Hernán Salamanco: Producing Meaning
Part Two: At Yerua Taller
The first part of our conversation with Hernán Salamanco took place at Herlitzka & Co. during his solo exhibition Ojo de Agua. During that initial exchange, we discussed his artistic practice, the materiality of painting, and the artist's place within the contemporary cultural landscape. You can watch the interview on our YouTube channel.
Several months later, we met again — this time at Yerua Taller, his studio in the La Paternal neighborhood of Buenos Aires. Between our two encounters, new questions kept emerging: about craft and time, artistic education, the art market, the balance between intuition and control, and how an artist today produces not only images, but meaning.
This second meeting became a natural continuation of our first conversation — more reflective, more personal, and offering a closer look at the space where Hernán's work comes to life.
Several months later, we met again — this time at Yerua Taller, his studio in the La Paternal neighborhood of Buenos Aires. Between our two encounters, new questions kept emerging: about craft and time, artistic education, the art market, the balance between intuition and control, and how an artist today produces not only images, but meaning.
This second meeting became a natural continuation of our first conversation — more reflective, more personal, and offering a closer look at the space where Hernán's work comes to life.
Konstantin: Because of the fluid nature of synthetic enamel, you paint horizontally on tables, seeing only close-up fragments rather than the full composition from a distance. How do you learn to let go of the need for control and trust your intuition in this ‘blind’ mode — knowing that the complete image only reveals itself when you lift the heavy metal sheet against the wall?
Hernán:
I think learning to manage control, trust, and intuition during this process comes down to experience and repetition — being deeply accustomed to working on the table and waiting until the material dries before lifting the piece to finally view it.
When I started painting over 20 or 30 years ago, I worked in a house with a central courtyard. I would lay the artwork flat on the ground floor, walk up the stairs to the second-floor terrace, and look down at the piece from a distance of about 10 meters. That is how I trained my eye to judge the composition from a distance.
Another key aspect of working "blind" is that while I am leaning over the table focusing on a small fragment, I am constantly ensuring that each fragment functions at close range. If those individual sections work up close, it gives me the confidence that the painting will also hold together when viewed from across the room.
A successful painting must function across three distinct viewing distances and moments:
Konstantin: Preparing metal sheets, grinding, sanding, transporting heavy materials—this is intense physical labor that gallery viewers rarely see. How much of your time goes into this purely technical preparation? And do you ever encounter a piece of metal that ‘resists’ so much that you have to scrap the work entirely?
Hernán:
The physical preparation — sanding, grinding with an angle grinder, using chemical solvents to strip old paint, or hammering down dangerous sharp edges and punctures — is something I view as pouring raw energy directly into the substrate.
For me, hammering, cutting, and sanding are just as fundamental as applying paint; every physical action adds layers of energy to the foundation of the artwork. While this preparatory phase remains invisible in the final gallery presentation, it ensures that the metal sheet is structurally sound, clean, and free of loose rust or flaking paint.
This initial physical work also establishes a psychological rhythm in the studio. If I spend a day cutting and sanding a sheet properly, I return the following day knowing the structural groundwork is resolved, allowing me to move confidently into the painting phase.
Generally, the metal doesn't resist to the point of failure. It is extremely rare for me to discard a plate entirely, as I've built a strong working relationship with the material over the years.
Hernán:
I think learning to manage control, trust, and intuition during this process comes down to experience and repetition — being deeply accustomed to working on the table and waiting until the material dries before lifting the piece to finally view it.
When I started painting over 20 or 30 years ago, I worked in a house with a central courtyard. I would lay the artwork flat on the ground floor, walk up the stairs to the second-floor terrace, and look down at the piece from a distance of about 10 meters. That is how I trained my eye to judge the composition from a distance.
Another key aspect of working "blind" is that while I am leaning over the table focusing on a small fragment, I am constantly ensuring that each fragment functions at close range. If those individual sections work up close, it gives me the confidence that the painting will also hold together when viewed from across the room.
A successful painting must function across three distinct viewing distances and moments:
- Long distance (10+ meters): In a crowded gallery or art fair, the work needs a strong visual hook to catch the viewer's attention from across the room.
- Medium distance (~5 meters): As you approach, new structural elements and relationships within the composition should begin to reveal themselves.
- Close distance (~0.5 meters): Standing right in front of the canvas, you should be drawn into microscopic details, textures, and subtle painterly moments.
Konstantin: Preparing metal sheets, grinding, sanding, transporting heavy materials—this is intense physical labor that gallery viewers rarely see. How much of your time goes into this purely technical preparation? And do you ever encounter a piece of metal that ‘resists’ so much that you have to scrap the work entirely?
Hernán:
The physical preparation — sanding, grinding with an angle grinder, using chemical solvents to strip old paint, or hammering down dangerous sharp edges and punctures — is something I view as pouring raw energy directly into the substrate.
For me, hammering, cutting, and sanding are just as fundamental as applying paint; every physical action adds layers of energy to the foundation of the artwork. While this preparatory phase remains invisible in the final gallery presentation, it ensures that the metal sheet is structurally sound, clean, and free of loose rust or flaking paint.
This initial physical work also establishes a psychological rhythm in the studio. If I spend a day cutting and sanding a sheet properly, I return the following day knowing the structural groundwork is resolved, allowing me to move confidently into the painting phase.
Generally, the metal doesn't resist to the point of failure. It is extremely rare for me to discard a plate entirely, as I've built a strong working relationship with the material over the years.
Konstantin: Over more than 20 years, you’ve observed different waves of buyers. Today, a new generation is entering the market — people from business, tech, and new industries, bringing a completely different tempo and background. Do you notice shifts in how they look at and select art compared to the collectors of the 2000s?
Hernán:
I often view my studio position like a boulder fixed in a riverbed: I stay in the same place while the water continuously flows past, and the water is always new. In that sense, viewers and collectors are constantly shifting.
Today, people — regardless of age or background — frequently encounter my work first through digital formats: an Instagram post, a PDF portfolio, or a photograph of a piece in someone else's home.
When someone has seen the work in person at a gallery, museum, or private collection, they already understand its physical scale, texture, scratches, perforations, and aged metal surfaces. They arrive at the studio with full context.
Conversely, those who have only seen digital images experience a complete shift when encountering the physical piece for the first time. They discover the actual scale, light reflections, metal bends, surface imperfections, and the energy the object emits. That physical presence either resonates with them or it doesn't.
The main task for a new collector is imagining that physical object living in their personal space over a long period, continuously releasing its energy in quiet doses. Unlike a gallery visit, where you spend a limited time analyzing a work, living with an artwork integrates it into daily life. It becomes like a book you revisit — gradually revealing subtle details over time.
Whether dealing with seasoned or tech-minded collectors, the core dynamic remains unchanged: the physical, in-person encounter with the object is what ultimately defines their connection to the work.
Konstantin: How do you see the relationship between artists and galleries evolving today? Where do you spot the main vulnerability or flaw in the traditional gallery system, and where do you feel this dynamic is drifting?
Hernán:
The relationship between artists and galleries is a long-standing model that continuously needs to adapt to remain relevant.
Social media platforms have granted artists direct global visibility. Historically, galleries held exclusive control over an artist's imagery through their physical space, printed catalogs, or websites. Today, artwork imagery is instantly accessible worldwide, allowing collectors and buyers to reach artists directly without intermediaries.
Despite this shift, the value of a gallery depends on an artist's specific career stage and needs. Galleries continue to provide essential market validation. An established gallery brings its own history, prestige, and institutional standing. When a collector purchases a work through a gallery, it provides a dual stamp of validation — combining the artist's resume with the gallery's track record to build both symbolic and economic value.
Galleries are actively experimenting with dynamic, flexible models to engage new audiences, maintain sales volume, and remain competitive in a changing market.
Hernán:
I often view my studio position like a boulder fixed in a riverbed: I stay in the same place while the water continuously flows past, and the water is always new. In that sense, viewers and collectors are constantly shifting.
Today, people — regardless of age or background — frequently encounter my work first through digital formats: an Instagram post, a PDF portfolio, or a photograph of a piece in someone else's home.
When someone has seen the work in person at a gallery, museum, or private collection, they already understand its physical scale, texture, scratches, perforations, and aged metal surfaces. They arrive at the studio with full context.
Conversely, those who have only seen digital images experience a complete shift when encountering the physical piece for the first time. They discover the actual scale, light reflections, metal bends, surface imperfections, and the energy the object emits. That physical presence either resonates with them or it doesn't.
The main task for a new collector is imagining that physical object living in their personal space over a long period, continuously releasing its energy in quiet doses. Unlike a gallery visit, where you spend a limited time analyzing a work, living with an artwork integrates it into daily life. It becomes like a book you revisit — gradually revealing subtle details over time.
Whether dealing with seasoned or tech-minded collectors, the core dynamic remains unchanged: the physical, in-person encounter with the object is what ultimately defines their connection to the work.
Konstantin: How do you see the relationship between artists and galleries evolving today? Where do you spot the main vulnerability or flaw in the traditional gallery system, and where do you feel this dynamic is drifting?
Hernán:
The relationship between artists and galleries is a long-standing model that continuously needs to adapt to remain relevant.
Social media platforms have granted artists direct global visibility. Historically, galleries held exclusive control over an artist's imagery through their physical space, printed catalogs, or websites. Today, artwork imagery is instantly accessible worldwide, allowing collectors and buyers to reach artists directly without intermediaries.
Despite this shift, the value of a gallery depends on an artist's specific career stage and needs. Galleries continue to provide essential market validation. An established gallery brings its own history, prestige, and institutional standing. When a collector purchases a work through a gallery, it provides a dual stamp of validation — combining the artist's resume with the gallery's track record to build both symbolic and economic value.
Galleries are actively experimenting with dynamic, flexible models to engage new audiences, maintain sales volume, and remain competitive in a changing market.
Konstantin: Social media has fundamentally reconfigured the art scene. An artist’s, gallery’s, or biennale’s page has become the script for a mini-documentary or film, where everyone directs their own narrative. What advantages and dangers do you see in this reliance on social media, and how has this tool transformed how people perceive art?
Hernán:
Social media is a powerful tool, but having access to a platform does not automatically mean knowing how to use it meaningfully.
A similar shift occurred when smartphones began taking high-resolution photos — many assumed that owning a good camera made them a photographer. However, professional photography requires deep technical mastery, artistic vision, and years of practice. The gap between an amateur and a professional remains vast.
The prevalence of platforms like Instagram creates ambiguity, fostering the illusion that taking a compelling photo instantly makes someone an artist. True artistic development requires years of study, rigorous material experimentation, mentorship, and sustained practice.
While social media offers democratic access, it should not be the benchmark for evaluating artistic quality. To properly evaluate artwork, one must experience it in person — ideally supported by a trained eye — to determine whether the work possesses genuine substance and lasting value.
Konstantin: Looking at the broader picture — both locally and across the international circuit: what "wind" do you feel is currently blowing through contemporary art, what shifts do you observe around you, and where do you sense things are heading?
Hernán:
I spend most of my time focused directly on my studio practice rather than tracking global market trends, but broader shifts are evident. The commercial bubble surrounding contemporary art is contracting — galleries are closing internationally, and funding access for artists in major art hubs like Berlin, Europe, and the US has tightened significantly.
This contraction serves as an important trial. It tests whether an artist's work can endure beyond market trends and economic fluctuations. It forces artists to examine their core motivations and confirm whether they create art out of necessity.
Authentic artistic practices backed by personal conviction and commitment tend to persist regardless of external economic cycles.
Hernán:
Social media is a powerful tool, but having access to a platform does not automatically mean knowing how to use it meaningfully.
A similar shift occurred when smartphones began taking high-resolution photos — many assumed that owning a good camera made them a photographer. However, professional photography requires deep technical mastery, artistic vision, and years of practice. The gap between an amateur and a professional remains vast.
The prevalence of platforms like Instagram creates ambiguity, fostering the illusion that taking a compelling photo instantly makes someone an artist. True artistic development requires years of study, rigorous material experimentation, mentorship, and sustained practice.
While social media offers democratic access, it should not be the benchmark for evaluating artistic quality. To properly evaluate artwork, one must experience it in person — ideally supported by a trained eye — to determine whether the work possesses genuine substance and lasting value.
Konstantin: Looking at the broader picture — both locally and across the international circuit: what "wind" do you feel is currently blowing through contemporary art, what shifts do you observe around you, and where do you sense things are heading?
Hernán:
I spend most of my time focused directly on my studio practice rather than tracking global market trends, but broader shifts are evident. The commercial bubble surrounding contemporary art is contracting — galleries are closing internationally, and funding access for artists in major art hubs like Berlin, Europe, and the US has tightened significantly.
This contraction serves as an important trial. It tests whether an artist's work can endure beyond market trends and economic fluctuations. It forces artists to examine their core motivations and confirm whether they create art out of necessity.
Authentic artistic practices backed by personal conviction and commitment tend to persist regardless of external economic cycles.
Konstantin: You’ve mentioned how crucial it is to keep a ‘live’ energy or ‘electricity’ in a painting, otherwise it becomes dry and purely mechanical. Have you ever faced the temptation to repeat a successful, easy-to-sell formula for financial reasons? How do you set an internal boundary to avoid turning your studio into an assembly line?
Hernán:
I firmly believe a painting must preserve that living energy and "electricity". A good piece of art — whether made by me or someone else — must condense and trap energy, drawing both from the artist and the physical space where it was created.
Works are often built on ideas, but if an idea isn't translated convincingly into raw matter, it lacks that condensed weight. Repeating a successful formula simply to guarantee a sale has always felt completely uninteresting to me; it offers zero motivation. On the rare occasions I attempted to reproduce a past success, it failed.
True artistic creation stems from an inner necessity. If the motivation is purely commercial or superficial, the painting fails to condense energy. It might possess all the formal elements of a previously successful piece — the same dimensions, color palette, brushstrokes, and composition — yet viewers instinctively sense the absence of life. They don't engage with it, and they don't choose it. Formulaic art simply doesn't work.
The internal brake that prevents the studio from turning into a factory is that generating genuine creative energy takes far longer than the physical execution. I might spend weeks contemplating a project — thinking about why I want to paint a specific scale or palette, processing an emotion or something I observed. The physical act of painting may take much less time, but it requires that long incubation period to build the urge to paint. Without that internal preparation, painting becomes empty and meaningless.
Konstantin: One of the greatest fears for artists is working without guarantees — having finished pieces sit unsold in the studio for months or years. How do you build the financial and psychological resilience needed to keep producing without falling into panic during those periods?
Hernán:
Financial and psychological stability is an ongoing challenge for every artist. I rely on a framework that I also pass on to my students: adopting a "billionaire mindset".
By "billionaire mindset," I mean training yourself mentally to operate without financial anxiety. When you remove immediate financial desperation from your decision-making process, you avoid taking reactive steps driven by panic or short-term commercial pressure. You have to genuinely believe in your value and your practice.
Even during slow periods, low sales, or financial instability, solutions can be found creatively without forcing artwork sales. An artist can diversify within the art ecosystem by applying for grants, residencies, and awards, or by teaching classes. This distributes financial pressure across multiple income streams rather than placing all pressure solely on selling studio inventory.
It is equally essential to build strong, trusted commercial partners. You need gallerists and representatives who respect your work, safeguard your market value, and refrain from panic-discounting or misrepresenting your art.
Hernán:
I firmly believe a painting must preserve that living energy and "electricity". A good piece of art — whether made by me or someone else — must condense and trap energy, drawing both from the artist and the physical space where it was created.
Works are often built on ideas, but if an idea isn't translated convincingly into raw matter, it lacks that condensed weight. Repeating a successful formula simply to guarantee a sale has always felt completely uninteresting to me; it offers zero motivation. On the rare occasions I attempted to reproduce a past success, it failed.
True artistic creation stems from an inner necessity. If the motivation is purely commercial or superficial, the painting fails to condense energy. It might possess all the formal elements of a previously successful piece — the same dimensions, color palette, brushstrokes, and composition — yet viewers instinctively sense the absence of life. They don't engage with it, and they don't choose it. Formulaic art simply doesn't work.
The internal brake that prevents the studio from turning into a factory is that generating genuine creative energy takes far longer than the physical execution. I might spend weeks contemplating a project — thinking about why I want to paint a specific scale or palette, processing an emotion or something I observed. The physical act of painting may take much less time, but it requires that long incubation period to build the urge to paint. Without that internal preparation, painting becomes empty and meaningless.
Konstantin: One of the greatest fears for artists is working without guarantees — having finished pieces sit unsold in the studio for months or years. How do you build the financial and psychological resilience needed to keep producing without falling into panic during those periods?
Hernán:
Financial and psychological stability is an ongoing challenge for every artist. I rely on a framework that I also pass on to my students: adopting a "billionaire mindset".
By "billionaire mindset," I mean training yourself mentally to operate without financial anxiety. When you remove immediate financial desperation from your decision-making process, you avoid taking reactive steps driven by panic or short-term commercial pressure. You have to genuinely believe in your value and your practice.
Even during slow periods, low sales, or financial instability, solutions can be found creatively without forcing artwork sales. An artist can diversify within the art ecosystem by applying for grants, residencies, and awards, or by teaching classes. This distributes financial pressure across multiple income streams rather than placing all pressure solely on selling studio inventory.
It is equally essential to build strong, trusted commercial partners. You need gallerists and representatives who respect your work, safeguard your market value, and refrain from panic-discounting or misrepresenting your art.
Konstantin: The reflective, glossy surfaces of your works act almost like a mirror: a person passing by in a bright red sweater instantly becomes part of the composition. Could one say that a painting is never truly finished in the studio, but continues to be completed by every new space and viewer?
Hernán:
The glossy surfaces of my works function as reactive planes. While not pure mirrors, they actively incorporate surrounding ambient light, shadows, and movement. The image shifts depending on whether it is exposed to daylight, night light, natural, artificial, or direct spotlighting.
While some of my works feature matte or opaque finishes, the combination of glossy synthetic enamel, varnish, and industrial metal creates a dynamic surface.
In low light or darkness, the painted colors recede, leaving only the physical topography of the metal visible — its grooves, bends, hit marks, and perforations catching faint light reflections. The surface becomes ambiguous, obscuring whether the material is wet, liquid, or solid. This reflective quality transforms the flat painting into a multi-dimensional physical object.
Konstantin: In a world where attention has become the scarcest resource and art is constantly swiped through on flat screens, can a physical, tactile object still compel someone to pause for 5 to 10 minutes? Do you view your practice as a form of quiet resistance against digital speed?
Hernán:
Sustained attention is becoming a rare commodity. Constant digital consumption conditions people to skim rapidly, diminishing their capacity for focused observation.
Visual artists naturally cultivate deep visual attention, observing subtle environmental details and physical phenomena. In a fast-paced digital culture, taking time to watch a full-length film, read a book, listen to an entire album, or spend 10 minutes contemplating a physical artwork becomes an act of cultural counter-resistance.
Developing visual sensibility requires active practice and exposure. A parallel can be seen in gastronomy: chefs have elevated culinary practice to an art form. While food is universal, discerning subtle nuances in fine cuisine or wine requires cultivated attention and experience over time.
Visual art requires an in-person, physical encounter. Viewing a gallery exhibition on a smartphone screen omits essential spatial qualities: architectural scale, acoustic silence, physical texture, precise color values, and material presence. Engaging directly with physical art, visiting studios, talking to creators, and remaining curious in the real world is essential for building authentic personal perception.
Hernán:
The glossy surfaces of my works function as reactive planes. While not pure mirrors, they actively incorporate surrounding ambient light, shadows, and movement. The image shifts depending on whether it is exposed to daylight, night light, natural, artificial, or direct spotlighting.
While some of my works feature matte or opaque finishes, the combination of glossy synthetic enamel, varnish, and industrial metal creates a dynamic surface.
In low light or darkness, the painted colors recede, leaving only the physical topography of the metal visible — its grooves, bends, hit marks, and perforations catching faint light reflections. The surface becomes ambiguous, obscuring whether the material is wet, liquid, or solid. This reflective quality transforms the flat painting into a multi-dimensional physical object.
Konstantin: In a world where attention has become the scarcest resource and art is constantly swiped through on flat screens, can a physical, tactile object still compel someone to pause for 5 to 10 minutes? Do you view your practice as a form of quiet resistance against digital speed?
Hernán:
Sustained attention is becoming a rare commodity. Constant digital consumption conditions people to skim rapidly, diminishing their capacity for focused observation.
Visual artists naturally cultivate deep visual attention, observing subtle environmental details and physical phenomena. In a fast-paced digital culture, taking time to watch a full-length film, read a book, listen to an entire album, or spend 10 minutes contemplating a physical artwork becomes an act of cultural counter-resistance.
Developing visual sensibility requires active practice and exposure. A parallel can be seen in gastronomy: chefs have elevated culinary practice to an art form. While food is universal, discerning subtle nuances in fine cuisine or wine requires cultivated attention and experience over time.
Visual art requires an in-person, physical encounter. Viewing a gallery exhibition on a smartphone screen omits essential spatial qualities: architectural scale, acoustic silence, physical texture, precise color values, and material presence. Engaging directly with physical art, visiting studios, talking to creators, and remaining curious in the real world is essential for building authentic personal perception.
Konstantin: Many emerging artists feel immense pressure to secure European or US residencies, viewing them as the ultimate stamp of validation. Having studied in Belgium while maintaining your primary base in Buenos Aires, how essential is international experience today, and how do you preserve your connection to your local identity?
Hernán:
Working or studying in major international cultural centers like Europe or the US offers distinct advantages alongside clear challenges.
On the positive side, living in major art capitals provides direct physical access to historical masterpieces and contemporary works in museums and foundations. Experiencing masterworks in person — rather than through reproductions or art history books — is invaluable for an artist's technical and conceptual growth. Furthermore, it offers firsthand insight into how developed cultural institutions, residency programs, and public funding structures support artists and value culture.
The challenge comes when returning home: encountering local institutional deficits after experiencing well-funded international infrastructure can be sobering.
Additionally, major international art centers are highly competitive, and systemic preference is often given to local artists over foreign practitioners. Building a career abroad requires immense resilience.
Conversely, developing an artistic career from Argentina carries material disadvantages, but it also carries distinct strength: building an international career from the periphery proves that compelling art can be created without relying on abundant institutional resources. International exposure during an artist's formative years is highly beneficial for broadening perspective, provided one maintains a strong connection to local practice and identity.
Hernán:
Working or studying in major international cultural centers like Europe or the US offers distinct advantages alongside clear challenges.
On the positive side, living in major art capitals provides direct physical access to historical masterpieces and contemporary works in museums and foundations. Experiencing masterworks in person — rather than through reproductions or art history books — is invaluable for an artist's technical and conceptual growth. Furthermore, it offers firsthand insight into how developed cultural institutions, residency programs, and public funding structures support artists and value culture.
The challenge comes when returning home: encountering local institutional deficits after experiencing well-funded international infrastructure can be sobering.
Additionally, major international art centers are highly competitive, and systemic preference is often given to local artists over foreign practitioners. Building a career abroad requires immense resilience.
Conversely, developing an artistic career from Argentina carries material disadvantages, but it also carries distinct strength: building an international career from the periphery proves that compelling art can be created without relying on abundant institutional resources. International exposure during an artist's formative years is highly beneficial for broadening perspective, provided one maintains a strong connection to local practice and identity.