Nicholas Zalevsky
Nicholas Zalevsky was born in Kiev, Ukraine when the country was still a part of the Soviet Union. Developing artistic skills at a rather young age, Nicholas was admitted to a special school for exceptional young artists which provided middle through high school education. He graduated from this school and went on to study graphic design at Publishing Institute in Lviv, Ukraine. Though he possessed the credentials, it was unfortunately close to impossible for somebody with Jewish roots to be admitted to the prestigious Kiev Art Academy. His diploma work (illustration to “Tom the Thumb” by Charles Perot) was printed by a Ukrainian Publishing House in 200,000 copies.
After graduation, he worked odd jobs; this was the only way for him to earn living, his artistic views being greatly different from those that conformed to the state-approved Socialist Realism. Once in a while he would get a commission as a book illustrator. The chances of becoming a “legitimate” painter enjoying exhibitions and sales, were slim.
In the 60's and 70’s, a new generation of painters who rejected any compromises with the official Union of Painters made their voices heard. Their works have become known as artistic underground: a nonconformist art style which evolved as an antipode to the official forms of art of a totalitarian society. Nicholas joined this movement.
He was never a dissident for the sake of being a dissident; Nicholas had no such ambitions to bring communism down through his paintings. He simply wished to explore hyper-realism and other genres considered decadent by the regime. The exhibitions of nonconformist artists took place in private apartments, abandoned offices, and parks. More often than not they were under KGB surveillance. Sometimes one or two participants would be detained as a warning to others. Able only to exhibit in the underground art scene, Zalevsky jumped at the opportunity to move to America. His last picture under the Soviets was made in 1989, and he kept working for publishers until his emigration to the United States in 1991.
Nicholas settled in West Hartford, where his brother had lived since the late 80's. Here Nicholas earned his living working as a janitor, artist’s model, grocery bagger, and health aid. Since coming to the U.S., Nicholas has created a number of paintings, although it takes him up to two to five years to complete each work.
He now lives in Farmington, Connecticut.
Your body of work frequently engages with a language of dissonance, visual, emotional, and symbolic, where elements of photorealistic precision collide with the grotesque and the absurd. In this friction between formal mastery and narrative provocation, do you see yourself as an artist engaged in a kind of aesthetic sabotage? Or do you consider this rupture a means to excavate deeper ontological truths that lie beyond the surface grammar of beauty?
You have formulated with astonishing precision the central tension in my work. The interplay between photorealistic precision and the grotesque/absurd is indeed central.
I would not characterize my approach as purely aesthetic sabotage, at least. Although there is certainly a deliberate violation of expectations.
I see this tension as a way to reveal deeper truths that lie beneath superficial beauty. The formal mastery, the meticulous detailing of photorealism is not an end in itself, but a tool. It is a lure, an initial access point that draws the viewer in and creates a sense of intimacy or even comfort. It creates a space of perceived reality into which the grotesque and the absurd then penetrate.
This clash is not arbitrary; it is a conscious strategy designed to disrupt complacency and challenge entrenched notions of reality, beauty and truth. The grotesque and the absurd act as a kind of psychological crowbar, breaking through the smooth surface of what we consider ‘normal’ or ‘acceptable’ to reveal the often unpleasant, contradictory and deeply human realities that lie beneath. In this sense, the rupture is not destructive, but rather revelatory. It is about breaking through the superficial to expose the raw, often disturbing aspects of existence, consciousness and the human condition. The ‘beauty’ that may initially attract the viewer is eventually undermined by disturbing elements, forcing them to confront what is often suppressed or ignored. It is in this friction, this momentary disorientation, that the potential for a deeper, more uncomfortable truth arises. It is about recognizing that reality itself is often a dissonant mix of the sublime and the abject, and my work seeks to reflect this complexity.
You have spoken of your desire for art to prepare us for a rendezvous with eternity, suggesting a metaphysical mission that transcends temporal concerns. Within the context of a post-religious and often spiritually fragmented world, how do you envision the role of the contemporary artist not merely as an image-maker but as a metaphysician of the human condition? Do you believe that painting, in particular, retains its power to serve as a vessel for metaphysical inquiry?
Your question touches on a profound area of art’s purpose that goes beyond mere aesthetics, especially in a world struggling with spiritual fragmentation. I certainly see the role of the contemporary artist as not simply a creator of images, but as a metaphysician of human existence.
The Artist as Metaphysician In a post-religious world where traditional frameworks for understanding existence are blurring, the artist steps into a crucial void. We are, in a sense, forced to confront big questions – about being, non-being, consciousness, and the nature of reality – without ready-made answers. This is where the metaphysical role of the artist becomes vital:
Exploring the invisible and ineffable: There are aspects of human existence – emotions, spiritual quests, existential angst, moments of profound insight – that defy simple verbalization. Art provides a visual and intuitive language for these ineffable experiences. It has the ability to penetrate the collective unconscious, resonating with common human anxieties and aspirations that transcend cultural and religious differences.
Preparing for an “encounter with eternity”: My reference to an “encounter with eternity” speaks to the power of art to confront us with the infinite, the timeless, and the transcendent. It is about lifting us out of the mundane and confronting us with our mortality, our interconnectedness, and the vast mysteries of existence. It is not about promoting any particular belief system, but rather about recognizing the profound absurdity of existence.
A painting has the quality of timelessness. It exists as a physical object to which one can return, allowing one to repeatedly touch its depths. Its timelessness reflects the eternal questions it seeks to answer. Symbolic Richness: The history of painting is steeped in symbolism. Contemporary artists can draw on this rich heritage by rethinking archetypes and creating new visual languages to explore complex metaphysical ideas.
Slow Reveal: The painting unfolds over time. It does not bombard us with information, but invites us to a slow, meditative immersion. This unhurried process encourages deeper reflection and the gradual unfolding of complex ideas, reflecting the often-gradual nature of metaphysical awareness.
Encountering the Infinite: Awakening awareness of mortality, interconnectedness, and transcendence—our “encounter with eternity.”
Painting remains uniquely suited to metaphysical exploration.
Your early upbringing under the shadow of Soviet ideology and subsequent involvement in the Ukrainian underground art community place your career at a critical historical crossroads of repression and resistance. How did the psychological and aesthetic constraints of Socialist Realism shape your early creative impulses, and to what extent does your current visual language still engage with this legacy, whether through conscious opposition, ironic subversion, or lingering trauma?
Socialist Realism demanded a hyper realistic, idealized depiction of Soviet life that glorified labor, the collective, and the Party. This meant a strict adherence to narrative clarity, heroic imagery, and a bright, optimistic palette. For the young artist, this was an aesthetic straitjacket. Experimentation, abstraction, and anything that strayed into the “formal” or “decadent” were frowned upon and, at worst, dangerous. Art was an obvious propaganda tool, designed to reinforce a certain, often false, narrative of progress and utopia.
My current visual language still interacts with this legacy. The clash of realistic precision with the grotesque and the absurd is a direct, conscious opposition to the idealized “reality” of socialist realism. Where it presented an impersonal, heroic man, I present fragmentary, vulnerable, often disturbing aspects of human existence. By carefully depicting what is inherently distorted, I emphasize the constructed nature of perception and challenge the viewer. In this context, meticulous detail becomes a hyperreal exaggeration, revealing the artificiality of any singular, imposed truth.
It is about giving form to anxieties, hidden desires and irrationality that were considered unprintable or unpresentable. My work aims to bring these 'unspoken' aspects to the surface, recognizing that the true reality is often much stranger and more complex than any controlled narrative allows.
The recurring presence of anatomical fragmentation, such as the severed finger nestled incongruously among the banal domesticity of a still life, suggests a persistent interrogation of corporeality, violence, and the fragile thresholds between the everyday and the abject. Is this strategy intended to destabilize the viewer’s sense of composure, or do you see it as a way to reconfigure the symbolic vocabulary of classical painting through a contemporary existential lens?
The recurring presence of anatomical fragmentation in my work, particularly the jarring juxtaposition of something like a severed finger within a seemingly mundane still life, serves a dual purpose beyond simply shocking.
Still life, by its very nature, promises a sense of order, comfort, and often the quiet contemplation of familiar objects. The sudden appearance of something as shocking as a severed body part disrupts this expectation. It causes an immediate psychological shift, abruptly moving the viewer from a state of comfortable observation to one of anxiety, questioning, and even disgust. The object, as Julia Kristeva defined it, is that which disrupts identity, structure, and order, that which upsets our sense of what is proper. A severed body part, especially in a domestic setting, is the quintessential abject. It forces us to confront death, decay, and the fragility of the body in a context where these realities are usually neatly excluded or depersonalized. This intrusion is meant to unsettle, to break down the viewer’s usual defense mechanisms and elicit a more primal, unfiltered response.
The realistic precision I employ tends to instill in the viewer a sense of trust: “this is real, this is how it is.” By depicting something so inherently “unreal” or “unacceptable” with such precision, I consciously betray that trust. This gap between a plausible interpretation and an unbelievable subject destabilizes not only composure but the process of visual interpretation itself.
Classical still life, especially vanitas, often included symbols of mortality (skulls, extinguished candles, wilting flowers) as a memento mori – a reminder to “remember that you must die.” The use of fragmented anatomy transforms the classical memento mori into a profound, visceral and disturbingly relevant one.
Where classical beauty has often sought an idealised form, my work suggests that a true understanding of the human condition, and therefore true ‘truth’, requires confronting its darker, more fragile and often disturbing aspects. ‘Rupture’ is the way. The fragmented body part becomes a raw, naked symbol of human vulnerability, the sudden end of life and the disturbing proximity of the grotesque to the beautiful in everyday existence. It is about peeling back the polite veneer to reveal the raw, naked nerves of existence. The still life, traditionally a reflection of life’s fleeting joys, becomes a stage for an existential confrontation. The incongruity of the elements forces the viewer to reflect on the inherent fragility of life. The strategy is therefore not simply to shock, but to create the necessary tension. This tension is intended to tear the viewer away from their usual perceptions, prompting a deeper engagement with the disturbing yet fundamental truths of our bodily existence in the 21st century.
You have provocatively declared your intent to blow up the perfectly fed world of Dutch still life, a statement that resists the commodification of beauty and the anesthetization of art into decor. How do you situate your work in relation to the historical canon, not as a passive inheritor of visual traditions but as a radical interlocutor? In what ways do you view your interventions as a critique of art’s complicity in bourgeois domesticity?
My statement that I will “explode the perfectly well-fed world of Dutch still life” is, in essence, a declaration of intent, a rejection of art that serves merely as a decorative adjunct to comfortable living. This is not a denial of the technical mastery or historical significance of Dutch still life, but rather a direct challenge to its unintended legacy of aesthetic complacency and its historical association with emerging bourgeois values.
I do not see myself as a passive inheritor but as a radical interlocutor with the historical canon. This means engaging in a dynamic dialogue rather than reverentially repeating.
Dutch still life in its heyday often celebrated the growing wealth and consumerism of the Dutch Golden Age. Although many included vanitas elements to subtly remind viewers of mortality and the transience of earthly goods, the overwhelming visual impact was produced by abundance, exquisite detail, and the pleasure of possession. I employ the same meticulous detail in my work – a deliberate aesthetic sabotage not of beauty itself, but of its use as a soothing, non-provocative gloss.
Return of Memento Mori with an instinctive necessity: Memento Mori (remember that you must die) was a key symbolic function of Dutch still life. However, over time, these symbols often became predictable, almost decorative codes. My “interventions” aim to disrupt this decorum and reintroduce an instinctive, unpleasant necessity to confront mortality and fragility. A skull is one thing, and a severed finger in a tea set is another. It requires a more immediate, less intellectual engagement with the trivial and transitory, bypassing the intellectual distance that classical symbolism sometimes creates.
Dutch still lives were often commissioned by the growing merchant class, reflecting their newfound wealth and taste. They served as objects of admiration, status confirmation and decoration of private homes. My works, borrowing from the format, seek to disrupt this view of passive possession. By introducing elements of the grotesque or absurd, I make the work of art less suitable for being simply “owned” or “consumed” as decor. It requires active, often uncomfortable, confrontation, making it difficult for the viewer to simply integrate it into the comfort of the home without acknowledging its unsettling presence. When art becomes purely decorative, it loses its ability to challenge, to question, to provoke deep reflection. My goal is to pull art out of this state of anesthesia. By placing unsettling, even frightening elements into familiar, supposedly “safe” genres such as still life, I aim to create a jarring effect that defies easy integration into an interior. It is about saying: this is not just a pretty picture for your dining room; it demands your attention and, perhaps, discomfort.
By intentionally creating works that are difficult to simply "enjoy" as a commodity, I seek to reaffirm art's ability to disrupt, challenge, and serve as a mirror to uncomfortable truths rather than simply reflect comfortable illusions. It is an assertion that art should disturb those who are comfortable and comfort those who are anxious, rather than simply confirm existing comfort zones.
The intellectual and emotional climate of your work often evokes the literary universe of Rimbaud, Beckett, and Bukowski, whose writings oscillate between lyricism and nihilism, tenderness and brutality. What is it about their existential idioms that you find translatable into visual terms, and how do you navigate the tensions between narrative and ambiguity, between figuration and philosophical abstraction, within your own painterly practice?
The intellectual and emotional landscapes created by Rimbaud, Beckett, and Bukowski resonate deeply with my artistic sensibilities, and their language translates surprisingly easily into visual language. What particularly attracts me to their work, and what I seek to capture in painting, is their fearless embrace of beauty in decay. All three writers find a raw, often awkward beauty in decay, despair, and banality. Rimbaud’s “drunken boat” sails through hallucinatory landscapes of both wonder and decay. Beckett’s characters, stripped of almost everything, find a profound, almost absurd dignity in their suffering. Bukowski, in his straightforward prose, finds a piercing honesty in the slums and the dens. This refusal to ennoble reality, to acknowledge the inherent grotesqueness of existence, is what I seek to reflect. Visually, this translates into a realistic depiction of the abhorrent or absurd, forcing the viewer to confront the unpleasant with the same stark clarity with which they might confront something traditionally beautiful. The precision of the depiction often heightens the absurdity, forcing the viewer to confront the illogicality of the reality represented with undeniable clarity.
Narrative versus Ambiguity: I use narrative elements – still life, recognizable objects, human or human-like forms – to initially ground the viewer. However, this narrative is almost immediately disrupted or destroyed by the introduction of incongruous or disturbing elements. The resulting ambiguity is crucial. I do not aim for a clear, didactic story, but rather a fragmented narrative that invites open interpretation. Like Beckett’s plays, where meaning is elusive and repetition creates a sense of existential closure, my paintings offer visual clues that suggest a story without providing a definitive conclusion. The viewer is given the opportunity to construct their own meaning from visual fragments, reflecting the human struggle to find wholeness in a fragmented world.
At its core, my painting practice uses the highly tangible and concrete language of figuration to evoke intangible and abstract philosophical concerns. It is the tension between these poles that gives the work its power. The familiar is rendered with unnerving precision, but then infused with an unsettling, poetic strangeness that opens a dialogue about human nature that echoes the profound and often contradictory ideas contained in the works of Rimbaud, Beckett,
Having spent formative years exhibiting in non-institutional and often clandestine spaces ranging from private apartments to derelict buildings, you developed your artistic identity outside the conventional frameworks of validation and visibility. In what ways did these marginal conditions shape your understanding of the relationship between space and artistic meaning? Do you find that institutional recognition, as it exists now in your career, alters the ontological status of your work, or does it merely shift the context of its reception?
My early experiences of exhibiting in marginal, unofficial spaces shaped my deep understanding of how space influences artistic meaning. These venues facilitated direct, unmediated interaction, making the space itself an active participant in meaning-making. The rough, imperfect environment resonated with the artist’s themes of existential tension and the grotesque, facilitating identity and the subversive experience of art.
While official recognition expands visibility and intellectual communication, it primarily changes the context of perception rather than the ontological status of art. The inherent themes of the work remain unchanged, but official conditions risk commercializing or taming its subversive aspect. Nevertheless, I seek to use these formal spaces as new “places of meaning,” preserving the radical essence of the work. Ultimately, the power of art lies in its ability to provoke and challenge, regardless of the venue.
Your working method, characterized by painstaking slowness and the accumulation of countless preparatory drawings, stands in stark contrast to the accelerated temporality of the contemporary art market. What does duration mean to you in the context of artistic labor, and do you perceive this deliberate temporality as an act of resistance against cultural speed or as an ontological necessity for achieving the psychological density your paintings require?
My slowness rejects cultural expectations of speed, instant gratification, and constant novelty. It transforms time into a space for reflection and asserts that artistic value lies in depth, not in the result. My works demand slow interaction from viewers, as opposed to superficial consumption. The long process allows for the accumulation of thoughts, emotions, and subconscious understanding. The psychological significance of my paintings emerges from this multi-layered, meditative approach. Slowness allows deeper, often unconscious material to surface and gives the finished work a sense of presence.
Most importantly, my slowness is due to the vast number of options I have rejected and discarded.
There is a palpable tension in your work between the metaphysical and the political, between timeless existential motifs and the deeply personal legacy of displacement, marginalization, and cultural rupture. Do you see these dimensions as intrinsically linked, or do you intentionally delineate between them? Can art simultaneously serve as a sanctuary for interior contemplation and as a vehicle for historical memory and critique?
My experiences of displacement and life under repressive regimes are not just historical facts; they have profoundly changed my perception of stability, truth, freedom, and even the nature of reality itself. When the external world is constantly changing, uncertain, or oppressive, it naturally demands a more inward look. The personal experience of being “other,” of existing on the margins of life, brings us into direct confrontation with existential questions: What is my place in the world? What is the meaning of existence when external structures are unstable? Who am I when my culture is destroyed? These are not simply political questions; they are deeply metaphysical questions generated by political conditions. My goal is not to illustrate specific political events, but to explore the human experience within and through them.
Can art serve as both a refuge and a means?
Of course it can. This dual capacity, in my opinion, is the power and purpose of art, especially in a fragmented world. For me, the slow, meticulous process of painting is itself a form of refuge, a way to work through complex thoughts and emotions in a controlled, internal space, transforming chaos into form. This internal depth allows for a profound processing of even the most troubling historical and political traumas.
You once issued a subtle yet telling: Please do not consider this a psychiatrist’s diagnosis. In a cultural moment increasingly shaped by therapeutic language and the pathologization of inner experience, how do you navigate the reception of your work, which often operates within registers of psychological disturbance, dream logic, and symbolic estrangement? Do you believe that the contemporary viewer has lost the capacity or the courage to approach art without immediately seeking diagnosis, resolution, or narrative closure?
I reject therapeutic or clinical interpretations of my work, emphasizing that the goal is not diagnosis but provocation of thought. Art here does not solve, but asks questions, refusing clear conclusions and inviting the viewer to come to terms with ambiguity and internal discomfort. Symbolic alienation is used not as a riddle with an answer, but as a way to disrupt habitual perception, bypass rational defenses and touch on an intuitive level of perception - as a dream does. In this way, I invite the viewer to a bolder, more open and complex interaction with art - as a space for internal exploration, and not as a tool for self-diagnosis or emotional relief. The digital age with its algorithms and instant answers may have reduced our collective tolerance for ambiguity. Art that resists a clear narrative, presents contradictions or requires prolonged contemplation without obvious "payoffs" can irritate a viewer accustomed to instant gratification and clear explanations. The courage required is to allow oneself to be moved, to encounter the inexplicable and to occupy the borderline between beauty and humiliation, without the need for strict boundaries to be imposed.