Isac Gres is a St. Petersburg contemporary artist known for bold abstractions that balance vibrant color, texture, and form, creating works that are both visually striking and emotionally resonant.
INTERVIEW:
Q Your journey from Cuba to the United States must have been transformative. How did your experiences during that transition shape the surrealist themes in your artwork?
A Absolutely—it was a deeply transformative experience. Leaving Cuba wasn’t just a physical move, it was a rupture in identity, in memory, in everything familiar. That kind of displacement doesn’t leave you—it lingers in your body, your dreams, and your silence. Surrealism became a natural language for me to process that.
In my work, I often use fragmented figures, dreamlike landscapes, or hybrid beings—not just for aesthetic, but because they reflect what it feels like to live between worlds. The surreal allows me to explore contradiction: nostalgia and estrangement, beauty and exile, the sacred and the broken. When I left Cuba, I didn’t just lose a place—I gained a thousand questions. My art became the only space where those questions could breathe.
Q You have traveled across 12 countries to end up here in St. Petersburg. What were some of the more harrowing experiences you had during this journey? Do they have an influence in your work?
A The journey through 12 countries wasn’t linear—it was a labyrinth. Each border, each crossing, felt like a test of spirit. But nothing compared to the jungle of Panama—the Darién Gap. It’s one of the most isolating places on Earth. You walk through mud, rivers, dense trees, and this crushing silence that makes you feel microscopic. That’s where I truly met myself.
It pushed me to my physical and emotional limits. There were moments I didn’t think I’d make it through. But surviving that taught me something irreversible: if I could endure that, I could go above and beyond in anything I do. It gave me a different kind of faith—in myself, and in my art. That belief is what drives me now.
In my work, that experience translates into a kind of visual intensity—figures caught in transformation, elements dissolving or emerging, a tension between vulnerability and power. I’m not illustrating the journey, but I’m encoding the feelings it left behind. Art became the space where I could alchemize what nearly broke me into something enduring—something alive.
Q Your work features recurring symbols. Could you highlight a few key symbols and share their deeper meanings or significance in your art?
A Yes, symbolism plays a huge role in how I communicate through my work—often more than words ever could. One recurring symbol is the pathway or doorway with no door. These appear often in my paintings, leading into empty space, sky, or shadow. For me, they represent the choices we’re given—the unknowns that await us if we choose to step forward. Some people see them as escape routes, others as invitations. I see them as both.
Jellyfish also appear often. They’re ethereal, almost alien, but for me they’re symbols of immortality. There’s a species of jellyfish that can regenerate itself—essentially cheat death. That idea stuck with me. It’s about resilience, transformation, the cycle of beginning again. They float in my paintings as reminders that nothing is final, even after collapse.
And then there are the apples, which are deeply personal. They carry layers of meaning—knowledge, temptation, even identity. In some works, the apple is me. When I first started painting as a child in Cuba, apples were my earliest subjects—simple, round, iconic. They became a part of my visual DNA. Over time, they evolved beyond study and became symbols I return to, unconsciously and intentionally.
Each symbol holds a personal story, but they’re also open to the viewer’s own interpretation. That’s important to me. I don’t want to close the meaning—I want to invite people to step through their own doorway, so to speak.
Q Your paintings have been compared to Salvador Dalí’s for their technical precision. How do you balance paying homage to such influences while carving out your own distinct voice in contemporary surrealism?
A It’s always an honor to be compared to someone like Dalí—his technical precision and imagination were unmatched. But for me, it’s less about paying homage and more about being in conversation with the surrealist lineage. I respect where it came from, but I’m not trying to replicate it.
My work draws on those classical techniques—layering, light, anatomical detail—but it’s grounded in my own lived experience. Dalí painted dreams; I paint memory, migration, spiritual dislocation. I use surrealism not to escape reality, but to decode it.
The balance comes from intention. I want the work to feel timeless in its craft but urgent in its themes. My symbols, my colors, even my silences—they come from a different world than Dalí’s, shaped by a different journey. I think that’s what keeps the voice distinct. I’m not trying to live in someone else’s shadow. I’m using the tools of the past to build something personal, present, and alive.
Q Do you aim to create a lasting legacy for your children through your art, and would you encourage them to pursue a creative path like yours?
A Absolutely. Everything I create carries a piece of both my daughter and my son. My art is a kind of visual record—not just of my experiences, but of what I’ve survived and what I believe in. I want them to grow up knowing that their father didn’t just dream—he built something from nothing. That’s the legacy I hope to leave: not just the paintings, but the spirit behind them. The courage to walk through uncertainty and still create beauty.
As for encouraging them to follow a creative path—I’d encourage them to follow their paths, whatever those look like. If it’s art, I’ll support them with everything I have. But more importantly, I want them to know they can live fully and authentically, express themselves without fear, and carry forward a lineage of resilience, imagination, and depth. If they inherit anything from me, I hope it’s that. •
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