Gestures in Motion: In Conversation with Cat Spilman

I spent the afternoon in conversation with Cat Spilman, whose sweeping, calligraphic abstractions feel intimate yet also architectural. Her marks trace rhythms of movement, memory, and becoming. Working primarily with house paint, a material rooted in domesticity and labour, Spilman transforms the utilitarian into the poetic. Recently, her practice has entered a new phase: colour has begun to dance flirtatiously through her compositions, bringing with it a sense of renewal. Now based in London, she hints at something forthcoming between New York and her current home shaped by transition, motherhood, and the evolving language of her own gesture.

Your paintings feel like beautiful choreographies. What first drew you to these looping, continuous forms?

It’s funny you mention choreography, because I spent all my pre-teen and teenage years in the dance studio. I was really invested in ballet, and I’ve missed that sense of physicality. Over the years, I’ve realised that some of my work might be about continuing or rediscovering that sense of movement. I always have music on in the studio, and though it wasn’t a conscious decision, I can see dance as a real source of inspiration.

Do the forms you create change depending on the type of music you’re listening to?

The music becomes a conduit for whatever is already going on. It helps me focus and helps me get out of my head so I’m not really thinking when I’m painting. It probably does end up influencing the general movement of a piece.

And typically, what kind of music are you listening to?

It changes! I listen to a lot of classical music, and old jazz standards. Some early 90s shoe gaze stuff, the indie bands I listened to in high school. I still love the music I grew up hearing from my parents too; Joni Mitchell, Paul Simon, Cat Stevens... those are my go-tos. It’s feel-good comfort music.

Composition is central to your work. Your mark-making shifts between bold shapes, enigmatic movements, and delicate lines that seem to dance around the canvas. Do you plan your compositions beforehand, or is your process more intuitive?

No, I’ve tried planning compositions before, but they always come out stale and stagnant. If I start a piece with something specific in mind, it never works…I end up painting over it.

My process now begins with priming the surface and painting in the black background. Then, with music on, I use these big black crayons to make sweeping movement marks all over the canvas until something catches my eye, a shape or motion that feels interesting. That becomes the basis of the large lines.

In earlier work, the fine lines were what remained (the marks I hadn’t painted over) and I started to love the depth and variation they added. Now, especially in my most recent London body of work, the smaller crayon lines have become really deliberate and chunky. I go over them multiple times.

What interests me is how these disparate lines, the big sweeping movements, the mid-sized brushwork, the fine crayon lines, all come together to form one gesture. They’re like different parts of a painting’s personality: a shout, then whispers in the background. Each line tells part of the story, and together they create one voice.

I love that phrasing. When I was in art school, I had a lecturer who spoke for an entire semester about the quality of a line…how it could be flirtatious, how it could run away or saunter off. That has stayed with me. Moving on to materials, you often work with house paint, a material tied to the domestic and familiar. What does this offer that traditional paint does not?

I’ve used house paint forever, the same brand, even. When I worked in New York as a scenic artist for film and TV, we used house paint all the time. When I started painting here in my studio, it was just what I had around…cheap, accessible and it gave me the freedom to experiment without feeling precious about materials.

Early on, I made a conscious decision to limit my palette. I love house paint because of its consistency, I always have the exact same colours. I don’t waste time mixing or matching, which has helped give my work a clear identity. I love its viscosity, its texture. Honestly, I never want to use anything else.

I interpret your work as transforming the utilitarian into the poetic. Where do you find your sources of inspiration, both within and beyond the studio?

They’re really just about me, a kind of visual diary. The good and the bad: people who come into my life, how they make me feel, how they impact my days. Whatever I’m bringing into the studio that day ends up in the painting. Because they’re not pre-planned, they’re very emotion-based…there’s been heartache, joy, anxiety, all of it.

I think of each work as a Polaroid or snapshot of an emotional moment. It’s very self-centred, but that’s the only way I know how to paint. By being true to what’s emotionally honest for me, the work stays authentic.

Because your work is abstract, do you want viewers to understand your specific emotions or do you find comfort knowing they’ll never truly know?

I find it comforting that nobody has to know. I like hearing people’s interpretations. Once, someone messaged me after her father had passed away, she said one of my paintings helped her acknowledge her grief but also feel hopeful. I love that.

A painting means something different to everyone who sees it, and that ambiguity feels important. It allows for connection, but also gives me privacy. I actually dislike when people ask, “What’s this painting about?” because explaining it kills some of the magic.

When I look at art, I think of it as a conversation: the artist starts it, but the viewer finishes it. Everyone brings their own history, experience, opinions. As soon as you say, “This painting is about this,” you take away the possibility for it to be more than what you intended.

Let’s talk about your titles. How do you arrive at them?

Sometimes I’ll hear a funny turn of phrase or something someone says, and I’ll jot it down. I have a whole list in my phone of potential titles that I think are hilarious. I like when titles are a bit esoteric, when there’s space between the words and the visual for people to wander.

Other times, I’ll finish a piece and instantly know what it’s about even if I didn’t at the time. When I look back, I can see, oh, that was clearly about this person or moment, and I’ll title it accordingly.

Let’s touch on your colour palette. How has your relationship with colour evolved?

I’ve always been drawn to monochrome, black and white work. I used to find colour distracting; it made the process too intellectual instead of instinctive. So I kept my palette simple, and I was never bored.

When I did decide to introduce colour, it was a real challenge, how to include multiple colours and still make it feel like me. It was much harder than I expected. Now I’ve found a limited palette I enjoy, a pink combination, a green combination, and I’m intrigued by blue. It’s elusive, very sexy, but I haven’t nailed it yet. There’s no pressure to commit to colour; I can just flirt and dance with it slowly.

Let’s talk about your upcoming show in London.

I found out I was pregnant in January, right as I began the work for this show, and my son was born three weeks early. Luckily, I finished the series just a week before he arrived. So it was eight and a half months of working while pregnant.

The show explores the physical, emotional, and mental anticipation of bringing new life into the world: the joy, the anxiety, and the physical challenges. Painting became harder and harder; stretching canvas became harder. It was this constant push and pull. I didn’t love every moment of pregnancy, which I struggled with emotionally. I was grateful and excited, but it was also difficult, and that dichotomy comes through in the paintings. I wanted to go back to the beginning, both symbolically and stylistically, a clean slate. So all the work in this show is black and white, entirely line-based. Each line interprets a stage of change and expectation during those nine months.

It’s about my own experience of motherhood, but also about women more broadly: our strength, our capacity to endure and create. Not just mothers, but all women, the pain, the joy, the physicality of it all. It’s a celebration of that resilience and grace.

That’s beautiful. Is your family aware of how personal the show is, especially your mother?

I think so. I’ve spent a lot of time complaining to my mom throughout the process! She knows it’s about my pregnancy and women, though maybe not how directly it’s about her as well. I hope she can see the show when it’s up, I’d love to share that with her.

How has being a mother influenced your approach to painting and time in the studio?

In a very practical way, it limits your freedom and time. As a parent, your child’s wellbeing becomes the top priority, and creativity can’t always come first. There’s this constant internal battle between the practical and the creative self. Being an artist is quite self-indulgent, you’re saying, “I have something to say, and it’s worth your attention.” But motherhood makes that indulgence harder to justify.

That said, there’s so much creativity in parenting. When my daughter was two, she’d come to the studio with me. Over two years, she covered a white wall in crayon…pure, unselfconscious mark-making. Watching her create without judgment was incredible. I try to emulate that, pure creativity without overanalyzing.

So it’s a constant push and pull, but parenting has deepened the well I draw from as an artist.

And when it comes to painting itself, how do you know when a piece is finished?

Usually I have to leave it. I always have several pieces in progress. I’ll make the first big movement, then set it aside. Often I’ll get despondent, think it’s terrible, but when I come back after a week, I can suddenly see where to erase or add something, and it clicks. A piece is finished when it has a sense of intrigue and balance…when I genuinely want to keep looking at it. If I’m not interested, I can’t expect anyone else to be.

Looking ahead, you’ve got your London show, but what’s happening in New York?

I’ve started working with Isabel Sullivan Gallery and have sent some pieces for a new group project they’re creating. Isabel is incredible: sharp, bright, full of energy and ideas. I’m excited to be working with her. New York still feels like my hometown, and my mom lives there, so having work in a gallery she can just hop on the subway to see feels really special.

That’s wonderful, two shows and a new baby in one year!

Yes, it’s been a big year. I’ve probably rambled through all my thoughts, but motherhood, pregnancy the joys and challenges of being a woman - that’s really what’s been in my head and heart this year. The work is helping me articulate it, even if I’m still finding the words.