Catalan artist Ramon Enrich explores the relationship between the seen and the felt, reconciling conceptual opposites—architecture and landscape, presence and absence, history and eternity, science and religion—in his resonant, minimalist canvases. His work approaches the uncanny via the everyday: darkened doorways become thresholds to unknown realms; familiar geometric forms are arranged in disorienting new sequences; elongated slants of shadow transform into active, independent forces. There are no people in Enrich’s landscapes, nor identifiable flora or fauna, but his scenes are made with natural pigments that bind them to the Catalan region even as they reach toward a mystic plane. "I like to think that the experience of creating them—and the emotion behind them—remains very local," he says. "As if a small fragment of that place were being carried to the other side of the world."
Born in Igualada in 1968, Enrich grew up in a family that regarded art as a pillar of education, as fundamental to knowledge as science or literature. He studied fine art in Barcelona, Paris and Berlin before embarking on a pivotal journey to Marfa, Texas, where his tenure at Donald Judd’s Chinati Foundation, in the presence of Judd's place-based practice, revealed to him the potentially holistic scope of artistic endeavor. Subsequent experiences with David Hockney and Julian Schnabel further expanded Enrich’s mind before he returned to Spain, where he lives and works today.
As Judd did with Marfa, Enrich funnels his creative vision back into his home base of Igualada, where he’s spearheading an effort to convert an industrial area into a creative district. Outside of the studio, Enrich lives among the people and things he loves: his wife and children, a collection of talismanic objects (including chairs by Jean Prouvé, Thonet and Gio Ponti), and the surrounding landscape of La Segarra, the Catalonian countryside not far from where he grew up
How did you come to realize you wanted to be an artist?
My family has always viewed art as a source of observation and growth—something that accompanies life effortlessly, yet with great pleasure. There was always a sensitivity toward contemporary art around me. I remember many afternoons with my father looking at old engravings and countless books about the early avant-gardists. I recall the excitement those pages stirred in me; they meant that from a very young age I understood what movements like the Bauhaus, the Futurists, and other fundamental artistic currents represented in history—different ways of seeing art.
I learned how a landscape could be completely different when seen through Fauvism, Cubism, or Expressionism. For me, entering that world of curiosity felt entirely natural, and it awakened a desire to learn through that path. So when the time came to choose my education, I naturally opted for art and creativity.
Was there an early encounter with art that changed your perspective?
As I said, it was something organic—it was about finding meaning in what I was doing. When you’re young, you look for progress, evolution, and change. Within those parameters, art is exciting because it combines the cerebral side with intuition and everything you don’t yet know about yourself.
When I finished my Fine Arts degree, I decided to set out on a journey to experience my references in person. I traveled to Marfa, Texas, to see the work of Donald Judd. That experience left a deep mark on me because there I understood what Art—with a capital A—could mean. For me, as a European, art had always been a room with works hanging on the walls. In Marfa, I discovered it could be something entirely different, something much more spiritual. It was a very special moment, a decisive one.
What environment inspires you?
Any environment that makes me think—any landscape. Sometimes it can be as simple as a color or a shape.
Italy and Africa have that powerful sense of a constructed, human, irregular landscape. I prefer places that are open and respectful of what existed before—places shaped by architecture, worked land, and signs of life. I’m more drawn to that than to exuberant, untouched nature. I’m especially attracted to La Segarra, a small region in Catalonia with a strong character and a place I feel deeply connected to.
What tools or materials are essential to your practice?
At its core, the material doesn’t matter that much, nor do the tools. What really matters is finding something meaningful to express. I work with natural acrylics and pigments from the earth.
Almost unintentionally, I try to ensure that what I create belongs to the place where I live. Often my works travel very far, and I like to think that the experience of creating them—and the emotion behind them—remains very local, as if a small fragment of that place were being carried to the other side of the world.
Is there an idea you return to again and again?
That is the great question in art: originality versus having a personal language.
The idea of repetition is inherent to creation. Each of us really has only one voice—no more than that. In art, creators are in a way slaves to a language. Singers sing the same song with infinite lyrics and musical variations. In painting, you develop a language that simultaneously makes you free and, at the same time, binds you to a singular way of seeing things.
A poet creates endless compositions of words through their vision of the world. For me, it is all one single poem. There is something obsessive about it, but the decision to keep learning constantly also has something ritualistic about it. That act interests me—it is like a continuous prayer.
Artists like Giorgio Morandi, Richard Long, and Donald Judd return to the same ideas again and again, yet the emotion remains intact. That is not easy.
Do you have a favorite artist?
As many as there are ways of thinking. A portrait by Raphael or a stone circle by Richard Long.
What do you listen to as you work?
Radio helps me connect with the world. Painting is a very solitary practice and requires different processes depending on the moment.
My music hasn’t changed much in the past 30 years. A lot of piano, some ironic poets. I’m drawn to what I don’t fully understand: Leonard Cohen, Keith Jarrett, Paolo Conte, Bach, Abdullah Ibrahim.
Do you collect anything?
Well, I’ve been collecting chairs for many years. At one point, I had over 600 or 700. Now I have far fewer, keeping only the essentials: Jean Prouvé, Thonet, Gio Ponti, and some anonymous ones that perhaps move me even more.
The design and function of objects is one of my obsessions, and I love observing the choices a designer makes when thinking about something as simple—or seemingly trivial—as sitting. This problem has been solved for thousands of years, yet every year thousands of new ideas emerge.
What is your most beloved object?
A drawing by my friend David Hockney, an engraving by Piranesi that belonged to my father, a Dogon fetish. Many seemingly unconnected things that remind me of certain moments.
What’s the last great book you read?
The latest book by Jean Clair.
When were you last surprised by something?
A few months ago, with the passing of my father. It was a moment that was equally sad and joyful
What qualities do you aspire to?
I wish I had a better memory. I always have to do things twice, and I’m always short on time.
Do you have any personal rituals?
Not especially—perhaps my way of working requires being surrounded by objects that protect me and give me energy. They are materials without value that will one day be transformed into artworks; I keep them for years until they eventually become something more.
Every day I need to work at least 12 hours—that’s my energy. I constantly train my children and my mind. I don’t get tired; I enjoy it. It’s my daily gym.
What’s the last film you saw that made you cry?
Sentimental Value
What’s your favorite time of day?
I like sunny mornings. I also enjoy Fridays in general.
Do you have any heroes?
Not heroes, but strong role models—my wife, Mònica.
What are you excited to create next?
I don’t know—it’s curious. I’m always thinking about the week ahead, always full of doubts, but when the moment comes, new solutions emerge. It always happens, and there’s always a new painting waiting for you to create it. It’s a place where the new and the old meet gently. It’s mysterious, yet it gives meaning to what you do.