Paloma Contreras Lomas builds her work at the intersection of Mexican political history and horror, translating hyper-violent, explicit imagery into symbol and narrative. She came up through Biquini Wax EPS, the Mexico City collective that shaped her sense of what being an artist could mean outside institutional structures. Ahead of her solo show at Gasworks, opening October 2026, she talked about reading before researching, working in chaos and why she doesn't believe in talent – only well-developed sensibility.
Paloma Contreras Lomas. Photo: Melissa Lunar, 2025
At what point did you seriously realize that you wanted to become an artist, and when did you first feel that you had become an established voice in the art world?
I think the first time I thought I could be an artist was during my years with the “Biquini Wax EPS” collective. I joined after graduating from college without any hope at all; being part of a group for so many years gave me self-confidence and helped me learn different perspectives on what it could mean to be an artist. Being part of a collective in a country like Mexico is one of the most enriching options for anyone who wants to dedicate themselves to the art world, not necessarily as a creator, but as a curator, writer, or teacher. I think that for me, this semi-professional, self-taught, and savage development was the answer I needed. Plus, being part of a group gave me a sense of identity, belonging, and endless avenues for experimentation that had nothing to do with the institutional world.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt like I’m an established voice. We’re living through very difficult political times, full of censorship and surveillance. Faced with the rise of fascism, I think any one of us could disappear or turn to something else. For me, the alternative is my network of friends, loved ones, and my partner, since they are my only hope for weathering the storm and, with any luck, growing old as an artist.
What is your process for creating a new piece? What kind of environment do you need around you, and do you like to listen to music while working? We’d love to hear more details about your creative routine.
I think my process begins with reading. I read a lot of Latin American fiction and write before I think about or research a topic. I think I’m obsessed with Mexican political history and horror, which are basically the same thing. I read, write, and obsessively listen to the news and horror podcasts. After that, I usually start with a specific piece of research to build my own analysis, symbols, narratives, and characters based on an event, anecdote, or my own fiction. I’m very interested in taking hyper-violent and explicit imagery and transforming it into a symbol or image.
My surroundings are very chaotic and messy, just like my mind, but I think that’s where I find clarity and new obsessions. I work in large formats and juggle different media wildly at the same time. I listen to a ton of music: artists like Zutzut, Imaabs, Naafi, Caetano Veloso, Bad Gyal, a lot of reggaeton, and lately I’ve been listening to a lot of medieval ambient music (hahaha), just to name a few. I’m somewhere on the autism spectrum, which makes me always have to be listening to something. I can’t stand silence; it’s as if it scares me. I think I’m addicted to stimulation, though I think I share this trait with most people of my generation.
El socio del silencio (paisaje forense). Photo": Ramiro Chaves Courtesy of Galería Agustina Ferreyra, 2023
How do you see contemporary artists born after the 2000s, and what do you think is their fundamental difference from previous generations?
I find it hard to have a clear perspective because I think it’s still too early to form an opinion. What I see in some friends who are younger than me is that they have a sense of longing and self-assurance that I identify with, something familiar that I don’t perceive as a difference, but rather as a reflection of myself. I also feel that they’re under much closer scrutiny than my generation due to the increasing vulnerability of the internet. Even though it’s only been a few years, I feel the pressure is much harsher on them, but I also feel that in that sense they’re wiser.
My advice to them would be not to stop pushing to build and express their political aspirations through their artistic work, not to sacrifice it for the sake of market abstraction, but that’s something I tell myself, too. And that there’s no such thing as fame except in the depth of the content; always strive for that. In this world, only friends represent the future. Art may cease to exist any day, but emotional connections, with any luck, will be eternal. Strive for presence, not just for the image circulating on social media that promises nothing but unattainable fictions. I see so many younger people doing incredible things, and it fills me with nothing but joy and admiration for them.
