Why this artist believe that museum access should be free for everyone? I Christophe Correia
At Open Call for Artists, we've seen enough artist statements to know when someone's performing depth versus actually living it. The ones using the fanciest language about "liminal spaces" and "deconstructing reality" are usually the ones with the least to say.
The real ones? They just tell you what haunts them. No decoration. No performance.
When we launched our Sky and Clouds exhibition, we weren't looking for pretty atmospheric paintings. We wanted artists who understood that sky isn't really about weather. It's about that feeling when you look up and realize how small you are, how brief this all is, how much you still don't understand about being alive.
The submissions came from everywhere. Some felt peaceful. Some felt ominous. Some made sky feel like freedom, others like weight. Every artist brought something different to those two simple words.
Among the selected artists, Christophe Correia's work stopped us because it doesn't try to be accessible or comfortable. His paintings ask you to sit with symbols you might not understand. And they're okay with that. They're built for meaning to shift and change as you change.
We chose Christophe because his work does something most artists avoid. It embraces not knowing. It trusts that a painting meaning one thing today and something completely different five years from now isn't a weakness. It's the whole point.
Before we hear from Christophe, here's what matters about his path.
He didn't go to art school. He studied Product Design, which is about solving problems with clear answers. But underneath that practical education, he was teaching himself other things. Esoteric traditions. Symbol systems. Kabbalah and alchemy. Ways of thinking where meaning stays layered and multiple instead of singular and fixed.
That self-directed education shows up everywhere in his work. He's comfortable making paintings that don't resolve. That ask questions instead of answering them.
He's also obsessive about materials in a way that goes beyond normal craft concern. Pigment quality. Canvas preparation. Gesso application. He wants to build objects that could survive centuries without falling apart. Not because he thinks he's making masterpieces. Because he genuinely believes his work belongs to time, not just to him.
His images come during quiet moments. Not planned. Not sketched. They just arrive during walks or showers or pauses, these precise symbolic pictures expressing whatever he's processing. Then he paints them. Not to explain what they mean. To let them do their job, which is making you feel something or ask questions.
He works two completely different ways depending on where he is. Outdoor painting with people is loose and social. Studio work is solitary and calculated, using rulers and math to make sure compositions follow principles he's set. Like he's two different artists living in one body.
And here's something that matters. He wants his work in museums eventually. But specifically museums with free access. He believes art should be available to everyone regardless of money. That's not just about where paintings hang. That's about who he's making them for and why.
Now let's hear from Christophe about working with symbols that refuse to stay still, why teaching himself created something art school couldn't have given him, and what it means to make work designed to outlast everything including yourself.
Q1. Can you share your background where you’re from, how drawing first entered your life, and how your journey from Product Design in Viana do Castelo to becoming a committed oil painter shaped your creative identity?
I am the grandson and son of Portuguese emigrants. Both my paternal and maternal grandparents emigrated to Paris in the 1960s, at a time when Portugal was still living through the final years of the Salazar dictatorship. My mother belonged to the generation that crossed borders with what was known as a “rabbit passport” — an expression used to describe those who illegally crossed borders without documents. I was born in Montreuil, in the suburbs of Paris, and my family culture is shaped both by an authentic Portuguese tradition and by the experience of emigration in France. Although I was born in France, I grew up between Braga and Viana do Castelo, in northern Portugal. Today I live once again in France, as a Portuguese emigrant. I feel that I returned in response to a calling from my origins. Portugal became too small for who I am and what I seek, even though I maintain a deep affection for the culture of the north — a timeless, intense culture with Celtic echoes, where bagpipes and traditional drums resonate. Drawing has been present in my life for as long as I can remember being myself. My earliest memory is of drawing spirals with a red or blue wax crayon on the hallway wall of my parents’ home. But the moment my ego decided that drawing would become part of my identity happened when I was five years old. One afternoon, while Zé — the son of Lucinda, my mother’s cousin — was looking after me, he showed me drawings from his mother’s Fine Arts faculty, as she was a Visual Arts teacher. When I saw those human figure drawings, something strange and profound awakened inside me, as if an inner voice had said: “Yes, I want to do this too — and I know I can.” That same day I drew a Formula 1 racing track, which a few days later earned me my first “art” prize at kindergarten. I won a box of large Lego bricks. Product design came naturally to me, largely influenced by my paternal grandfather, who was a cabinetmaker and had a well-equipped carpentry workshop in Mazarefes, in Viana do Castelo. I spent much of my childhood there, playing, creating, and helping my father and grandfather work with wood. Product design seemed to combine my creative drawing skills with the conception of real objects, possibly made with my own hands. However, design was also a kind of alternative plan — a way to secure a more stable professional future linked to the production of tangible objects. But art, as an aesthetic exploration of ideas, concepts, and pictorial messages, has always inhabited my spirit. I have always felt the need to draw, illustrate, create characters, and develop artistic concepts, even during university. The language of metaphor has always been present in my thinking. I never fully believed in pursuing only a Fine Arts degree, and I did not receive particularly strong support from my parents, even though they are both language teachers. In hindsight, I see that this also had a positive side. I searched for and chose my own teachers and mentors, especially with the rise of the internet and YouTube. Those mentors never imposed limitations or restricted my creative freedom. It took me time to reach where I am today, but I believe I am on the right path. Still, it is harder when one lacks solid foundations about how the art market functions. Fortunately, in France there are many associations, artists, and networks that share this kind of information and open up new possibilities and opportunities. In Portugal, that would have been far more difficult.
Q2. Your 2018 road trip through Figueres, Cadaqués, and Seville was transformative. Standing in places marked by Dalí’s surrealism and Spain’s dramatic visual heritage, what internal shift occurred that made you redefine art as a direction rather than a pastime?
Until then, I was immersed in a phase dedicated to photography, more specifically street photography — a practice that deeply trained me in rapid compositional decision-making. In 2018 — I remember it clearly, as it coincided with turning 30 — I can say that I went through something close to an existential crisis. A few years earlier, I had been contacted by a member of the French Freemasonry. I kept in touch with him, as he suggested that I apply to join a Masonic lodge. Although this never materialized, it opened a door for me into esotericism and the study of the occult: Kabbalah, alchemy, and other symbolic and philosophical traditions. This road trip ultimately played a crucial role. It helped me open my eyes — to accept and navigate the darkness, to venture into the unknown, and to discover who I truly am when confronted with uncertainty. It was a magical journey from the very first day. In fact, its essence can be distilled into the first two days. I traveled from Paris to Figueres, and the first thing I did was visit Salvador Dalí’s house in Portlligat. There, I felt as though I had entered the interior of a fantastic mind, somewhere between a Greek myth and a Hollywood star. His personal mythology and metaphorical concepts appeared clear and lucid, as if I were reading pages from an open book. I experienced a strange sensation — that of understanding what Dalí sought to communicate through his work and eccentricity. It felt as though his symbols were speaking a language I was finally beginning to decipher, most likely as a result of my esoteric and alchemical studies. Whenever I have visited museums and churchs, I have always felt that great works of art convey more than what is immediately visible. Some works communicate in an obvious way, but others — like Dalí’s and the religious ones — contain existential poetry, secrets inscribed through symbols. This feeling was reaffirmed the following day at the Dalí Theatre-Museum, and later at the Castle of Púbol. The remainder of the journey was marked by human encounters. In each new city, a new group of friends emerged. The experience culminated in Seville, in an almost apotheotic moment, when I finally decided to give a true opportunity to my identity as an artist — especially considering that I was living just steps away from the center of Paris. That same year, I attended my first life drawing session. And the rest is history — up to today.
Q3. You chose oil as your primary medium from that point forward. What does oil allow you to express that drawing or acrylic could not?
I have always suffered from a kind of “impostor syndrome.” I only managed to overcome it after a discussion with an artist during a life drawing session in London. In that conversation, she made the following remark: “If you spend more than 20% of your day thinking about art or making art, then you are an artist.” I deeply appreciated that statement. It helped me break through a mental block that had been holding me back for years — a block that prevented me from fully committing, even from seriously investing in oil painting materials. I have always been someone who lives intensely through Art History and museums. For that reason, oil painting emerged as an almost obvious choice. Most of the works that have marked me the most — those I consider truly enduring across centuries — are oil paintings. This is evident from Velázquez to Rembrandt and Vermeer. For many years I worked with acrylics — in fact, my first paintings were done in that medium. However, the shine and material quality of acrylic never fully satisfied me. Achieving with acrylic the same patina and depth that oil naturally provides is a far more complex process. Oil, on the other hand, allowed me to reach more naturally the results I had always sought. Yes, there are high-quality watercolors and acrylics, but they are technically demanding and complex mediums. Still, I believe that the true secret of all painting lies in drawing. And the secret to longevity lies in being almost obsessive — a true “geek” — when it comes to materials. I am deeply drawn to the idea of creating something that can be passed down through centuries without losing its essential quality.
Q4. Your work explores “inner realities” through metaphor and symbolic imagery. How do you decide when a symbol remains personal and when it becomes communicable to a viewer?
Something I love to do — and that I do almost every year — is to rewatch the same films. I have a small list of works that I consider metaphorically powerful, philosophical fictions that I enjoy returning to. What fascinates me most about this practice is that I remember the emotions and thoughts certain scenes triggered in me in the past. In doing so, I become a witness to my own cognitive evolution. The film remains the same, yet the interpretations change. New meanings emerge; others fade as certain beliefs are surpassed or as new understandings of reality reshape my reading of the work. I know the same will happen with my art. My creative process often arises from a meditative state — a kind of conscious drowsiness, fertile boredom, contemplation. It can happen during a walk, in the shower, in a pause between activities. In any place, I may “receive” an idea — a precise symbolic image that expresses what I want to say, or that contains within it the message that surfaced. At other times, I deliberately place myself in the exercise of “summoning” the image that best represents a theme, an aphorism I have learned or formulated through my esoteric, Kabbalistic, or alchemical studies. But what interests me most is the act of reading — and rereading — in the future. Today, an image may mean X, Y, or Z. Tomorrow, it may mean A, B, or C — and perhaps I will then understand why yesterday I needed it to mean X, Y, or Z. Ultimately, what matters is that the symbol creates movement within the viewer. Over time, I have learned that the answer is not found in the answer itself, but in the question. The “secret of the true answer” lies in the question we have not yet been able to formulate.
Q5. Coming from Product Design, you were trained to solve problems with clarity and function. Painting, however, often embraces ambiguity. How do you reconcile these two modes of thinking?
From product design, I inherited — and still maintain — a more “entrepreneurial” perspective. It allows me to view my artistic identity and my “brand image” as something tangible, structured, and communicable. In essence, it helps me think about my practice in terms of communication and to see my artworks as objects with commercial potential. This explains my deep interest in materiality: in materials, pigments and their qualities, the type of canvas, the type of brush, the preparation of gesso applied to linen — all with the aim of creating an object that already possesses intrinsic quality in itself, regardless of the drawing or painting it may contain. Painting, in turn, is my expression of beauty — of what I believe is important to share — and it emerges through the aesthetic language I find most appropriate, so that the messages I receive and wish to convey can be transmitted with clarity and intensity. Ultimately, it resembles a kind of internal Pessoa-like heteronymy: different dimensions of myself coexist, each with its own distinct character.
Q6. Does painting outdoors during public events alter the psychological atmosphere compared to solitary studio work?
My outdoor painting practice is primarily a space for exercise — a form of training and contemplation. I mostly paint landscapes or the human figure in a more spontaneous approach. Plein-air allows me to paint in company, to share both the moment and the process. Studio painting, however, is different. It demands a kind of silent battle between the canvas and my brushes. At times, I use rulers, measurements, and calculations to ensure that the composition is balanced and adheres to certain structural principles. Studio work is more analytical, almost mathematical — and therefore more demanding and, at times, painstaking. In contrast, plein-air painting feels more playful and light. Nevertheless, I am deeply solitary in my practice. There is a strongly intellectual dimension within me — even though, in social settings, I may reveal a more extroverted and even humorous side. Creation, however, remains a territory of introspection and concentration.
Q7. Comparing your early post-2018 works to your most recent paintings, where do you see the most significant evolution technical control, conceptual clarity, or emotional courage?
My technical control grows increasingly refined, and my conceptual clarity becomes more solid with every canvas or drawing I create. I feel progressively more confident and courageous in revealing and exposing what my heart feels and wants to express. Without fear. Without shame. For who I am and who I feel myself to be. I can say that the inner battle — the one I once fought by giving too much importance to what others thought of me — has been won for some time now. Today, the focus is different: consistent work, discipline, and the continued pursuit of my values and ideals.
Q8. Do you see your future work becoming more minimal and focused, or expanding toward more layered narratives?
I aim to expand into more complex narratives and increasingly larger-scale canvases. My ultimate goal is to achieve a perfect form — a human gesture so precise and timeless that it could be translated into a sculpture in Carrara marble. I also aspire to create monumental paintings, in the scale and intensity of artists such as Guillermo Lorca García. My final ambition is to exhibit in museums — ideally with free access — so that my work can be available to audiences from all social backgrounds. The Petit-Palais in Paris is one of my goals. I believe art should be shown and shared, not reduced merely to a fiscal or financial asset.
Q9. For artists who feel the pull toward art later in life but hesitate to shift direction, what would you say about that moment of decision?
Being an artist is not exactly a choice — it is more like a condition. At times, it resembles a curse. We are artists because we do not know how to be anything else. Because the urge to create asserts itself with the same urgency as air when we are deprived of breath. There will inevitably be moments of procrastination, fatigue, and resistance before the mountain that rises in front of us. But the path is made step by step, each at their own pace. There is no point in looking at others or rushing to arrive sooner. What I most often see in life are people in a hurry to reach nowhere. That is what I learned during the pilgrimages I made to Santiago de Compostela, starting from León: what truly matters is the journey. Ultimately, what is essential is to cultivate taste — a taste for what one believes to be beautiful. And that Beauty should be something truly innate, not merely an imposition shaped by the society or culture in which one has lived or grown.
Finishing up with Christophe, one thing stayed with me that I keep thinking about. He doesn't talk about being an artist like it's some beautiful calling. He talks about it like a condition. Something you can't choose your way out of. Sometimes it feels more like a curse than a gift.
Most artists won't say that. They talk about passion and vision and finding their voice. Christophe just says we make art because we don't know how to be anything else. Because not making it feels like not breathing. That's more honest than most people are willing to be.
Here's what got me. He found his way to serious painting at thirty through an existential crisis. Standing in Dalí's house, suddenly understanding symbols he'd been seeing his whole life without getting them. That happened because he'd spent years teaching himself esoteric stuff on his own. No school. No teachers. Just curiosity about what's underneath what we see.
That's a completely different path than art school. And you can tell. His work doesn't try to explain itself. It's okay with meaning one thing today and something else next year. He's not controlling what you see. He's making space for it to keep changing.
If you're sitting there thinking you're too old to start, or you took the wrong path, or you don't have the right training, listen. Those things aren't problems. They might be exactly what makes your work real. The years you spent doing something else gave you ways of seeing that going straight to art school never would.
Being self-taught doesn't make you less. It means you followed what you were actually curious about instead of what someone told you to study. That builds something different.
What Christophe shows is simple. Make what actually matters to you. Not what you think people want. Make it without feeling bad about it. Your own sense of what's beautiful, the stuff that's truly yours and not borrowed from everyone around you, that's the only thing that'll make work that lasts.
