Mike Silva: I had a Canadian accent but lost it. Now, it’s more mixed—people often assume I’m Australian.
Exactly. I think culturally, I’m quite Canadian—very open. My partner, though, is Filipino and much more guarded.
Thank you. Jake from The Approach and I visited the gallery in February, and the wall was daunting! In commercial spaces, you anticipate intimate encounters with works, but here the vastness called for large paintings.
Yes, the light and sea backdrop are perfect. Installation took five minutes, surprisingly! The setting feels almost meditative, like standing on the beach each day.
I’ve been in London since 19, and while it’s intense now, it’s hard to leave. The fast pace aligns with youth, but as I get older, painting feels like a slower, more honest process against this rapid consumption.
I grew up with music that emphasised raw honesty. I want viewers to engage with my work without a convoluted narrative—just focus on the light, textures, and simplicity. But online, paintings risk returning to their source: flat images rather than experiences.
I experimented with a bolder style, influenced by painters like Amy Sillman and Albert Oehlen, but I realized I’m not suited for it. My strength lies in detailed, representational work that connects directly with viewers, even if it’s less “out there.”
The sunlight in this space is remarkable, especially around five when it hits just right. I feel that the natural light brings such intimacy to a work, like a moment that unfolds slowly.
I understand that completely. As I’ve grown, I’ve noticed the pace shifting, and while younger artists seem attuned to it, painting remains a slow, meditative process for me. I can spend days on a single canvas, and it resists this acceleration in visual consumption today.
It’s subconscious, I think. I grew up moving around, so the need for stability and community, often through documenting friends, became a core of my work. I photograph everything, but I let the images “mature” before translating them to canvas—sometimes only years later.
Yes, it’s both documentary and sculptural. Translating an image to painting is a process of discovery. I’ll sometimes re-stretch canvases that don’t work or layer new images over them until they “fit.”
I see them as separate practices, but they intertwine. With my recent book project, bringing together my photography and paintings felt natural. It wasn’t planned, but my editor Roland suggested it, and the result was more dynamic than a simple painting catalogue.
Definitely. Painting brought a sense of permanence, a focus that I never had before. Working in large scale this past year has made me reconsider intimacy on that grander scale; it’s a new challenge but allows immersion. I’ve learned that sometimes, the unplanned is where true art emerges.
Mostly spontaneous. I photograph a lot; I may decide to paint a seascape and realize later it doesn’t work on canvas. It’s as much about capturing moments in the frame as letting the image settle in memory before deciding to paint it. My work has always gravitated towards a kind of abstraction that feels genuine, not merely aesthetic. There’s something direct about it that doesn’t push the viewer away; it invites them in, yet it’s quite confrontational, especially with the large-scale canvases I use.
The most memorable moments are sometimes the quiet ones, like snapping photos of my partner, capturing his pride in his clothes. It’s about seizing that fleeting connection before it slips away.
I think it’s rooted in a personal history of constantly moving, of longing for stability. That sense of loss and community inevitably seeps into the paintings. Photography helps me capture those fleeting connections, though. I’ve always taken pictures, and in my studio, I have a wall of photographs I live with until they evolve into paintings.
Roland, who helped with my recent book, thought so, too. Originally, we planned a traditional painting catalogue, but he insisted we integrate photos. It was his vision, really. In my studio, I prefer painting from film—it offers a serendipity that digital lacks. You rediscover the image over time.
Definitely. Painting is a kind of memory excavation. And the textures—skin, walls, light—they almost sculpt themselves. Some images just don’t work, and I re-stretch or paint over them. But the ones that resonate, they feel almost permanent.
It gives these encounters permanence. In my younger days, I had a lot of lovers, moving from one to the next—a complete whore, really. I loved it. Even as I fell in love, I didn’t paint much. I shared a studio with Pete Davies—he mentored me, always urging me to spend less time cruising and more time on my work. But I was just into meeting people and having fun.
Yeah. But I kept my nightlife separate from the art world. Artists could be so career-focused and, honestly, boring. I found that claustrophobic. Then, in 2016, after my diagnosis, I was forced to be more straightforward. I had a studio full of abstract work, and suddenly, I painted my ex lighting a cigarette. It was small but transformative. I stopped trying to reinvent anything grand and focused on honest, intimate moments. Peter Davies reposted it, and David Risley saw it, giving me my first show.
London is intense, and the costs are high, but it remains experimental and open, especially for young people. I just wish education was more accessible. In art school, we had a social education, which shaped us. Success wasn’t about making money; it was about making meaningful work. But the mature work only came years later.
Yes, though it’s bittersweet. The memories linger, especially after my health struggles, but I’ll always long for those younger years. There was so much energy—maybe too much.
Looking back at old photos, it’s like seeing another version of myself, healthier but still without a cure. There’s a constant nostalgia—for our teens, our twenties, thirties. But back then, I was mostly having sex. I wasn’t making mature work; it was all a different kind of experience.
Those spaces were transformative. Between Finsbury Park and Strathbeam Road, for example, were hidden pathways—a metaphor for queer spaces, interconnected but hidden. Now it’s all landscaped. It’s safer, but part of me misses the rawness.
I’m glad there are laws and protected spaces for young people, but there’s nostalgia for the unsafe spaces. They made us who we are. When you’re young, everyone wants to sleep with you, and you take more risks. Now, as a middle-aged guy, the demographic shrinks. You go into a sauna, and they scatter. “Who’s that artist?”
Exactly. But hey, I’m busy painting, and I think that’s enough.
I prefer the mundane over the overtly dramatic. My art isn’t journalism; I’m not interested in sensationalism. Light coming through a window, for example, holds more for me than a graphic scene. It allows the viewer to enter the work without the weight of a forced narrative. That simplicity, for me, feels more universal.
That’s a lovely way to put it. Even after Jason and I split, I still lived with him, still photographed and painted him. It drives my partner a bit mad, but they’re aware of being observed, part of that generation. Jason, though, is different—lost in his own thoughts, unaware. That makes him the ideal subject. Some models just have that quality. I freeze up—I was introducing myself for an interview recently, and I couldn’t even say my name right!
Absolutely. You see it in interviews with people like Lou Reed or Amy Winehouse—they had a certain charisma, an ease. It’s like Keith Richards too, you know? Just being Keith on and off camera, unfazed. He’s so cool!
With the zip? No way. I’d pay a hundred for that in a heartbeat. That album, especially “Sway” and “Dead Flowers,” is everything. The music embodies that gritty youth culture, just like the film Gimme Shelter. Scorsese was one of the cameramen; it’s my go-to feel-bad movie. The atmosphere, the chilly San Francisco light—it’s so haunting yet captivating.
I like the idea of the “love letter” you mentioned—maybe the feeling of stumbling upon one. But more than anything, I want viewers to engage with the work through their own gaze, not mine. They’re lens-based images, yes, but they’re really about painting. I hope people leave with a deeper, more sensual understanding of how an image is crafted.
