#1 Samuel Santos

I met Samuel when I first arrived on the island. I was browsing the internet, trying to get a sense of the contemporary painting scene. The place is small, so I wasn’t expecting much. But after digging a little, I stumbled upon Samuel’s paintings. The guy had no website, making him impossible to track down, but thanks to some local friends, I quickly found his Instagram account. I sent him a DM, suggesting we grab a beer.

A few months passed—things move slowly here. Eventually, we met up on a terrace. That beer, of course, turned into a bit of a drinking session. I think he’ll remember that night for a long time—my unfiltered way of speaking didn’t exactly win me points with his group of friends. I won’t go into details, but let’s just say it was a perfect illustration of the cultural frictions that inevitably arise.

That being said, I’m genuinely honored to count Samuel and his partner, Beatriz, among my friends on the island. They make a beautiful, harmonious couple, and Samuel’s work—deeply rooted in classical painting—constantly pushes toward new horizons with the talent and rigor he’s known for.

See you soon, my friend!

The Blase House Questionnaire

How would you define your style/work in 2 or 3 words?

Yellow polygons.

Describe an emotion you love to feel while working.

Well, I enjoy moments when I experience a deep sense of patience and emotional balance. Sometimes, when I'm painting, a calmness takes over—I feel completely grounded and focused on each step. I’m not rushed or anxious, and each brushstroke feels intentional. There’s peace in knowing that the process is unfolding in its own time.

Which artist (living or dead) would you invite to dinner?

Marcel Duchamp or Francis Bacon. If I could have dinner with someone alive, it would be Alejandro Jodorowsky.

Is there a work of art that once obsessed you but no longer has an impact? Or, on the contrary, one that opened a mental door for you?

Antonio Mancini’s paintings. I still like them, but unfortunately, it’s not the same anymore. I wish I could erase them from my memory to rediscover them again. Now, Josef Albers' work is changing everything for me.

What material or technique do you dream of mastering perfectly?

Drawing from memory.

Do you have a creative ritual?

Smoking cigarettes—a lot of them.

Is there a style of music that accompanies your moments of creation?

Yes, I often find that instrumental music or ambient soundscapes work best. Music without lyrics helps me focus and keeps my mind from getting too distracted by words, allowing me to sink deeper into the work.

Do you ever get stuck in doubt? If so, what do you do in those moments?

Ufff, man, doubt is inevitable. It’s hard to avoid, especially when a piece isn’t going in the direction I want, or when I question my choices and whether they make sense. In those moments, I try to step back and distance myself from the painting, both physically and mentally. Sometimes, working on something completely different gives me enough perspective to clear the fog. I also try to embrace imperfection and remind myself that I can always adjust things later. But honestly, most of the time, I just erase it and start a new one on top.

Do you have a vice that, paradoxically, helps your work?

Overthinking. It can be paralyzing at times, but paradoxically, it also pushes me to dig deeper into my work. I question what I’m really trying to say. That constant analysis can be exhausting, but it forces me to refine my ideas, to push past obvious choices, and to create something more intentional. The trick is knowing when to stop thinking and just paint.

What’s the best and worst artistic advice you’ve ever received?

The best part is creating for yourself, as if no one else would ever see it. The worst part is “trying to adapt your work to attract more potential buyers.”

Tell me about a happy accident in your work that brought you joy.

The moment I realize a piece looks like someone else did it. This doesn’t happen often, but when it does, those are my best works. The whole thing is an accident.

How do you relate to boredom? Do you fear it, or do you fantasize about it?

I do encounter it, especially in the final stages of a painting. I don’t particularly enjoy that feeling—it’s when there’s no more space for creativity, and the process shifts from exploration to refining small details, things that feel more like adjustments than true artistic decisions. At that point, the excitement is gone, and I often feel disconnected from the initial inspiration that drove the work. The painting is almost finished, and there’s no room left for spontaneous accidents or creative energy—the things I thrive on. Instead, it’s about making everything just right for presentation, which feels less satisfying. It frustrates me. It’s like the painting has already "spoken," and I’m just polishing it for the audience. This phase doesn’t give me the same thrill as creating something new, and it’s a part of the process I wish I could skip.

Is there a mindset that’s essential for balancing work and a relationship?

I struggle with finding a clear balance between work and relationships. It’s hard for me to separate the two, especially since my work as an artist requires deep emotional and mental investment. Sometimes, I get so absorbed in a project that it takes over my thoughts. This lack of separation can lead to frustration or guilt—feeling like I’m not fully present in one area because I’m too focused on the other. I know I should create boundaries, but it’s challenging when my creative process is so intertwined with my personal life. It often feels like there’s no clear divide between when I’m “working” and when I’m simply living. I try to remind myself that it’s okay not to have a perfect balance, but this constant push and pull is something I’m still figuring out.

In 10 years, where are you, and what are you doing?

Well, painting in a studio with high ceilings in a European city... or selling car insurance.