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— You originally studied medicine before becoming an artist. What made you change direction, and how did your artistic journey begin?

— I grew up in the South of France, in an environment where there was a fairly conventional idea of what a successful life should look like. I was conditioned to follow that path. I spent two years studying medicine, partly because I was interested in understanding people, but I gradually realised that I didn't want to become another version of what was expected of me. I didn't want to live a generic life.

I think a part of me always wanted to preserve something from childhood: the ability to dream, to believe that things could happen simply because you imagined them. At some point, I felt that I had to make something of my life on my own terms, rather than accept a destiny that had already been drawn for me.

Art became the most accessible way to do that. It was a way out, but also a way of building my own world. Looking back, becoming an artist was less about choosing a career and more about choosing a life.

— There's a recurring character in your paintings, almost like an alter ego. Who is he, and how much of yourself do you see in him?

— When I was 18 years old I liked to call him Mr. Prestige. The character originally came from the image of a crushed beer can. I was interested in the idea of giving something discarded a personality, almost a sense of importance. He has this strange mixture of confidence, absurdity and fragility.

His face has something of Serge Gainsbourg in the movie Vie Heroique, while his body and proportions borrow from a more cartoonish universe. There is a contradiction in him that I find interesting.

I see him as a kind of void persona, an alter ego that allows me to explore different aspects of myself without having to be entirely autobiographical. He can be ridiculous, seductive, vulnerable or completely lost. Sometimes I recognise myself in him, sometimes I recognise people around me. I think he has gradually become a vessel for things that are difficult to express directly.

— Your paintings capture ordinary moments: coffee, cigarettes, wine, conversations. What makes a seemingly insignificant moment worth painting?

— I think the moments we remember most aren't necessarily the important ones. They are often the small, almost insignificant situations that happen in between everything else: having a coffee, smoking a cigarette with someone, sharing a bottle of wine, or sitting together without really saying anything.

I'm interested in the intimacy of these moments and in how quickly they disappear. At the time, you don't necessarily realise that something meaningful is happening. It is often only afterwards that you give it importance.

Painting allows me to slow these moments down and give them another life. I don't necessarily want to document what happened, but rather preserve the feeling attached to it. There is something beautiful about giving importance to things that would otherwise be forgotten.

— Your figures appear playful, almost cartoonish, yet there's something vulnerable and sometimes unsettling about them. Is this contrast intentional?

— Yes, although I don't always approach it consciously. I have always been attracted to images that are playful on the surface but carry something darker underneath.

I think humour is a very interesting way of approaching difficult subjects. It allows you to get close to something without necessarily confronting it directly. A character can look funny, almost naive, but the longer you look at it, the more uncomfortable or vulnerable it might become.

I'm not particularly interested in making images that are entirely beautiful or entirely disturbing. I prefer when these feelings coexist. I think people are also like that. We constantly move between confidence and insecurity, pleasure and sadness, innocence and experience. My characters are probably a reflection of that contradiction.

— We love your titles, especially Late Night, Some French Wine and Pouring Rain. Are these fragments of real memories? How do you choose them?

— They often come from real situations, or at least from feelings attached to real situations. I like titles that sound like fragments of a conversation, a memory or a sentence you might find in an old diary.

I don't necessarily want to explain the painting through its title. Sometimes the title creates another narrative that exists alongside the image. It might be connected to something that happened, something I imagined, or simply a particular atmosphere I want to hold on to.

I also like the idea that a title can make an ordinary scene feel almost cinematic. It gives the viewer a starting point, but leaves enough space for their own interpretation. In a way, the title becomes another part of the painting.

— You've exhibited internationally, from New York to London and Berlin. What is your relationship with Berlin, and how does the city's creative atmosphere compare with other places you've experienced?

— Berlin has always felt quite different from the other cities I've lived or worked in. There is a certain openness to it, and I think people are generally less concerned with fitting into a particular definition of what an artist or a creative person should be.

New York has an incredible energy, but it can also feel very competitive. London has a strong institutional and academic culture. Berlin, for me, feels a little more unpredictable. There is room for experimentation, for things that are unfinished or don't necessarily make immediate sense.

I like cities that allow you to reinvent yourself. Berlin has that quality. It doesn't feel like you have to arrive with everything figured out, which is something I find quite liberating.

— You're presenting your work with DUVE Gallery in Berlin. How did this collaboration come about, and what attracted you to the gallery?

— What attracted me to DUVE was the possibility of building something beyond a simple exhibition. I am interested in relationships with galleries that develop over time, where there is room for dialogue, trust and a certain degree of unpredictability.

I don't want to feel that I am simply producing work to fill a space. I want to be able to take risks, explore new directions and allow the work to evolve through the relationship.

There is also something about the gallery's perspective and the artists it engages with that resonates with me. I appreciate spaces that are open to different languages and ways of thinking about contemporary art.

For me, this exhibition is part of an ongoing conversation. I see it less as an isolated moment and more as the beginning of something that can continue to grow.

— Your exhibition at DUVE is titled I Brought You Flowers Before I Knew Why. What's the story behind this poetic title, and what can visitors expect?

— The title comes from a personal story. I met a girl in Paris during Basel+, over dinner with friends. The following day, I brought her a rather large bouquet of flowers. At that point, I couldn't really explain why I had done it. I think I only understood the gesture afterwards, when I realised I was falling in love with her. Or perhaps more with the idea of her.

I became interested in this idea of doing something before understanding its meaning. Sometimes an emotion arrives before we have the words to describe it. A gesture can precede its explanation.

That idea became the starting point for the exhibition. The works explore intimacy, affection, memory and the strange ways we construct meaning around our experiences. There is something quite universal about it, even though the starting point is very personal.

I don't want visitors to need to know the story behind the title to connect with the exhibition. I hope they can bring their own memories and associations into the space. Perhaps they will recognise a feeling without necessarily knowing where it comes from.

— You're part of a new generation of contemporary painters. How do you see the role of painting in an increasingly digital world, and what makes a young artist stand out today?

— I think painting becomes even more interesting in a world where almost everything is digital, immediate and constantly reproduced. We spend so much of our lives looking at screens, scrolling through images that disappear almost as quickly as they appear.

Painting offers something different. It is physical, slow and imperfect. You can see the time spent on a surface, the decisions, the mistakes and the gestures. There is a human presence in it that I find difficult to replace.

I don't think painting needs to compete with technology or reject the digital world. It can exist alongside it, and even absorb some of its language. But I think its materiality is precisely what makes it relevant today.

As for young artists, I don't think standing out is necessarily about creating something completely new. It is more about developing a genuine visual language and having the courage to pursue it. You need to be curious, but also willing to take risks and remain vulnerable in your work. Ultimately, I think authenticity is something people can recognise.

— The Columbist is all about curiosity. What are you most curious about right now, both as an artist and as a person?

— People, probably. I'm fascinated by how people construct their identities, how they behave differently depending on who they are with, and how much of themselves they reveal or hide.

I'm also increasingly interested in the idea of freedom. What does it actually mean to be free? How much of our lives is shaped by expectations, social structures or things we have simply accepted without questioning?

As an artist, I'm curious about pushing my visual language further without losing the spontaneity that brought me to painting in the first place. I want to experiment, make mistakes and find new ways of telling stories.

I think curiosity is also about remaining a little uncomfortable with what you already know. I hope I never reach a point where I feel I've figured everything out.

Exhibition

Jordan Rubio: I Brought You Flowers Before I Knew Why
DUVE Gallery, Berlin
Opening: 6 November 2026