Inside the Studio: Devora Cañada Rodríguez
- Art Dealer Street
- Apr 29
- 8 min read
There are artists who arrive at painting through ambition, training, or career. And then there are artists like Devora Cañada Rodríguez, for whom painting exists as something more elemental — a necessity, a private language, a way of remaining connected to herself.
For much of her life, Devora’s practice lived in silence. Her paintings were not made for exhibition or visibility, but as intimate acts of reflection, instinct, and emotional release. They existed like diary pages — deeply personal, unguarded, and largely unseen by others.
That changed in 2025, when a profound family loss became an unexpected turning point. What had long been private suddenly revealed its power to hold presence, memory, and emotional truth. From that moment, sharing her work became not just possible, but necessary.
Working without formal academic training, Devora has developed a voice rooted in intuition rather than convention. Her portraits move between realism and emotional abstraction, seeking not merely likeness but life — the subtle inner states that cannot always be named, yet can be felt immediately.
There is a rare honesty in her approach. Nothing feels overworked or performative. Instead, her paintings hold vulnerability, restraint, and quiet psychological depth.
In this week’s Inside the Studio conversation, Devora reflects on instinct, grief, freedom, vulnerability, and the deeply personal process of allowing private work to meet the public world.
Read on to learn more in an exclusive interview with Devora Cañada Rodríguez:
You’ve described painting as a “vital necessity” that has been with you since childhood. How has this lifelong, intuitive relationship with art shaped the way you approach your work today?
When I go a long time without painting, I feel like I am failing myself.
I do not experience it as a hobby or something occasional. It is something deeply mine, something essential. So when I step away, even if I am busy with other things, I feel a kind of disconnection from myself.
Sometimes I pass by the studio and look at the paintings. It is not harsh, but it feels like there is a very clear voice reminding me: this is who you are.
It has nothing to do with professionalism or money, but with something much more basic.
For me, art is a vital necessity. It is the way I return to myself, understand myself, and remain aligned with who I am.
For many years, your practice remained deeply private, almost like a visual diary. What shifted in 2025 that led you to begin sharing your work publicly?
The turning point was the death of my aunt, my father’s twin sister. It was a very fast cancer, and everything happened in a very short time.
One day, shortly after she passed away, we were at home during a family gathering and I felt that my aunt needed to be there. I went to the studio, took a painting I had made of her, and brought it downstairs. Most of the people there did not even know that I painted.
When I placed it there, there was silence. It was a very powerful moment. It felt as if I had truly brought her into the room, as if she were present through the painting.
My father could not bear to stand in front of it. He became overwhelmed, and I had to remove it. But something changed in me then. I thought perhaps I needed to start showing what I made, even though I did not fully know why.
Taking that step was extremely difficult. The first time I posted a work publicly, I felt deeply exposed, as if I were revealing myself completely. It was uncomfortable, even painful, especially sharing it with people close to me.
Shortly after, through Singulart, I was invited to apply for an art fair in New York. I applied without expectations, simply to try. When my work was selected, I was incredibly surprised.
I had also been accepted for another opportunity in France, but I had to choose.
In the end, I chose New York, and there too I felt something very important: the support of my family and friends, who encouraged me from the beginning and even helped make it possible.
For me, that experience was a before and after. Not only because I showed my work abroad, but on a personal level. It felt like validation after many years of painting in silence. Like understanding that something so intimate could also hold value for others.
Your portraits often capture what is felt rather than explicitly seen, a contained emotion, a quiet intensity within the gaze. How do you approach translating these subtle emotional states into your paintings?
Honestly, I do not know how to explain it.
It is not something I do consciously or through a specific technique. I think it has to do with feeling it before painting it, and then it simply appears.
For me, painting has always been a kind of lifeline, a place I go without thinking too much. I do not analyze how to do it or seek it rationally. I simply do it.
Many times I could not tell you exactly what I have done for that emotion to be there.
I only know that when it appears, it is recognizable.
Without formal academic training, your practice has developed through instinct and repetition. How has this self-directed path influenced your artistic voice and sense of freedom?
I have never thought about it too much in those terms.
It is true that technique has always inspired respect in me. I admire it greatly, because I understand that the more mastery you have, the more tools you have to express what you want, as in any craft.
But in my case, everything has always been visceral, coming from within.
It was never something I built by thinking about how to do it correctly, but rather from the need to release something. I always experienced it inwardly, not outwardly.
For many years, even people close to me did not know how much I painted.
Something curious happened when I uploaded a work to Singulart. They curated it and spoke about the application of light in the painting, technical decisions, and other formal qualities. I was amazed, because I was not consciously aware of any of that.
And yet it was there.
I suppose that was when I understood that, in my case, what mattered was not so much how I did it, but from where I did it.
I have also seen works with immense technique that say nothing, and others without it that move you deeply.
I think not having academic training gave me this: not feeling that I must do things in one specific way. I have no rule to follow, and in a certain sense, that has given me freedom.
Your work is rooted in expressive realism, yet it resists straightforward representation. How do you navigate the balance between realism and emotional abstraction in your portraits?
Something happened that explains this quite well when I painted a portrait of my father.
At home, there had always been the idea that art is not something serious, that one should dedicate themselves to something else. So when I began painting for my family, with him I wanted to do it well in the technical sense. I wanted him to see that I could draw, that I could make something very realistic.
It was a disaster.
I felt completely disconnected and frustrated, as if I were no longer myself. I was not enjoying it at all.
At one point I stopped and said: this is not the way.
I stopped trying to please and began painting the way I always do — without overthinking, letting myself be carried by instinct.
Then everything changed. The painting began to work, enjoyment returned, and above all, I recognized myself again in what I was doing.
I suppose that is where the balance lies.
When I force it too far into realism, I lose something. But when I release control, something appears that is not only resemblance, but life.
I cannot explain it another way, but I know when it is there.
You’ve painted on a wide range of surfaces over the years, from paper to unconventional materials. How has this adaptability shaped your relationship with the medium itself?
The truth is that it was never something intentional.
If I painted on different materials, it was not because of a concept, but because it was what I had.
For a long time, I could not afford to buy art supplies, so I painted on whatever was available: boards, paper, walls, notebooks, anything at hand.
I even remember a wooden board I kept from my student years that stayed with me for years.
In the end, rather than choosing the surface, I adapted to it.
What mattered to me was not where to paint, but to paint.
It was a necessity, a release.
So the material became secondary.
I suppose that gave me a very free relationship with the medium. I do not see it as something that must be one specific way, but something that adapts to what I need in each moment.
You exhibited your work at Clio Art Fair 21st edition in New York. What was that experience like for you, especially presenting your work publicly at an international level?
It was a very intense experience, above all because everything happened so quickly.
I came from something deeply intimate, from having shown almost nothing, and within a few months everything happened at once: my aunt passed away, I applied through Singulart, I was invited to the fair in New York and another in France, I applied without really knowing anything — and I was selected for both.
There was no plan behind it. I simply let myself be carried by what was happening.
I chose yours, Clio Art Fair in New York, almost without thinking, simply because it called to me.
For me, it was not only an international exhibition. At the same time, it was opening myself for the first time, both to my family and to the outside world.
I remember a friend telling me, “You have not even exhibited locally, and already you are in New York.”
And it was true.
I felt as if everything had happened too fast.
I lived it almost in the air, without fully understanding what was happening, but knowing that something important was moving.
More than an achievement in itself, it was a point of departure.
As you begin to share your work with a wider audience, how do you think about vulnerability, both in what you reveal through your paintings and in the act of showing them?
The truth is that I have not even had time to process all of this.
I have felt very vulnerable in every sense.
For many years I painted only for myself, without thinking it had value outside of me. It was something intimate, like writing in a diary without imagining anyone else would ever read it.
That is why beginning to show my work has felt like exposing something deeply personal, as if someone opened that diary and read it aloud.
That feeling is still there.
Even now, when someone connects with a piece, it brings mixed emotions.
It happened recently with one of my works. On one hand I felt joy that someone understood it, but on the other hand I found it very difficult to imagine letting it go.
It is hard to explain, but it feels like allowing something very personal to leave.
As if a part of me goes with the work.
I suppose that is also part of the process.
Understanding that what I make comes from me, but does not remain with me.
Devora Cañada Rodríguez’s work reminds us that some of the most powerful artistic voices are not always the loudest or most visible. Sometimes they develop quietly, in private, over years of instinct, repetition, and emotional truth.
What makes her work compelling is not performance, but sincerity. Her portraits do not seek attention — they hold presence.
There is something deeply human in the way she describes painting: not as ambition, but as return. Not as career, but coherence.
Now, as her work reaches wider audiences, that intimacy remains intact.
And perhaps that is precisely why it resonates.
You can learn more about Devora Cañada Rodríguez and her work via these links: Instagram: @artdebo.cr
SINGULART: @Devora Cañada Rodríguez
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