Rooted in memory, intimacy, and lived experience, the practice of Sandra Modrego-Orta unfolds as a quiet yet insistent exploration of time, waiting, and emotional inheritance. Painting becomes both refuge and method: a space where personal history, imagined pasts, and present questions coexist without hierarchy. Drawing from family narratives, everyday life, and moments of stillness, this work resists spectacle in favor of presence, care, and inner necessity. The following conversation traces the rhythms, beliefs, and processes that shape an artistic practice grounded in listening—both inward and outward.

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How has your upbringing or cultural heritage shaped the themes and techniques you explore in your art today?

My upbringing and cultural heritage have deeply influenced the way I understand and develop my artistic practice. I often begin my work by looking inward, searching for what feels most essential and intimate. From this inner space, recurring themes emerge in my work, such as my grandmother, my family, everyday life, and the notion of waiting. These elements belong to my personal and emotional memory and become a territory from which I reflect on time, intimacy, and relationships.

My practice is rooted in what is close and lived, but also in what is inherited and imagined, allowing me to explore emotions that were not experienced firsthand, such as imagining how my grandmother might have felt, and transforming them into new narratives.

Can you pinpoint a single moment in your life when you realized art was not just a passion but your purpose?

It is difficult to identify a single moment when I realized this, as art has been a continuous presence in my life since I was very young. It has always been a place of encounter, satisfaction, and peace for me. I believe that passion and purpose are deeply intertwined, and rather than revealing themselves in a specific event, they emerge over time. Perhaps it is in moments of silence, when everything slows down, that this sense of purpose becomes most clear and present.

How do you reconcile the tension between raw, innate creativity and the discipline required to master your craft?

I have to admit that I value both raw creativity and discipline, and I don’t experience them as opposing forces. It feels more like different characters living within me, almost like a kind of inner superheroine who moves from one mission to another and knows how to adapt. Discipline provides structure, continuity, and care, while raw creativity brings intuition and spontaneity.

At the same time, I believe creativity also needs space and breathing room. There are moments when stepping back, allowing silence or pause, becomes essential for the work to remain alive and honest. No matter how much discipline you have, you must also know how to listen to yourself. For me, moving between these states is a natural and necessary part of my practice.

Art is often chosen as a medium for its freedom. Why do you personally turn to art, rather than another form of expression?

Sometimes it feels as though the medium chooses you, rather than the other way around. I explore other disciplines as a way of challenging myself, understanding new things, or even finding rest, but I always return to painting. Within it, I find a sense of presence and truth that I do not experience elsewhere. Painting becomes a space where time can be held, where I can listen to myself with clarity, and give form to what cannot always be expressed through words.

Does spirituality or a connection to something larger than yourself influence your creative process?

Completely. At times, the creative process arrives with an almost inexplicable clarity, as if it were a form of magic. I may articulate an inner need, and suddenly the idea emerges with strength and precision. It feels as though something beyond me takes hold of the pencil or the brush and guides the gesture. In those moments, I experience a deep sense of connection, a quiet certainty that moves through me and leads the work with a force that does not come from me alone.

Do you believe an artist's passion is something destined or a conscious choice?

I believe an artist’s passion is born from an inner necessity. It feels like something that lives inside you, something you cannot easily stop or silence. For me, it is a form of expression, expansion, and connection with the world and with myself. At the same time, passion is not only something you are born with; it is also something you choose and build over time. It requires commitment, conviction, and trust. When you truly believe in it, and remain faithful to that belief, it becomes possible to shape your path and reach places that once felt unreachable.

Can you take us through the evolution of an artwork, from that first spark of inspiration to the finished piece?

Not all artworks follow the same rhythm or respond to a single process. Some take shape quickly, almost obsessively, with an immediate clarity that guides each gesture. Others, however, are developed internally over many years before they take physical form. These are works that arise from multiple questions, doubts, and silent revisions, long before they are ever materialized.

At times, colors emerge without having been consciously planned, as if they appear on their own. In those moments, the mind seems to play freely, without imposing a fixed direction. The process then becomes a dialogue between intuition and time, between what is conscious and what emerges uninvited.

What unusual or unexpected sources of inspiration have deeply influenced your work?

My sources of inspiration often arise from an inner necessity to respond, or even to protest, against something that feels unresolved or imposed. Rather than coming from external references, they are rooted in lived experience and emotional urgency. In Les Corps, I wanted to emphasize the natural beauty of bodies as they are, without the need to conform to any social construction or expectation.

Interrupted Dreams addresses the exhaustion of women and mothers, but also the way personal time is constantly interrupted as priorities shift. In Parar, I reflect on the frenetic rhythm of contemporary life and the need to pause, to reconsider the pace at which we move and exist. What might seem ordinary or personal becomes, for me, an unexpected source of inspiration—a way to give form to questions that demand to be expressed.

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Across this dialogue, Sandra Modrego-Orta reveals an approach to art shaped by devotion, patience, and trust in what emerges slowly. Creativity appears not as a sudden revelation, but as a sustained commitment to attentiveness—balancing discipline with pause, intuition with time. Painting stands as a chosen return, a place where silence speaks and inherited emotions find new form. What remains is a practice anchored in necessity rather than excess, guided by fidelity to lived truth and the quiet force that continues to move the work forward.