Alexander Bäckman I was born in 1993. My name is Alexander Bäckman, and I am a Stockholm-based visual artist working primarily with drawing and painting. I studied at Konstfack University of Arts and Crafts, where I earned my Bachelor’s degree in 2021, and I am set to begin my Master’s program there in the fall of 2025. In addition to that, I have studied for three years at other art schools and have actively participated in exhibitions. Over the past year, I have also worked as an art teacher in primary school. @Cmalexanderbackman
Where were you born and raised? How did it influence your art and your thinking about the world? I grew up in a small town outside of Stockholm called Västerhaninge. It was a community marked by things like poverty, alcoholism, substance abuse, violence, and racism. I believe all of that shaped how I see and move through the world. It taught me that life is not simple—it's complex, layered, and full of contradictions.
People carry a lot of pain within them—in their bodies, in their hearts. There's so much hidden grief, anger, and a loss of purpose or compassion. I think that shows up in my art. When I paint, I draw from the many images and memories inside me. They're a part of who I am. I don’t always consciously use these memories, but they surface when I paint certain scenes—like a room, a table, a chair, or even a person. These elements often remind me of places or moments from my past.
I’m always influenced by my surroundings. Sometimes my paintings feel raw, chaotic, or quiet and inward. They reflect what I’ve lived through. In a way, those memories and experiences always shine through in my work.
What sparked your initial interest in creating art? For you, what is the importance of the arts? It was one of my friends in high school who made me realize that it’s actually possible to work with art. His father was an artist, and he introduced me to so many new things. He showed me that you could make music on your own, and he painted in a way I had never seen before.
Even before that, I had always tried to get better at drawing. I've been drawing and painting for as long as I can remember. I have this clear memory of sitting inside during recess at daycare, painting while the other kids were outside. It’s always been a part of me.
I received a lot of encouragement—from teachers, from friends. Growing up, my friends and I had so much fun creating images and stories together. Not long after high school, I started art school. It was around that time I really understood: this is what I want to do. This is what I’m meant to do.
I've worked a lot of retail jobs on the side, but art has always given my life meaning. My world constantly fills with art—by looking at it, by creating it. Everything around me is a source of inspiration. Even everyday situations, even the jobs I haven’t enjoyed, they can still feed something creative in me.
I love meeting people. I love observing them. And through that, through observation and connection, I find something almost sacred. Art humanizes me. It keeps me grounded in what it means to be alive.
Can you describe your studio and how it influences your work?
When I arrive at the studio, I get to work right away. I put on my work clothes and gloves, grab my brushes and paints, and immediately start painting on a sketch I’ve previously made—either on a wooden panel or canvas. I try to work very intuitively and really enjoy the process of painting. There’s something deeply joyful about simply applying paint to the surface.
For me, there’s a lot of happiness in the act of creating. Some days, things flow very quickly—I might finish three or four paintings in one day, along with several sketches that I set aside to return to later. I primarily paint with oil on canvas or wooden panels. I also use oil pastels for sketching and drawing.
At the end of the day, I usually type up a note on my typewriter to reflect on what I’ve done. If it’s a sunny day, I’ll take all my finished paintings outside to photograph them, so I can keep a consistent record of my work.
I also spend time sketching with ink on paper. That part of my process is also highly intuitive—I let whatever wants to come through, come through. But sometimes I challenge myself to go beyond my habits, to push past the familiar. It’s in those moments—when I stretch a little further—that different forces or ideas start to compete on the surface of the work. And I think something really beautiful can emerge from that tension.
What projects are you at work on at the moment? And what themes or ideas are currently driving your work? Lately, I’ve been deeply focused on the gaze—particularly the gaze turned away. There's something about a half-turned face that fascinates me: a cheek seen from behind, the ear, the nape of the neck, eyelashes looking outward toward something—often nature or other people. I try to capture these brief, fleeting moments from everyday life.
This is often contrasted with more chaotic, dreamlike imagery. There’s a movement in my work between the dream world and the waking one. A lot of it centers on the body—how we navigate the world through it, and how experiences and relationships imprint themselves over time. The body holds so much: awkwardness, discomfort, shame, and memory.
I’m interested in how these feelings manifest physically—our protruding bellies, drooling mouths, itchy ears, sweaty armpits, folded skin. Lately, this focus has started to appear more in interior scenes as well—around the dinner table, in bed, on the sofa. There’s a growing emphasis in my work on observation and on the body’s desire to simply exist in the world.
What do you hope people feel when they experience your art? What are you trying to express? I hope viewers come close to the paintings—that they look at the brushstrokes, notice the composition, and pay attention to the small details in the faces. I hope they dare to spend time with the works, even if the image initially feels chaotic or strange. I want them to stay long enough to discover something—something that invites them to ask themselves what they see, what they feel.
When working intuitively, the images often become symbolic, suggestive, even mysterious. And I think that leaves a lot of space for interpretation. I want viewers to bring themselves into the work—to gaze, to reflect. Ideally, the paintings can serve as a kind of mirror or surface for projection, where there's a chance for connection or recognition. A moment where a memory might awaken or where someone might see a part of themselves in the work.
Often, the characters in my paintings are observing something—just like the viewer is. There’s an echo there, a repetition of that gesture. There’s also a kind of skewedness, an awkwardness in how the figures are painted, which isn’t bound to any specific perspective. I think that quality allows people to feel more inside the painting, rather than just looking at it from the outside.
I want them to be surprised—to see something new, to feel inspired, to react. Maybe even to do something new themselves. I want them to see that art can look however it wants. That it’s allowed to be exactly what you make it.
If you could have a conversation any artist, contemporary or historic, what would you discuss? There are many artists I’d love to meet, but if I had to choose just one, it would probably be Philip Guston. He’s one of my greatest influences. His painting goes beyond everything—there’s a powerful simplicity and an incredible freedom in his work that I strive for in my own.
I’d love to talk to him about freedom, about brushstrokes, about color, and about tension in a painting. I’d want to talk with him about food, wine, his relationship with his wife. I’d want to speak with him about both the most mundane, everyday things and the most profound—like what he sees in a single brushstroke, what he feels when he’s creating, what he thinks when he looks at an image taking shape.
Of course, there’s a lot you can learn from reading about him, listening to interviews, and looking at his paintings. But to meet him in person would be something else entirely.
Others I’d like to talk to might be Hans Bellmer, or Swedish writer Lars Norén. Yes, if I got the chance to meet them—I’d be happy with that.
Are there creative fields outside of visual art that influence your work? I listen to a lot of music when I work in the studio. It’s often house, jazz, or old Swedish ballads—like the epistles of Bellman, which I’ve listened to quite a bit. The language in those songs really inspires me, and music has become a constant influence in my process. It sets a rhythm, a state of mind. I especially enjoy working to techno and house—it helps me get into a flow, a mental space that’s really productive and energizing. If I were to name a few artists, I’d say I enjoy listening to Freddy Gunn, Jonathan Johansson, and Hot Chip, among many others. Swedish pop is also something I return to often.
I also watch a lot of films—an enormous amount, actually. I’m a true cinephile. Ingmar Bergman, Michael Haneke, Tarantino—there really aren’t any filmmakers I don’t appreciate on some level. I love everything about film, and since it’s also a visual medium, it provides endless inspiration.
Pasolini, in particular, was a strong influence for a time. I used to paint from stills taken from his films, which I no longer do, but the beauty in those images remains powerful to me—just like in Bergman’s work. So yes, film is probably the main place I turn to for visual material. I watch so much that it lives deeply inside me, and within my intuitive process, there are undoubtedly countless film references—if you start digging.
A great thing about living in Stockholm is… There’s a strong art scene here. There are artists who inspire me, people I love, and a sense of warmth in this city. It feels vibrant—and increasingly so. It’s becoming more multicultural, more alive, with a growing desire to stay up late, to embrace its people.
I really love Stockholm. The green spaces, the beautiful old architecture—especially on the small island where I live, Södermalm. There are so many churches, streets, shops, friends, and family all around me. It feels like home—a place of safety and belonging.
There’s also a lot of art here. Artists are close by, schools are close by, and there are many artist-run initiatives. There’s always something to go see, something to experience.
Sadly, the current political climate doesn’t prioritize culture in the way one might hope. But I believe that with time and commitment, that can change. Hopefully, more support for the arts will come through continued engagement and care.
Can you describe a project that challenged you creatively or emotionally—and how you worked through it? In recent years, I’ve really struggled in the studio. Every time I arrived, it felt like a battle—difficult just to get there, and once I was there, working often felt like a burden. It wasn’t that any specific project was especially hard; it was more general. I struggled with self-confidence and with finding a voice—something that felt exciting, something where criticism wouldn’t immediately shut me down or block me from creating at all.
It was a difficult and emotionally exhausting time. During those periods, my work tended to stagnate. But now and then, I’ve managed to push through—often by returning to painting, and by trying to work in a way that felt driven by joy and curiosity. Sometimes that meant painting over things, working for hours just to break through resistance. It meant letting go of myself, listening to music I love, taking breaks, eating well, being around good people—and, above all, staying focused.
Talking with others, seeking out inspiration, and doing something completely different has also helped. I try to follow what feels most fun or energizing—to pursue the thing I truly want to do in that moment. For a long time, I felt completely lost. But recently, I’ve returned to something I was working with years ago—something that felt good back then—and it’s been grounding.
In a way, I’ve come full circle: through abstraction, through painting from photographs and doing studies, and now back to working intuitively and figuratively. It’s in this space that I feel I can work with strength and authenticity again.
Of course, challenges will come—but I now trust that those struggles will help me grow, rather than stop me.
Tell us about important mentors in your life.
My childhood friend—who today is one of the best artists I know—has inspired me for a long time and still does. Every time we talk, it feels enlightening. That friend is Olle Helin.
Aside from him, I’ve had many teachers throughout my years in art school. There are so many I could mention. All teachers leave you with something—some small thing they say sticks with you. At my preparatory art school, for example, one teacher introduced me to Georges Bataille, and that became a kind of disruptive, eye-opening experience.
There have been teachers who tried to push me, to motivate me. But I wouldn’t say I’ve ever had a specific mentor. In the end, it’s always the art itself that I have to follow. It’s the art—the paintings, the artists, that force—that is the voice I keep returning to. That’s the path I follow.
Can you share a memory or reflection about the beauty and wonder of the natural world? Does being in nature inspire your art or your process? Nature is an untamable source of creativity for me. I feel like I’m always looking up at trees, gazing out into nature, reflecting on my existence as a human being in this world. It’s incredibly important to work in a sustainable way.
As artists, we have the power—and the responsibility—to challenge, question, and engage with the biggest issues, and environmental concerns are among the most vital. Nature is always present in my work; it appears in many forms. I’m not always sure if it comments directly on how we should care for our world, or if it’s just there, whether I’m fully aware of it or not.
There’s rain, water, bare branches, open landscapes, and fire—lots of fire. The world is burning in many different ways. Yet, I feel almost humbled by the artist’s ability to work with these difficult questions and the many ways we relate to our surroundings.
Nature is a strong part of my identity and has the power to inspire ideas. Art itself can act as a form of resistance, a way to shed light on problems and encourage real change.
AI is changing everything - the way we see the world, creativity, art, our ideas of beauty, and the way we communicate with each other and our imaginations. What’s your stance on the role of machines in creative fields? What is the importance of human art and handmade creative works over industrialized creative practices? I spend a lot of time scrolling through Instagram, and I find it amazing when I come across 3D renderings and AI-generated videos like those by Jon Rafman. There are incredible possibilities with AI as a tool—it’s a very exciting opportunity, not a barrier at all.
I don’t think AI reduces the need for painting or art; if anything, the need for painting and art will always be there. All media change and take on new meanings when new technologies emerge. I see technology as a positive force for art. It opens up ways for so many people to create art, to make digital images, and to explore new forms of expression.
Now, with the ability to generate videos and films, artists can work with entirely new expressions and ideas. AI brings a kind of unpredictability and distortion that maybe no other medium can offer. It’s an intuitive process, often generating images in real time, which is fantastic.
And even in AI-generated work, there’s still a human touch. The human hand and mind remain part of the creative process.
Exploring ideas, art and the creative process connects me to…
my surroundings in unpredictable, mysterious, endless, chaotic, and beautiful ways.
