In-between Spaces
In dialogue with Justin Weiler
FVTVRIST Magazine // Interview by Elina P.
Photos by Elené Kristé
1 April 2026
You often speak about control as something central both to equestrianism and to your painting practice. But in the equestrian world, control is never absolute, you also have to trust the horse as your partner, to listen and to respond. Where do you find the balance between control and intuition in your work? And how does this idea of partnership (of trusting something outside yourself) translate into the way you paint?
You’re absolutely right, control is impossible, so much of my work is about leaning into this perfectionism that doesn’t exist. It’s an attempt to control the uncontrollable. Thus the stray hairs and wrinkled clothing, etc. Everyday in the studio feels like I’m experimenting and I just have to trust my intuition. I’m frequently fumbling around and messing up pieces, I have decades of experience painting and a clear process for my work, but my favorite moments are when things don’t go to plan.
Nothing in Justin Weiler’s work is given at once. His installations shift with their context ~ the space, the time of day, the position of the viewer. Justin’s practice is anchored in in-between spaces, which he captures through glass constructions, ink, and color. Drawn to the idea of capturing a transition and of placing the viewer within it not as a mere witness but as a participant, he develops an elusive visual language grounded in precision and a rigorously constructed process.
FVTVRIST speaks with Justin Weiler about this thresholds and the balance he builds between his strict calculated approach, fragile and demanding materials and a more intuitive use of color.
On the occasion of Plans de lumière at RX&SLAG Gallery.
On view until April 11.
Installation View © Massimodecarlo Pièce Unique
Let’s start with your relationship to space. How do you approach it, and how would you describe the space your works produce?
There’s a particular type of space that interests me - transitional.
These are spaces tied to movement, to circulation through the city, places that are constantly opening or closing. What draws me in is this idea of the threshold.
For me, it is always a passage between inside and outside. I am drawn to spaces that are themselves in motion, for example, under construction or partially concealed by metal shutters or blinds, where visibility is never fixed. Through these shifting conditions, they become a way of speaking about a city, or about a specific situation.
It is a very narrow field, but precisely because of that, it gives me a great deal of formal freedom.
At the beginning, I was painting plants in shop windows, and it took me quite some time to understand that it was not really the plant that interested me, but the space it occupied. The way it was positioned between the glass and a closed interior, almost trapped, like a suspended still life. At the same time, the glass reflects the viewer, introducing a kind of uncertainty. You no longer know whether you are looking at the plant, or whether you are somehow inside with it.
So gradually, space became a way for me to think about time, a suspended, almost frozen time, and that is what began to matter more and more. The plant, in the end, was simply a way into painting space and light.
Later on, when I was in Lebanon, I realized there were almost no shop windows, but instead many metal shutters closed during the day. That is where the work naturally extended. From there, I moved more and more toward these layered structures, shutters and blinds, as a way of approaching what exists behind them and of working through what remains partially hidden.
© Image by Shiloh Cinquemani
MY FAVORITE MOMENTS ARE WHEN THINGS DON’T GO TO PLAN.
Your work seems very gesture-driven. How does gesture shape your process, and can you take us into it?
I work flat, on a table, and I only really discover the work once I lift it up. So there is always a kind of delay in the process, it’s very different from painting on an easel, where everything is immediately visible and controlled. In a way, my gesture tends to erase the gesture of painting. And over time, that erasure has itself become a gesture, something I’ve been developing for more than ten years.
Alongside that, I’ve developed tools to reach a level of precision that is almost finer than photography. I use very soft brushes, airbrushes, spray guns, varnish guns, but what interests me is the moment when these tools are pushed beyond what they are supposed to do.
For instance, making ink opaque, or, on the contrary, transparent — going against the expected behavior of the material. This duality is also very present in the studio. On one side, there is something very controlled, almost clinical, especially when working with glass. On the other, the rest of the space is much more chaotic: I mix all my colors, and the gesture becomes more intuitive, more fluid. The work moves constantly between these two states.
Installation View © Massimodecarlo Pièce Unique
This exhibition feels different from your more colorful installations, there’s a very quiet, meditative quality to it. Was that intentional?
Yes, I was really looking for something quieter, almost sacred.
My previous exhibition was very colorful, and the next one will be as well, with more open spaces. But here, I felt the need to move toward something more restrained. It actually began with a group of ink works I had at home, pieces I didn’t think I would ever show again. So in a way, I returned to earlier works, but I approached the space of the gallery very deliberately, almost as a progression.
I started with a colored grey, and then gradually moved toward black on one side, and toward white on the other. As you move through the space, the white begins to erase the grey. Little by little, everything becomes more silent, more subdued, fading out — and that’s where a more spiritual dimension becomes clear.
And what happens to the work when it is reinstalled in a new environment?
Oh they transform completely! I often find myself rediscovering the pieces each time they are installed in a new context, because the conditions are never quite the same.
At the same time, there is a strong structural dimension to the work. I collaborate with engineers, and the sculptures, for instance, are conceived to be both self-supporting and fully dismantlable, built around an invisible system. Speaking of which, that invisibility is essential. It has to feel almost natural, self-evident. The moment you start to understand how it works, something is lost.
This system also allows me to reconfigure the pieces according to each space, to adapt them, to let them continue evolving rather than remaining fixed.
And then there is light again, throughout the day, it keeps shifting, altering the work. So in a way, it is never entirely the same piece twice.
Your works change depending on the viewer’s movement. Is there a way to aticipate this?
Yes, very much. The installations are conceived almost like floating architectures, so the spectator’s position becomes part of the experience.
The glass introduces reflections: silhouettes, ghost-like presences, so that as you move, things shift. Depending on where you stand, the work can transform from opaque to transparent, and that constant metamorphosis is essential. It’s really about a physical experience.
Your works exist both outdoors and within institutional spaces. Do you think of natural and artificial light differently?
They create two distinct situations. I like both.
Natural light is constantly changing, so the work is never stable. Artificial light, on the other hand, produces something more fixed, more controlled. So it’s really two different experiences of the same piece and that shift is something I’m very interested in.
