachronistic, small-scale images. Back then, I wanted to create something mundane, typical, almost like a still life with no particular relevance, but with a subtle twist. I didn’t want to give in to the constant demand for originality. I was interested in working purely from aesthetics, from decoration—beauty for the sake of beauty. But over time, that changed and evolved.

I’ve gradually moved away from that initial simplicity. My scenes have transformed—what were once mundane compositions have become situations where the characters seem unaware of the spotlight on them. I’m intrigued by the idea of capturing them off guard, as collateral protagonists of a narrative they’re unaware of starring in. Ultimately, I think I’m seeking that sense of carelessness, of naturalness, as if I’m discovering the images alongside them.

Your paintings reflect a rather anachronistic mix of references. Where do you usually look for inspiration?

I use many references in terms of color and composition. For example, when it comes to skin tones, I draw inspiration from erotic photography of the 1960s and 1970s, with its warm and carnal hues. I also take ideas from fashion runways: color combinations like aquamarine blue with coral in Fendi’s Fall/Spring 2022 collection or the earthy tones and creamy whites from Saint Laurent’s Fall/Winter 2024 collection. These references help me explore contrasts between the natural and the artificial, like the human body versus metallic elements.

Many of my ideas come from visual references that leave an impact on me, even if they’re random or specific. For instance, my painting of the sphinx was inspired by a tattoo designed by my friend Alberto. Another piece came from a painting I saw at the home of a friend’s uncle. There’s always a trigger, something that sparks my imagination for the rest.

Metals have a special presence in your work, adding a more violent touch to otherwise serene scenes. What draws you to this material?

Honestly, I’m a bit of a "magpie"—I’m drawn to shiny things, historical themes, and metals. I’m fascinated by the interplay between flesh and metal. I love exploring the inherent physicality of materials. For instance, metal (in recognizable forms like a fork) conveys a sense of coldness. It absorbs heat and life; it’s emotionless, indifferent to killing. I associate it strongly with its manipulation by humans (particularly the masculine figure). It’s like a mole infiltrated into our world by nature to help us destroy ourselves. Yet, ultimately, it remains a passive object.

Each material has its own lore. I treat the body as just another material—its interaction with others can be gentle or aggressive. But again, this aggression doesn’t stem from emotion but from physicality. The tearing of flesh, the dislocation of joints, the interplay of fluids—it all fascinates me, though it still makes me squeamish. It has a very medieval quality to it.

The high heel perfectly encapsulates all these themes. I’m intrigued by how the body can be transformed, elevated, or pushed to its physical limits—not out of masochism, but from this physical curiosity. Wearing heels modifies one’s walk and posture by essentially putting a nail in each heel. The body doesn’t fully pierce itself on those nails, but the tension exists, and its effects linger. Even the object itself contains that latent power.

In the end, I’m very detail-oriented when it comes to materials, textures, and colors. When composing a painting, I don’t think I work with fields of color but with areas emphasizing specific characteristics, which organically integrate with each other.


Your scenes tend to be very sinuous. What importance does the curve hold in your work?

I’ve always felt there’s a particular tension between the curve and the straight line. The straight line, in a sense, seems to align with this idea of perfection—something rigid, direct, and effective. The curve, on the other hand, is the complete opposite. The curve doesn’t conform. It’s more organic, more imperfect, and perhaps for that reason, I find it more attractive. If what I enjoy exploring in my paintings is the body, the flesh, then introducing rigid and straight lines, almost as if made with a ruler, seems out of place.

A curve has its own vibration; it vibrates more than a straight line. The curve moves on its own, as if it were alive. It has a dynamism that I feel connects much more with the bodies I usually work on. It’s as if the curve breathes, while the straight line simply... exists.


The bodies and nudes in your works have an almost sculptural quality, as if carved from marble, with a very strong physical presence. What do you seek to convey with these nudes?

The body is just another element, one that I obviously have more empathy toward because I have it and live in it. But I don’t think it’s fundamentally different from the body of a dog or a pea plant. It’s because of this closeness that I find it so beautiful and subject it to different scenarios where I explore this beauty.

I’ve occasionally worked more literally with the imagery of serial murders, autopsies, and so on, but that explicit human aggression doesn’t interest me as much in my work. It’s pointing where it shouldn’t. Even so, I continue exploring this world through different materials, scenarios, and so forth, as well as through a kind of body mapping where I relate the places where injuries occur to their implicit meanings.

In my bodies, certain details always catch my attention: the little wrinkle under the armpit, the neck, the clavicles, the knees… I always return to certain postures that repeat. On one occasion, I was working on a piece where I included all these ideas: a sword swallower, a little bow made from a snake, something natural introduced into a context that clearly wasn’t... And then I saw it clearly. There it was, the key. I guess there are obsessions that keep repeating in my work—it’s something intuitive that draws me to elements I’m attracted to for various reasons.


You’ve mentioned that your characters are somewhat disoriented, placed in undefined spaces. What do you seek in these non-places?

I’m very drawn to undefined spaces. Plastered, monochromatic walls that begin to show damp spots on their surface... The tones that appear there, almost by chance, seem very intriguing, full of nuances. It’s something I love, and in my paintings, I always try to include a bit of that—this lack of definition that, paradoxically, conveys so much information.

I like playing with tones, with contrast, but without oversaturating the image with stimuli. I think there’s something powerful in pausing to observe a single element and drawing out all its potential. It could be a white, a blue… It’s not necessary to add many elements to achieve something that works.

This lack of elements isn’t a limitation but a way to deepen. It’s about focusing on what’s there, on the essential, and letting it breathe. Indefinition, in the end, is part of the language: a space that’s not entirely defined can suggest much more than one that’s perfectly constructed.


Your hybrid characters, part animal and part human, have something both unsettling and endearing. Where do these creatures come from?

An image I can’t get out of my head, and that I feel somehow summarizes what I do, is the cover of a book of stories, Metamorphosis in the Sky. The idea conveyed by that cover fascinates me. It’s as if it condenses what I try to create in my paintings: a small, intimate nest where two lovers, half-bird and half-human, share a moment that feels fragile… That image is poetic and strange—it makes an impact visually but is also narrative and leaves room for the viewer to complete the story.

The characters I paint don’t usually come so much from mythology as they do from children’s animation. I’m interested in that tradition of personifying animals or plants, like in Alice in Wonderland. But I don’t always make them completely anthropomorphic. The idea isn’t to turn them into people as if that would “elevate” them but rather to give them their own agency, a way of empathizing with them, of translating their languages into ours. For example, in a small painting where I depicted a dove, it’s holding a chick in its arms. It’s thanks to those arms that we understand, in our human bodily language, what’s happening: a gesture of care, of tenderness. It’s like inserting a word from our language into their universe to establish a connection.

Aesthetically, I like playing with textures: feathers next to something hairless, as if they’re in the process of mutation. But always from a calm place, without forcing the strangeness. I’m interested in it feeling natural, not jarring, even if it’s a bit unsettling.

There are references that always come to mind. For example, Louise Bourgeois and her spider—a figure that seems strong but also vulnerable. I remember once seeing a sketch of a spider done by another artist where the legs were made of hair, and it fascinated me. It was Silvana Mangano, an actress, who inspired me at that moment, although I don’t usually work with specific people. That drawing seemed cool to me because it evoked something hybrid, something that transforms but doesn’t lose its essence. 


Has religious art has influenced your work in any way?

Although I don’t usually work with direct Christian references, I’ve always liked religious art. I went to a Salesian school, and the colors, compositions, and foreshortening always catch my attention and make an impact. For example, the pastel color palette—light blue, yellow, and pink—appears in several of my pieces.

I’m not interested in the moral or denunciatory discourse; I don’t think it’s about a sinful vibe. Rather, I’m drawn to exploring the body as something purely physical, without spiritual connotation. I like to show it as just another object in the environment, subject to the same limits and reactions as any other material.

Finally, what plans or dreams do you have in mind for the future?

I’d like to continue exploring ceramics and sculpture. Working in 3D helps me better understand volumes and experiment in a more physical way. I used to only paint things I considered “worthy” of being painted, but now I try to let myself go more, to understand the process as a continuous evolution.

Interview by Whataboutvic. 27.01.2025