The Gramercy Park neighborhood in Manhattan, with its skyscrapers from the 1990s, isn’t the kind of place where you’d expect to find a painter’s studio. While art typically requires space to be loud and messy, this area is mostly home to corporate headquarters and bright, expensive apartments in doorman buildings. Yet here, in a modern high-rise with lower ceilings, exceptional natural light, and a spectacular view—features typical of these condominiums—there’s a small room with reddish walls: the studio of painter Marko Ristić.
Although his paintings lack a defined three-dimensional space, or hint at it only subtly, our conversation revolved precisely around his relationship with space—for work and for creation—his beginnings, his process, his influences, and the city. Marko Ristić is a first generation American painter of Serbian descent, a former male model. He speaks of painting as if he were writing a diary, and his artistic inclination runs in the family: his father is an architect with a successful practice in New York, his sister is the Belgrade-based painter Kristina Ristić, and his grandfather was a cinematographer for the Yugoslav People’s Army. However, he entered the art world relatively late, in his late twenties, and informally—quickly developing a successful artistic practice.
Being Serbian, Being American
Born in Daytona Beach, Florida, and raised on Long Island in a New York suburb, Marko struggled with his family’s immigrant experience and the sense of belonging it stirred. “You go to school in America, I appear American. People acknowledge and friends attempted to influence me to alienate from my heritage and embrace Americanism. I don’t know what it made me feel then, but now in retrospect with a clear mind, I felt as if though it was wrong to be different. At home I felt more comfortable to be Serbian, Yugoslav. Your language is different, your religion is different, your holidays, different. Different and how wonderful that is. At some point as time went on I did want to integrate into the American culture my friends existed within. I wanted to consider myself American because all my friends at school were Americans whose families had been here for generations. To them I never truly was. This left me confused. As I grew up I began to understand what ignorance was. When I finally visited Serbia, oddly enough I finally began to understand what it meant to be an American and how I was American as well although I simply was born on the soil of that bears a different name but my blood entirely was and is Serbian. I also understood what it meant to be from Serbia. To exist from two different worlds. Both beautiful. I started to appreciate everything this country has given me, my family, and at the same time, I began to understand better what connects me to Serbia. I primarily identify with the Serbian culture I grew up with at home, our customs and in particular religion. We do celebrate thanksgiving and both Christmas. The liberal art world in America is obsessed with identity. Through grants, portfolios, and galleries, it expects artists to take a clear stance on their own identity and how it manifests in their work. Marko finds the connection between his heritage, life experience, and art in the influence of his father, an architect who also draws and works with wood. “Our house was always this genius construction site—he was constantly bringing things in, different tools. When I met his friends in Belgrade, all these incredibly maniacal—painters, architects, sculptors—I realized just how much I’d been exposed to that in childhood, and that this land breeds eccentricity and authenticity. A country full of passion, pride and individualism. how these two worlds colliding have influenced my own work.”
The Search for a Sense of Presence
Despite this exposure, Marko’s entry into the art world was unconventional. It didn’t come through formal education but rather through a search for a more authentic form of expression in his late twenties. “Before that, from nineteen to twenty-seven, I worked as a model, and then I started painting. I was searching for something… Sports, for example, give you a strong sense of presence and discipline; there’s a routine—sports are one of the few ways in life that you can genuinely define greatness. Painting there is no way. It’s entirely subjective. Both do bring a similar physical response I don’t feel this way in other aspects of life. This presence, or adrenaline, that working in this field gives me is really special. In contrast, my last career in modeling had no emotional draw from me. It was simply a way to pay the bills” From that moment, he unintentionally developed a new career: “Everything happened very quickly. A childhood friend introduced me to Tyler Santangelo, who runs the ‘Allgorithm’ gallery in Los Angeles, and…” “who then gave me a deadline for a solo exhibition. It was really strange to suddenly see the paintings I had created in my apartment or in my parents’ garage on the walls of galleries and in the homes of collectors.”
A space for living and painting
Art studios, ateliers, and workshops in New York are usually located in neighborhoods like Sunset Park or Gowanus—industrial zones where you can get large spaces for affordable rent, even if it means dealing with noise and grime. But Marko’s studio, where he also lives, is deliberately situated outside of these typical “artistic” neighborhoods. “I have a friend who lives in this building, and that’s what brought me here… I liked the idea of not being in a typical studio space and not having to be amongst artists and constantly talk about art. My friends are in completely different fields.” Before this apartment, Marko mostly lived in places with minimal living conditions, but this time, he had some help. “My friend Anthony Giovanni Deane is an excellent interior designer, and he helped me settle in like an adult. Though I’m not sure how long this will last—I don’t really like fully furnished apartments or staying in one place for too long. His studio alternates between order and chaos: “Sometimes it’s immaculate, like a sacred space, and sometimes it looks more like a junkyard, but never anything in between. That’s unsettling.”
The entire concept of blending living space with artistic work is a fascinating one—and one that has often been romanticized throughout history. During the coronavirus pandemic, we all had the chance to experience both the charm and the challenges of the inseparability of life and work. Marko makes an effort to establish that separation nonetheless—not only through the layout of his apartment, with distinct rooms, but also through a series of daily rituals. “It’s easier for me to live in the space where I work. The self imposed discipline needs to be extreme. Given I take lengthy times away from painting. I typically wake up, drink three to seven coffees (lattes), exercise, and then work for as long as I can. Sometimes minutes, sometimes hours. And it’s true—it’s hard when you can’t distance yourself from your work. I don’t like being surrounded by my own paintings, not even the ones I am satisfied with. I think every painting is like a page from a journal. Sometimes what you have written may repulse you, either that day or in some time. Other times, you revisit it a few are surprised by how you still connect with what you expressed. And sometimes, no time or a lot of time passes, and you no longer recognize the person who created it.”
From Embrace to Catastrophe
What always intrigues people about painters is how they confront the blank canvas—where they begin. For Marko, that challenge was precisely what drew him in. “I don’t think of it as confrontation. I don’t have much of an opinion on whether or not it’s intimidating. I don’t think I’d be drawn to it if it was. I like being comfortable. Painting puts me in a place of ease as I’m typically quite restless, talkative and full of energy. I run six miles, swim and lift weights and I’m not as exhausted as I am after painting. I immediately started with very large canvases (my father thought I was crazy). He taught me how to, build frames, stretch canvas, make primer and so on… My choice of colors just are.. there isn’t much thought to it. I don’t have a particular answer when people ask. I don’t quite like the question. Perhaps it’s subconscious, in actuality I think it is. There’s the answer. It’s an invasive question. I use tubes of oil paint, and at times oil sticks. I paint with a brush occasionally, for the base. I predominantly use my hands, typically my right one. When I first started, I felt like I both knew exactly what I was doing simultaneously having no clue whatsoever. That’s the excitement to it, there’s no intimidation to a canvas or painting. There’s an excitement to finally be able to rest my mind for as long as I am painting. Other than that things can be pretty difficult to slow down. I usually paint human figures—portraits of family members or friends. “
Toward the end of our conversation, we returned to the topic of influences and inspirations. Marko brought out two cameras that belonged to his grandfather, Mile Puseljic, who was a Colonel in the Yugoslav people’s army (JNA) and a cinematographer for military movies along with one of his favorite books, a copy of the autobiography of Florentine sculptor Benvenuto Cellini, illustrated by Salvador Dalí—a gift from his father. Marko emphasizes that his painting is less influenced by other painters and he isn’t particularly fond of any one painter. He is compelled by artists in a different medium, in particulars filmmakers such as John Cassavetes, Andrei Tarkovsky, Elaine May, Andrzej Wajda, Seijun Suzuki, and Emir Kusturica, as well as writers like Charles Bukowski, John Fante, Henry Miller, and William S. Burroughs (but above all, Miller). “These are beacons of hope when it comes to self expression. These folks don’t pander to the audience. Their work is honest, simplistic and raw It shows. I don’t think that’s something you can achieve by trying to live a certain type of life rather than just being and figuring along the way how and if you’ll share that lived experience.”
Toward the end of our conversation, we returned to the topic of influences and inspirations. Marko brought out two cameras that belonged to his grandfather, Mile Puseljic, who was a Colonel in the Yugoslav people’s army (JNA) and a cinematographer for military movies along with one of his favorite books, a copy of the autobiography of Florentine sculptor Benvenuto Cellini, illustrated by Salvador Dalí—a gift from his father. Marko emphasizes that his painting is less influenced by other painters and he isn’t particularly fond of any one painter. He is compelled by artists in a different medium, in particulars filmmakers such as John Cassavetes, Andrei Tarkovsky, Elaine May, Andrzej Wajda, Seijun Suzuki, and Emir Kusturica, as well as writers like Charles Bukowski, John Fante, Henry Miller, and William S. Burroughs (but above all, Miller). “These are beacons of hope when it comes to self expression. These folks don’t pander to the audience. Their work is honest, simplistic and raw It shows. I don’t think that’s something you can achieve by trying to live a certain type of life rather than just being and figuring along the way how and if you’ll share that lived experience.”
Toward the end of our conversation, we returned to the topic of influences and inspirations. Marko brought out two cameras that belonged to his grandfather, Mile Puseljic, who was a Colonel in the Yugoslav people’s army (JNA) and a cinematographer for military movies along with one of his favorite books, a copy of the autobiography of Florentine sculptor Benvenuto Cellini, illustrated by Salvador Dalí—a gift from his father. Marko emphasizes that his painting is less influenced by other painters and he isn’t particularly fond of any one painter. He is compelled by artists in a different medium, in particulars filmmakers such as John Cassavetes, Andrei Tarkovsky, Elaine May, Andrzej Wajda, Seijun Suzuki, and Emir Kusturica, as well as writers like Charles Bukowski, John Fante, Henry Miller, and William S. Burroughs (but above all, Miller). “These are beacons of hope when it comes to self expression. These folks don’t pander to the audience. Their work is honest, simplistic and raw It shows. I don’t think that’s something you can achieve by trying to live a certain type of life rather than just being and figuring along the way how and if you’ll share that lived experience.”
“There was a band I admired significantly as a young teen and early into my young adult life where I was taken by the poetry written by singer Adam Lazarra. To be 18 years old and write so openly, honestly and vulnerably about life. It’s jarring. Most people won’t take pen to paper simply due to thinking they are unworthy.”
We finish our conversation in the kitchen, sitting at a small coffee table, looking out over the eastern skyline. We remark on how it will surely look different in a few months. That’s one certainty with New York—this city is a perpetual construction site, full of contradictions at every turn. That’s probably what draws people to it the most—the idea that everything can always be rebuilt from scratch, even ourselves. On the other hand, the sheer awareness of how much is being produced—artistically and otherwise—can be overwhelming and paralyzing. Still, for Marko and his painting, New York is an exciting and stimulating environment, irreplaceable for his creative process precisely because, as he puts it, it can take you “from a warm embrace to catastrophe” in the same day. I think those words capture this city perfectly.
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Marko Ristic