Fontaine Scarelli

Year of birth: 1987.
Where I Live: Chicago, Illinois.
Education: Bachelor of Arts (B.A.) in Fashion Design & Marketing.
Describe My Art in Three Words: Expansive. Unpredictable. Cinematic.
My Discipline: Contemporary Abstract Expressionism.
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You describe your art as a form of self-discovery. Can you share more about how your work serves as a cathartic process for you?

Painting is my therapy. And I don’t mean that in some vague, metaphorical way. I mean that in the most literal sense. I’ve had a therapist, and I still check in with one from time to time, but painting is the thing that lets me process life in real time. It’s where all the noise in my head, all the chaos, all the unresolved thoughts and emotions, find a place to exist outside of me. There’s something about getting lost in the act of painting. From moving the brush, layering colors, creating space and depth. That forces me to confront things I might not even realize I need to face.

A blank canvas is intimidating because it’s an unknown, and I think that’s what makes it such a perfect space for self-discovery. I never fully know what I’m about to create, and that’s the beauty of it. Each painting is me trying to make sense of something, maybe something subconscious, maybe something I haven’t quite put into words yet. But by the time the painting is done, I’ve learned something new about myself, or at least about the way I see the world. It’s an ongoing process, never fully knowing but always learning.

Your work seems to challenge traditional boundaries. What role does rebellion play in your creative process?

I’ve never been one for following the rules, especially when it comes to art. The idea of creating something that fits neatly into a category or checks all the boxes of what’s considered “good” or “acceptable” has never appealed to me. I think there’s something inherently rebellious about making art that doesn’t conform, that doesn’t aim to please in a traditional sense.

Maybe that stems from how I grew up as an only child, left to my own imagination, never having to fit into the dynamics of a sibling hierarchy. I had the freedom to create my own worlds, to think in a way that wasn’t shaped by anyone else’s expectations. That mindset carried over into my work. I don’t approach a painting with a strict plan, and I don’t try to force it into something predictable. The moment I feel like I’m painting in a way that feels too safe, too expected, I push myself to disrupt it.

For me, rebellion isn’t about being contrary for the sake of it, it’s about escaping conformity. It’s about creating something that feels completely my own, that doesn’t fit neatly into a box. And in a world that constantly tries to label and categorize, I find a lot of satisfaction in making work that refuses to be easily defined.

Your art is known for its philosophical depth. How do you incorporate these deeper themes while maintaining a visually engaging and immersive style?

Philosophy and painting are inseparable for me. The way I approach a canvas is the same way I approach thinking about life. It’s full of unknowns, contradictions, and moments of clarity that vanish as quickly as they appear. I think my work naturally reflects that tension.

I’m fascinated by time and how we perceive it, how it moves, how we exist within it. So much of my work plays with that idea, layering movement and stillness, control and chaos, as if trying to pin down something that can’t be pinned down. There’s always an existential undercurrent running through my paintings, but I never want that weight to make the work feel suffocating. That’s where balance comes in.

Even in the darkest, most chaotic moments of my paintings, there’s always a sense of space, of openness, of light breaking through. I think that mirrors the way I see the world, there’s always a chance for something new, for something to shift. There’s a philosophy in that: that nothing is ever truly fixed, that reality is fluid, that we’re constantly shifting between what we think we know and what we have yet to understand.

How do you balance the chaos and the calm in your paintings? Are there specific moments in your work where you feel that contrast most strongly?

For me, it all starts with the underpainting. That’s where I let things unravel. It’s the stage where I warm up, loosen up, and set the foundation that will dictate everything else in the piece. It’s also where I let the painting tell me what it wants to be. Before I start refining, before I start making sense of the composition, I allow the chaos to take over.

The contrast comes in how I respond to that chaos. I build over it, push against it, sometimes even erase parts of it. I think that tension between letting go and regaining control is what gives my paintings their depth. It mirrors the way life works: moments of turbulence followed by clarity, uncertainty balanced by the need for structure. That interplay is what keeps my work alive.

Your work is heavily inspired by post-apocalyptic films and existential themes. How do these influences shape the narratives in your paintings?

There’s something about post-apocalyptic films that always pulls me in and it’s not just the destruction, but the tension between despair and survival. Even in the bleakest dystopian worlds, there’s always this sliver of hope: a hidden bunker, a safe city, the possibility of rebuilding from the ashes. That contrast fascinates me.

I think that same push and pull exists in my paintings. There’s always a sense of uncertainty. Forms breaking apart, colors colliding, space folding in on itself, but there’s also movement, light, and the suggestion that something new is forming. I like the idea that even in chaos, there’s a chance for renewal. It mirrors the way I see life: even when things feel like they’re unraveling, there’s always something on the other side.

In your statement, you mention that painting for you is a journey into the unknown. Could you describe a specific painting where you feel this journey was especially present or significant?

This is a direct nod to The Twilight Zone, which has been one of my biggest influences. Rod Serling had this incredible way of placing one foot in the familiar and the other in the unknown. That’s how I approach a blank canvas, it’s terrifying, but there’s also this pull toward discovery.

One piece that really embodies this for me is The 7-Year Minute. That painting felt like stepping through a portal. Like I was accessing something beyond myself. I remember working on it and feeling completely disconnected from time, like I wasn’t painting so much as channeling something. That’s what makes the process exciting: every piece is its own journey, and I never fully know where I’m going until I get there.