Andrés Silva Vignoli

Andrés Silva Vignoli (b. Panama, 1987) is a painter and illustrator based between London and Berlin. His work explores themes of biodiversity and the interconnected histories of animals, places, and people. Originally trained as an architect at the University of Florence, he later worked as a cartographer— experiences that inform his meticulous attention to detail and his deep engagement with genius loci, the spirit of a place. Blending the precision of natural history illustration with the evocative power of magical realism, he works primarily in watercolor on paper, linen, and canvas, creating compositions rich in ecological and historical narratives. Birds play a central role in his work, serving as symbols of beauty, place, deceit, or queerness, while also acting as characters within specific narratives. He has exhibited in galleries in Berlin (2020–2023) and participated in the annual auction of the Museum of Contemporary Art in Panama, as well as the Artsy Art Relief Auction (March 2025). His work has been published in several books and magazines, including Gefiederte Welten, Graes Magazine, and Chiriquí: La Provincia del Barú. He is currently pursuing a Master’s in Painting at the Royal College of Art.

“I paint birds, plants, and bits of city life to explore escapism — how we deal with desire, overload, and feeling out of place. Each piece maps a mix of real, imagined, and emotional landscapes.”

6 questions with Andrés Silva Vignoli

We ask our emerging artists 6 questions to uncover what drives their work, practice, and creativity.

What themes or questions do you find recurring in your work?

My work explores the interconnected histories of animals, places, and people — often through the lenses of biodiversity, extinction, adaptation, and otherness. I’m drawn to species that migrate, vanish, or thrive in unexpected environments, and to the tension between beauty and fragility in the natural world. There’s also a restless urge to travel, explore, and collect — from field notes and museum specimens to fragments of forgotten narratives. Questions of belonging, memory, and transformation run through much of what I do.

Can you describe a pivotal moment in your journey as an artist?

Rather than a single moment, there have been several quiet shifts that changed the way I work. One was losing my fear of color — I started out more focused on drawing and line, but gradually embraced bolder, more saturated palettes. Another was moving away from architecture toward living things: animals, plants, ecosystems. That shift opened up a new kind of storytelling, more intuitive and emotional. And most recently, I began working on raw linen instead of paper, which brought a whole new set of possibilities — transparency, texture, and unpredictability. Each of these steps pulled me deeper into the kind of work I now want to make.

What materials or processes are most important in your practice - and why?

Drawing and sketching are at the core of everything I do — they’re how I observe, think, and begin to make sense of a subject. I often spend days researching and sketching before I start a painting. Watercolour, pencil, and ink are my foundational materials, especially for their precision and delicacy — a nod to natural history illustration. More recently, I’ve begun working on raw linen and incorporating oil paint, drawn to the way it allows both transparency and saturation. These materials let me move between control and spontaneity, layering emotional and ecological narratives into the surface itself.

How do you want people to feel when they experience your work?

I want viewers to feel seduced — and then unsettled. My paintings often appear vibrant and lush at first glance, but beneath that surface is a web of quiet tensions and uncomfortable truths. I also hope people take the time to explore and look closely — many works contain layered symbols, hidden references, and small details like a tucked-away rubber duck, waiting to be found. Ideally, the work invites slow looking and leaves room for reflection, curiosity, and a sense of being drawn into a story that’s not immediately obvious.

What does a typical day in your studio look like?

My day usually starts with reading, research, or sketching — I need to understand what I’m painting before I begin. That part of the process is quiet and solitary. But once I start painting, especially on larger pieces, I often talk a lot with my studiomates — it’s a social rhythm that keeps the energy moving while I work. I start with drawing and watercolour, layering up with pencil and ink. Oil comes in much later, usually toward the end, when the composition is already built and I want to add depth, saturation, or a final shift in tone. There’s always music or background noise — and plenty of coffee.

What dreams or hopes do you have for your artistic journey?

I hope to keep building a body of work that speaks to both ecological and emotional landscapes — work that feels intimate, layered, and politically aware. I want to show and produce internationally, especially through residencies that allow me to immerse myself in new environments and stories. Long-term, I’d love to create an illustrated book, and to collaborate across disciplines — with scientists, writers, or curators — to expand how my work can live in the world. More than anything, I want to stay curious, keep evolving, and be surprised by what the work reveals next.