Yuri Leal

Yuri Leal is a Brazilian artist based in Amsterdam whose work explores the relationship between language, memory, and landscape. Through layered compositions of handwritten text and abstract forms, he transforms personal diaries and fragments of writing into visual terrains that blur the boundary between reading and seeing. His practice often reflects on introspection, emotional experience, and the quiet rhythms of everyday life, turning intimate thoughts into expansive, textural works that invite viewers to slow down and look closer.

March 24, 2026

Your work feels very introspective and personal. What moments or experiences first pushed you toward becoming an artist?

I think it was around the age of 19, when I realized I needed to build my own foundation, that I began to look more to art as a place of refuge, where I could create something I could live inside. When I left my parents’ house at 21, I immersed myself in that and tried to make it my whole life. Today I am 34 years old.

How has living in Amsterdam influenced your work compared to where you grew up? Are there parts of your background that still quietly appear in the work today?

I come from a simple town in São Paulo, surrounded by land. In Amsterdam, however, I spent most of my time surrounded by water. The reflection of a city illuminated by water alters your perception of color, and its fluidity makes you think of constant movement; since then, my work has been generated more by gestures than by solidity.

I feel that I carry in my baggage an intense palette rooted in my life in Brazil.

Before focusing on painting, you explored several creative paths, from product design to tattooing and even running a gallery. How have those different experiences shaped the way you approach your practice today?

I believe it’s important to understand the art world in a broader sense, not essential for being an artist, but it gives you a certain awareness of where things can lead.
Studying design at a fine arts college taught me how to understand a process, to recognize its beginning, middle, and end. Through different experiences, including working on the body, I developed a stronger sense of gesture, precision, and presence, becoming more aware of each mark and its permanence.
Running a gallery for a period also shifted my perspective, allowing me to see art from the outside and understand how work is experienced and perceived.
In the end, I realized that painting was where everything came together for me, and where I could go deeper into my practice.

Your paintings often feel layered and contemplative. Can you walk us through what the beginning of a new piece looks like in the studio?

I usually start a piece when I lay my head on the pillow. I often have a vision of a setting, a color palette, or a possibility. In my latest series, Written Landscape, one of the pieces emerged from these notes:

The golden glow of the night
The dark blue of the sky
The invitation to paradise

When I arrived at the studio the next day, I rushed to find a palette that captured the essence of that idea. From there, I try to envision a setting that could bring the poetry into form, dunes illuminated by moonlight, glowing like gold or silver.

The rest is construction.

Do you usually start with an idea, a phrase, a feeling, or a visual composition? Or does the work reveal itself gradually as you paint?

I think it’s a bit of all of that, sometimes an idea, sometimes a feeling that gives rise to a visual composition. I like working with the idea of “Source and Filter”, where something external passes through different layers before becoming an image.

At the same time, I’m interested in letting the work unfold gradually, allowing the painting to reveal itself as I paint.

When do you know a painting is finished? Is it a clear moment or more of a feeling you recognize?

It’s a feeling that comes while painting, when you’re about to touch the surface and something inside you says, “Wait…”. You try again, and the voice becomes clearer, “It’s not necessary…”. You step back and realize that your work is no longer needed for the painting. You always know when the painting is finished.

Your work often blurs the line between writing and image. What role does language play in your creative process?

You know when someone tells you to be careful because words have power? Or when someone talks about the weight of words?

I’m interested in bringing these ideas together through a kind of universal language, where you don’t need to understand what’s written to feel the landscape or emotion built through it.

I imagine a world where writing, something that is gradually being lost in the digital age, offers us a new way of seeing and being present with one another.

Which artists, writers, or thinkers have most influenced the way you approach your work and why or how does this show in your work/process?

I discovered Mira Schendel’s work while I was in college, and it stayed with me. I remember a piece where letters were gathered and scattered at the bottom of a circle, something about it made me realize that language still holds a lot to be explored.

Later, a 2017 exhibition by Augusto de Campos, a concrete poet, opened another possibility for me in relation to the word.

Your atelier in Haarlem has a fascinating history connected to a respected late artist. Can you tell us the story of the space, where it came from, who worked there before, and what it feels like to create work in a place with that kind of artistic legacy?

Today I work in the studio of the late Michel Van Overbeeke. At the invitation of his daughter, Eva, I have the privilege of creating my work in the same space where he once worked. I feel a deep connection to him. When I see the morning light falling on my work, I often think, “Ah, so that’s why he loved this space.” Or when I look at the four angels positioned at the top of the studio, I wonder how much they may have influenced him. There are moments when his presence feels close, almost like a quiet guidance in the space. I feel as if I’ve gained a mentor. Every time I arrive, I say hello, and when I leave, I thank him. His work continues to inspire me, especially the pieces that transform from scrolls into sculptural forms, revealing both his sensitivity to composition and his versatility as an artist.

If your work five years from now looked completely different from today, what direction would you hope it had taken?

I want to keep moving language away from narrative and more toward structure. Over time, writing in my work stopped being something to read and became more about repetition, rhythm, and movement.

I’d like to push this further, to a point where language isn’t something you read, but something you feel more directly, almost like something you encounter rather than try to understand.

What is something you haven't yet explored in your practice that you’re excited or curious to try next?

I feel like the next step in my work might be to bring it into a more three-dimensional space. I’m interested in how the work could exist as an object, even though I’m still discovering what form that might take.

Throughout our lives, we pick up lessons from many places, sometimes from friends, sometimes from more difficult encounters. Can you share one lesson you learned from a friend, and one you learned from a foe?

My friends are my greatest treasure. They’ve taught me a lot over the years, but one thing that really stayed with me is that you are not your feelings, they come and go, and you’re the one observing them. I don’t really think in terms of rivals, but difficult situations have taught me to stay grounded and not assume too much too quickly.

And for our final question: what is a question you would like to pass on to our next guest? It can be serious, playful, or completely unexpected.

Hey stranger, would you like to have a cup of tea in spring under a tree?

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