bosco sodi on art and nature

Profile of the artist in his NYC studio, shot by Hans Neumann.  

Bosco Sodi (born 1970, Mexico City) is known for his richly textured, vividly colored large-scale paintings. Sodi has discovered an emotive power within the essential crudeness of the materials that he uses to execute his paintings. Focusing on material exploration, creative gesture, and the spiritual connection between the artist and his work, Sodi seeks to transcend conceptual barriers. Sodi leaves many of his paintings untitled, with the intention of removing any predisposition or connection beyond the work’s immediate existence. The work itself becomes a memory and a relic symbolic of the artist’s conversation with the raw material that brought the painting into creation. Sodi’s influences range from l’art informel, looking to artists such as Antoni Tàpies and Jean Dubuffet, to master colorists such as Willem de Kooning, Mark Rothko, and the bright hues of his native heritage.

LUCIJA ŠUTEJ: Your work is deeply tied to research and appreciation of the elements of wabi-sabi; such as celebrating imperfection and accepting non-control. How did you first engage with these principles? 

BOSCO SODI: My interest in wabi-sabi began in high school and I would read a lot about the Dalai Lama, which sparked my interest in Buddhism. Through that, I came across wabi-sabi and its aesthetic philosophy. I realized I had already been embracing much of that aesthetic in my life—in my taste for natural and organic materials. That discovery led me to deeper research into wabi-sabi, and I started to consciously follow its principles.

LŠ: So your interest traces back to high school and developed further over time. Were there particular authors that resonated with you?

BS: Yes! For example, In Praise of Shadows by Jun’ichirō Tanizaki is a book I love. Similarly, Zen in the Art of Archery is beautiful. I’ve also explored books about ceramics, particularly those covering traditional Korean and Japanese ceramics, which embody the wabi- sabi aesthetic.

LŠ: Did you engage with pottery from an early age?

BS: No, my connection with ceramics came much later. When I was six years old, I worked with clay in art classes (laugh), but I reconnected with it as a serious artistic practice much later—about 10 years ago. That’s when I began to explore clay as a medium for art.

LŠ: As seen through your diverse practice (from ceramics, sculptures to painting), nature is an active agent in your work. Branches, natural pigments, and local materials all play key roles. You’ve traveled extensively to places like Morocco and Japan to source pigments. How do you decide which landscapes to engage with, and how do the origins of these pigments shape the narratives within your artworks?

BS: It’s not a conscious decision. Whenever I travel, I always visit local markets and places where I can find pigments, for instance, all the markets in Marrakech where I found not just pigments, but also textiles. If I come across something interesting, I buy a large quantity—200 or 300 kilos—and bring it back to my studio to experiment. I don’t plan how to use the pigments in advance. It’s all very spontaneous. I test them in the studio and let the process guide me.

LŠ: You also had a show in Hong Kong: A Thousand Li of Rivers and Mountains, inspired by a pigment tied to China. 

BS: Yes, that series was inspired by Fuchsite, a pigment historically used in Chinese, Korean, and Japanese painting. On that occasion, I deliberately chose to explore that pigment. But in most cases, I bring pigments back to my studio from places like India or Marrakech, experiment with them, and use them as inspiration strikes.

A Thousand Li of Rivers and Mountains. © Axel Vervoordt Gallery

A Thousand Li of Rivers and Mountains. © Axel Vervoordt Gallery

LŠ: Do you remember which pigments you sourced from India?

BS: Yes, I got a beautiful yellow and a deep, rich red. I went to a market with my father—I can’t recall if it was in Delhi or Jaipur—and we bought these pigments. The red was particularly striking because it darkened as it oxidized.

LŠ: Does your father usually advise on pigments? 

BS: He has a PhD in chemistry from MIT and growing up, he was always experimenting. I’d often visit his factory to see what he was working on. That definitely shaped my approach to art, which is very process-driven—focused on trial, error, and experimentation. Sometimes we even worked together, drying pigments or discussing ways to dissolve them. He’d suggest ideas like adding alcohol to make a pigment dissolve more easily.

LŠ: That’s incredible. In your words, clay is in our DNA and it is the material that is central to your work. Specifically, Zapotec culture and its terracotta traditions seem to be deeply connected to your practice. How does this historical connection inform your work with clay?

BS: Clay is fundamental to human evolution-it’s a humble, simple material, yet it holds profound significance. Almost every religion associates clay with the creation of humans. For example, the Mayans, Chinese, Egyptians, and Greeks all have myths connecting clay to human origins. I’m fascinated by how something so basic can be transformed into art and carry such deep meaning.

LŠ: You also before spoke of the healing powers of clay - what have you learned about the material's therapeutic and spiritual qualities through your research and practice?

BS: Touching clay has a calming, meditative effect. It’s deeply ingrained in us. Children, elderly people—everyone seems drawn to it. It’s like sitting by a fire; it settles and reconnects us to something primal. Working with clay feels like returning to our essence.

Bosco Sodi in NYC studio, photographer by Lucia Corredor.

LŠ: Having lived in different places for periods (Barcelona, Japan, etc.), your research into local traditions of working with clay has been vital. What have you discovered from these different places and have they informed your ceramics work?

BS: Not consciously, but I’ve always been inspired by visiting museums, particularly archeological ones. When you look at ancient clay works from Mexico, Greece, Egypt, China, Korea, or Japan, you see remarkable similarities. Early human figures and vessels are strikingly similar, reflecting a shared origin before cultural divergence. That’s incredibly inspiring to me.

In Mexico, the Anthropology Museum is a favorite. In Greece, I love the Cycladic Museum and all of the Roman museums are fantastic. And in Korea, I visited a beautiful anthropology museum showcasing ancient ceramics. I’m fascinated by comparing early clay works across cultures and seeing how they diverged as civilizations evolved.

LŠ: I also read that you work with rustic ovens  - why is this important to you? What qualities do you admire? 

BS: I use rustic wood-fired kilns like the ones craftsmen around Casa Wabi use to make bricks. These kilns are unpredictable; you can’t control the temperature precisely, which introduces a lot of chance and imperfection. I love that unpredictability because it mirrors life. You never know exactly how a piece will turn out.

LŠ: That’s such a beautiful philosophy. Has your approach to working with clay changed over time as you encountered and learned with different communities? 

BS: Absolutely. My process has deepened as I’ve spent more time with clay. It’s a constant evolution, shaped by experimentation and the unexpected results that emerge from working with such a raw and elemental material.

LŠ: Your process thrives on challenging the materials to the limit.

BS: Yes, my whole process is about pushing the boundaries of the materials. In the beginning, I start with small things, but then I aim to go bigger and more challenging. For me, art is therapeutic, and I need that challenge. When it becomes easy or controllable, it loses that therapeutic effect for me. I try to embrace accidents and ideas as they come, letting the work evolve slowly and organically.

LŠ: Pushing yourself out of your comfort zone seems to drive your process.

BS: I don’t like the comfort zone. (laugh)

LŠ: Incorporating natural objects like branches (imprints on the canvas) creates a dialogue between the organic and the sculptural. How do you select these materials, and what role do they play in the narrative of your work?

BS: It’s often about chance encounters. I find materials like branches or stones while walking, whether it’s in Greece, in Polígono, or elsewhere. I enjoy long walks, and sometimes I come across these beautiful natural elements. Some of them I incorporate into my work. For instance, the use of branches came from an accident.

One winter, I was at our upstate house, in Monticello, and the lake was covered in snow. There was a branch nearby, and I started printing it into the snow. The effect was so beautiful that I thought, “I should make paintings using this technique.” The branch became the model for the painting. It’s all very instinctive—these encounters just happen.

LŠ: You strike me as someone who spends most of his time hiking in nature. (laugh)

BS: Yes, I hike a lot. (laugh) I go on a long hike with my cousins and brothers every couple of years—usually for ten days. In Polígono, I hike daily. In upstate New York, I do the same. I don’t camp much, though; I prefer to relax at home when I’m back from traveling.

Hiking in Mont Blanc.

LŠ: What’s your favorite hiking trail?

BS: Near my house upstate, there’s a beautiful hike to a waterfall that I often do. I’ve also done incredible hikes in Japan, like the Kumano Kodo trail. Last September, I walked the Camino de Santiago. Mont Blanc was another unforgettable one. Each time, we pick a new destination.

LŠ: Do you fish as well?

BS: Yes, I love fishing. I do a lot of spearfishing in Polígono without a tank—just free-diving for three or four hours at a time. It’s meditative, being underwater like that. At the house upstate, my youngest son and I fish on the lake.

LŠ: Who taught you how to fish?

BS: My family. I’ve been fishing since I was four or five years old. We’re a big family, and my cousins and I—seven of us—used to fish together almost daily at my grandfather’s house in the forest.

LŠ: What’s the biggest fish you’ve ever caught?

BS: Two years ago, we were on a sailboat I rented for my father’s 80th birthday, and we caught two massive tunas—over a meter long each.

LŠ: That’s amazing! Switching back to your work and site specificity,  how do you navigate different natural and urban spaces as your work migrates between them? How do you navigate the meaning of your work in these contrasting spaces?

BS: I enjoy taking works out of context and placing them in various settings. For me, they’re objects—not just sculptures or paintings. I love seeing them create tension and dialogue with their surroundings, whether in a white-cube gallery or a natural space like a temple in Kyoto. I do prefer natural settings—they resonate more with the roughness of my work—but galleries and museums are part of my career as well.

LŠ: I would love to learn of your research and support of the relationship between art and architecture and at Casa Wabi, you’ve collaborated with architects like Tadao Ando, Álvaro Siza, and Kengo Kuma. What do you believe is the relationship between art and architecture, and how do you see each complementing the other?

BS: The idea for Casa Wabi came from a residency I did in Japan in 2006—it was transformative for me. I decided that if I ever became successful, I’d create a residency to give back. When things started going well, I wanted to create something meaningful for other artists in Mexico, particularly in Oaxaca, where I felt a strong connection.

I’ve always loved architecture, especially Tadao Ando’s work for its simplicity, use of materials, and how it interacts with light. I approached Ando, but he initially rejected me several times. (laugh) Eventually, a mutual friend formally introduced us. He visited my studio, liked my red paintings, and agreed to collaborate. That set a high standard, which attracted other architects. Álvaro Siza, for instance, got involved after I proposed a clay pavilion for the community’s children. Kengo Kuma joined after a casual dinner conversation. Each collaboration happened naturally.

Tadao Ando’s Observatory at Casa Wabi, photo by Sergio López.

Kengo Kuma's Pavilion, photo by Sergio López.

A view of Siza's Pavilion by Sergio López.

LŠ: Did working with these architects inspire you to design buildings yourself?

BS: Yes, I designed four houses near Casa Wabi. It was my way of processing everything I’d learned from Ando, Siza, and others. The houses are simple, very much my style. One was even published in Architectural Digest, and I received offers to design more, but I’m not an architect. (laugh) It was just an exercise in expression.

LŠ: Do you think you’d ever design another building or pavilion?

BS: Maybe someday, if the opportunity arises.

LŠ: Casa Wabi has a strong focus on community, supporting local artisans and providing a wider education. How has this project shaped your understanding of art’s role in social and environmental contexts? What are your plans for the expansion of its work? 

BS: My work is accessible and easy to connect with. I believe art helps us reconnect with ourselves, widen our perspectives, and engage with others and nature. It’s therapeutic. That’s why I prioritize public projects—they’re the best way to give back.

Work in progress at Casa Wabi, photo by Gonzalo Lebrija. All images courtesy of Casa Wabi and Studio Bosco Sodi.

LŠ: How do you see the role of artists in historical and environmental preservation?

BS: I think art should focus on sustainability and nature. While issues like race and gender are important, the most critical problem humanity faces is the destruction of the planet. Without a habitable world, nothing else will matter. Artists should do more to raise awareness and foster a balance between humanity and nature.

LŠ: Also the inter-human connections. With the rise of AI, we are seeing a new shaping of human behavior.

BS: I believe in evolution and technology. AI can help solve significant issues like poverty, but only if it’s balanced. Right now, there’s no balance. For example, people on trains stare at their phones instead of interacting. The world is overheating, and we’re not addressing it. Balance is essential, in AI and everything else.