César Canseco

As color has become increasingly central in your recent work, when does color function as atmosphere and when does it become narrative or psychological force?

CC: It’s been less than eight years that I’ve been trying to incorporate color into my work. I started working exclusively in black and white because I wanted to contain whatever message I was trying to communicate within the contrast and the shapes of my drawings. But as I began to understand commercial work more and learn how to position myself within that world, I started incorporating more color into my drawings, illustrations, and paintings.

I think this happened in two ways. First, I used to reject color because Mexico is such a colorful place, but sometimes it can feel messy—there can be so much information and so many colors everywhere. So, in the beginning, I turned to black and white as a way of distancing myself from that.

Eventually, though, I wanted to replicate that same chaos of Mexico, and especially Oaxaca, in my work. These explosions of color are part of everyday life, and I wanted to bring that into my work. It’s something that has been in front of me for most of my life, so I think incorporating these colors became a way of honoring my roots and the context in which I grew up. That was one of my first approaches to color: using it as a representation of Mexico and Oaxaca.

Then, when I started painting more during the pandemic, color became a different kind of exploration. Working digitally with color is very easy—you have the entire palette at your disposal. But when you paint physically, you only have a few tubes of paint, and you have to work within those limitations. Physical color also has qualities that you can’t experience in the same way on a computer. Some colors are brighter, some are more transparent, and others have heavier textures.

So, I think color has continued to evolve with me. As I learn to become a better artist and a better communicator, I’m also learning more about color and how I can use it to make better work—especially when it comes to commercial work.

You draw from everyday scenes, but infuse them with the inexplicable. What role does ambiguity play in keeping the image alive rather than resolved?

CC: I think the role of ambiguity in my work comes from Mexican realism and, especially, magical realism. As a Mexican, you’re surrounded by ambiguity in everyday life—in the way people talk, in the stories we grow up with, in the cartoons we watch, and even in music and art. I think that ambiguity comes from the context I grew up in, particularly in Mexico, Oaxaca, and Mexico City. It’s something that has always surrounded me, so I naturally try to bring it into my work.

For me, ambiguity is a way of not giving you everything at once. I don’t want you to look at one of my illustrations and think, “Oh, this is just a cup of coffee with a flower.” I want you to encounter something beyond the obvious—something that might be hidden within the image. Maybe it’s not simply a cup of coffee with a flower. Maybe it represents a sad evening, or someone going through a difficult moment in their life. I like leaving that space open for interpretation.

I think it also comes naturally because there are times when my own feelings aren’t completely clear. I’m not always feeling one specific thing, like being romantic, for example. And when I have an idea that I want to put into my work, I sometimes doubt it myself. I question what I’m saying and what I’m trying to communicate. So ambiguity becomes a way of allowing myself to say something without making it absolute. It can become another concept later, just as we change as people. Maybe today you see something as red, but tomorrow you see it as blue.

Ambiguity creates a space for change—for yourself, for your thoughts, and for the meaning of the work. The idea I was painting or illustrating can continue to evolve, just as I do.

When it comes to inspiration, how do you engage with the artistic movements and cultural influences that came before you without simply recreating them or falling into nostalgia?

CC: When it comes to inspiration, I think there’s a very obvious influence from Mexican muralism of the 20th century. I admire that movement and the huge effort behind bringing art into public spaces, making it accessible to people who might not otherwise have had access to it—putting art in the streets, in public buildings, and throughout everyday life.

I also admire how those artists explored ideas around Mexican identity and tried to give people a sense of hope and connection to their culture. I really honor those artists, their efforts, and their work, and I definitely look for inspiration within that tradition. But I think you’re not allowed to simply take whatever you want from the things that inspire you. You have to transform them—to let them pass through you and become something else.

I’m surrounded by many other influences that I admire, from different movements in art and music to sports. I don’t want to approach those influences from a place of melancholy or nostalgia. Mexican muralism was incredible, but the circumstances and the lives of people at that time weren’t necessarily better. I’m not nostalgic for that period, and I don’t wish I had been there. Instead, I want to take the things that inspire me—the ideas, the spirit, the visual language—and shape them through my own perspective.

I think that’s how those influences become something new and relevant to the present.

The human figure appears frequently in your work, often charged with stillness or tension. What does the body reveal when it’s paused rather than in action?

CC: When I work with the human body in my illustrations and paintings, I think I’m naturally drawn to the tension of the body. A lot of that comes from my experience at art academies and from taking human figure-drawing classes. I’ve been doing figure drawing for maybe ten years, and it’s something I really enjoy. In these sessions, you have models holding poses for five minutes, twenty minutes, an hour, sometimes even two hours.

People can be incredibly expressive, but they also have to hold those poses for a long time, so that physical tension becomes very obvious in their bodies. I think that naturally shows up in my work. I love observing those bodies—seeing someone hold a tense position for twenty or forty minutes while I’m drawing them. There’s also something interesting about tension that a friend once pointed out in my work. Even when my figures are tense, falling, or almost collapsing, I tend to place an object beside them or behind them to support them. I’m always looking for some kind of equilibrium or stability, even when the body itself is unstable.

My friend basically told me, “Let those bodies fall. Let the tension actually be there. Don’t save them.” It was an interesting observation because I realized they were right. So now I’m interested in letting those bodies fall and allowing that tension to exist without always trying to compensate for it. That’s really where those figures come from for me. “Light and volume in your images feel almost sculptural. Do you think of your paintings and illustrations as objects as much as images?”

Light and volume in your images feel almost sculptural. Do you think of your paintings and illustrations as objects as much as images?

CC: Yes, absolutely. I think of my paintings and illustrations more as objects than as two-dimensional images.

I come from a background in engineering, so I worked a lot with volume and materials during university. After that, I moved into 3D work and became a 3D generalist. I spent about two years specifically working with objects and volume.

So when I started developing my illustration portfolio, that way of thinking naturally came with me. I love thinking about volume, weight, and the physicality of things.

Sometimes what I’m creating is essentially a sculpture within a two-dimensional world. In my mind’s eye, I can clearly see the volume. I can see the wrinkles in a face, how the mouth bends, how something exists in perspective, and how the different parts of an object occupy space.

So, more than anything, I think of my illustrations as objects.

You have a background in engineering that eventually evolved into a career in art and illustration. Growing up, did you ever imagine that you would have a commercial collaboration with the FIFA World Cup? More specifically, what does that opportunity mean to you?

No, never. I never thought that would happen.

It was exciting because it came at a turning point in my career, when I was beginning to connect with bigger brands. Obviously, those are the kinds of clients you aim for when you start your career.

But my portfolio was so full of personal work that I never imagined a football-related project would come from it. I wasn’t thinking that someone would see my drawings and say, “Hey, I want to work with this guy.”

Then I started receiving more clients from sports, including baseball and the Dodgers, and my portfolio gradually started moving in that direction.

But especially as a kid, art wasn’t something I imagined as a career. There were no artists in my family, so I never thought I would have those kinds of opportunities.

Once I started building a career in illustration, though, I realized you have to be an illustrator who can cover many different subjects, not just the things you personally like.

So when the World Cup project came along, it felt amazing. And what motivated me the most was the opportunity to honor Mexico through the project. That made it especially meaningful to me.

You move between commercial collaborations and deeply personal work. How do you protect vulnerability and introspection when working with branded or commissioned clients?”

It’s been difficult to separate the personal and commercial sides of my work because, from my perspective, my soul is more that of an artist than an illustrator.

I enjoy talking about my feelings and my thoughts more than talking about football, baseball, or whatever the subject of a commercial project might be.

So when I switch into commercial work, I have to make an effort not to be so personal or emotionally attached to the project. Commercial work often comes with tight deadlines and very specific communication needs, so I have to put some of those personal artistic ambitions to the side.

I don’t know if I actually protect that personal side of myself. There’s definitely an effort to push it back—to remind myself that, in that moment, I’m not just being an artist. I’m being an illustrator. My job is to communicate clearly and provide a great service to the client.

So, yes, I have to separate the two worlds. But it’s been a conflict for me because sometimes I don’t think they necessarily need to be separated.

I’m actually trying to figure out how they can become the same thing. I think it’s already starting to work because there are people who have approached me precisely because there isn’t such an obvious line between those two worlds in my work.

Maybe there doesn’t need to be a perfect solution. I’m still trying to figure out how to bring those worlds together rather than completely separating them.

At the same time, the professionalization of the work requires a certain level of separation. On one side, you have to provide a service and meet the client’s needs. On the other, you have the freedom to be completely yourself.

I’m still learning how to exist between those two sides.

Many of your images invite slowness, asking the viewer to stop, look, and feel. Is slowness a resistance to contemporary image culture, or simply a personal necessity?

CC: I think my images ask you to stop and take things slowly because, yes, I want to go against the rush of social media and contemporary image culture.

These platforms are full of artwork that you can appreciate for maybe five seconds before it disappears. There’s so much content that you’re constantly moving from one image to the next.

My work has always been detailed enough that I want you to take a closer look and spend time appreciating it, but social media doesn’t really allow you to do that. Because of that, I want you to stop, take a pause, and really experience the work.

That’s also one of the reasons I’ve started painting more. I want people to see the work in real life—to get closer to it, maybe even smell it or touch it. I don’t want the experience to be limited to sitting in front of a screen for one second before moving on to the next image. That doesn’t make much sense to me.

I think slowness is very important to my work.

My friends have also observed that I’m a very delicate person in the way I work. I take my time. Sometimes it feels like the times we’re living in don’t really allow you to work that way. You’re expected to produce quickly, constantly, and everywhere.

That’s just not my vibe. I like taking things slowly, and I think that naturally shows in my work.

Your work carries a strong symbolic charge without offering fixed meanings. How much do you want the viewer to interpret, and how much do you want them to simply experience?

CC: I think I want people to experience my images, but also interpret them in whatever way they want.

I want people to perceive the images in any way they can and in any way that feels natural to them. I’m not trying to explain everything.

I think I’m often talking about personal feelings, and sometimes that message can get lost in translation or lost in whatever the viewer brings to the image. But at the same time, I think I’m talking about universal feelings and universal problems.

Every one of us has experienced sadness, happiness, love, uncertainty, or difficult moments. I think that’s where the magic is.

People can bring their own feelings and experiences to an image, and their perception of that image will be shaped by those experiences.

So I don’t necessarily want to tell people what an image means. I want to create a space where they can experience it, interpret it, and find their own meaning within it.

Material exploration has become increasingly important to you. What does working with matter, texture, surface, and volume teach you that digital space cannot?

CC: It’s a whole new experience to work with materials, to work with your hands, and to actually build things yourself.

I think you can learn much more about color when you work with it physically because physical color has qualities that you don’t experience in the same way digitally. It can be reflective, transparent, or have a heavy texture. You also have limitations. You might only have a few tubes of paint, so you have to work with what you have. You learn through mixing oils, mixing acrylics, and figuring out how to achieve what you want with those limitations.

Sometimes it can be frustrating, but I think it gives you a better understanding of color than I’ve been able to develop through digital work. You start understanding things like subtle contrasts and how they can create depth.

I’m also really enjoying working with the materials that come before the painting. I enjoy building my own canvases, cutting the wood, preparing the surfaces, and everything that comes with that process.

I think working with physical materials gives you the opportunity to bring more of your energy into the work and into the final image. That’s something I don’t feel in the same way with digital work. Digital work can exist somewhere in the internet or inside a computer, but physical work actually exists in front of you.

I really enjoy working with materials, and it’s something new that I want to keep exploring for a long time—as long as I can.

Living between Oaxaca and Mexico City, how do these two landscapes—one rooted in symbols and silence, the other in velocity—shape your visual language?”

CC: These two places, Oaxaca and Mexico City, have shaped me tremendously.

I was born in Oaxaca and lived there for 24 years. That’s where I learned to be myself. I learned how to be a good son, a good brother, a good nephew. The person I am was shaped by Oaxaca.

But the artist I am becoming has been shaped by Mexico City.

I’m from a small town called Etla, and I don’t think that boy had the vision of becoming the artist that I want to be today. When I came to Mexico City, my mind exploded. The opportunities, the energy, the people, the rush—it was all incredibly inspiring.

There’s something inspiring about constantly moving toward your goals and competing with other people in a positive way. You exchange ideas, learn from other artists, and discover different disciplines, whether it’s visual art, objects, architecture, or something else.

I think coming to Mexico City was the best decision I’ve made for my career.

At the same time, I’m now reconnecting with Oaxaca, but from the outside. When I was living there, it sometimes felt very pressurizing. I didn’t feel like I could completely be myself there, or become the artist I wanted to be. In the beginning, I really ran away from Oaxaca.

But now that I can see Oaxaca from the outside, it’s starting to make more sense to me in terms of my roots, my family, and where I come from.

It feels really nice to return to Oaxaca now. Before, being there could be frustrating and stressful. I wasn’t happy there. But now I can actually enjoy being there.

I even want to live there again someday. That’s a plan for the future.

Your influences span Mexican visual traditions and global art history. At what point does influence dissolve into instinct?”

CC: I don’t know if I can say there was one specific moment when that happened, but I think it had something to do with going to therapy and reaffirming that I’m entitled to my own opinions.

The things I’m saying are valid. Before, I was afraid to take my inspirations and influences out into the world because I thought they weren’t original or authentic enough.

But I’ve also learned that we are made from everything that surrounds us. Everything we consume, everything we see, everything we like—it all becomes part of us.

I’m not trying to force an influence into my work as quickly as possible. I let it live with me first, and eventually it becomes part of my life rather than simply an influence that I take and put somewhere in my work.

I think the things that influence me become part of my lifestyle. And once they become part of my life, I feel entitled to use them.

But I want to understand those influences beyond the first impression and beyond simply recognizing a particular style. I try to know them before I use them.

So maybe that’s when influence starts becoming instinct—not when you consciously decide to incorporate something, but when it has lived with you long enough that it naturally becomes part of who you are.