Eteri Chkadua is an American artist born in the country of Georgia, known for her richly imaginative paintings associated with Magic Feminism. She represented Georgia at the 52nd Venice Biennale and has held solo exhibitions in Sweden and Georgia, with group shows at institutions including the Aldrich Museum (CT), MUMOK (Austria), Istanbul Modern (Turkey), and Fondazione Imago Mundi (Italy). A recipient of grants from Creative Time, the New York Foundation for the Arts, and the Pollock-Krasner Foundation, Chkadua has also served as a Visiting Professor at the New York Academy of Art and the University of California, Santa Barbara. @eterichkadua
Where were you born and raised? How did it influence your art and your thinking about the world? I was born and raised in Georgia—the country, not the U.S. state. Georgia was invaded by The Red Army in 1921, leading to its incorporation into the USSR as the Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic. Georgia eventually declared independence in 1991, shortly before the collapse of the Soviet Union. I grew up during the Communist era, when Socialist Realism dominated the art and culture of the Eastern Bloc. It promoted an idealized vision of socialist life and its supposed achievements.
But honestly, no one around me truly believed in that Soviet bullshit propaganda. Still, because of the brutal repression, most people stayed silent.
Georgian art professors encouraged us to paint with a free hand—bold brushstrokes, a more Impressionistic style. They tried to steer us toward European art movements and away from the strict traditions of the Russian Academy, where Socialist Realism was still the norm.
During my studies at the academy, I was especially drawn to Modigliani. I would often paint portraits of my friends in a similar style, usually finishing them in a day or two. Then, in my final year, I decided to surprise them. For my diploma painting, I created a painting titled "Hunters." It was completely experimental. I had no guidance—just figured it out moment by moment, using a 00 brush to build a highly detailed composition with many figures. It took me about six months to complete, and turned out to have a resemblance to old master painting. My professors were amazed. The painting ended up traveling to several cities across the Soviet Union as part of an exhibition showcasing the best diploma works of the year. That project sparked my deep interest in taking time—sometimes a long time—to make paintings with meticulous detail.
People often assume, when they see my work, that I was formally trained in classical techniques. But I consider myself self-taught.
“Hunters” was the last painting I completed in 1988, just a month before I was able to leave the USSR for the United States, thanks to my marriage to Kevin Tuite—a linguist and the only American who had arrived in Georgia at the time to study the Georgian language.
My first exhibition in Chicago, in 1990, was sold out at high prices—for an unknown 25-year-old artist. My painting subjects and the technique reminiscent of Flemish art, received praise in several Chicago newspapers and on local television. Soon after, I was invited to teach art for a semester at the University of California, Santa Barbara.
I’ve never lacked confidence, and that early success only reinforced it. When I moved to New York in the early 1990’s, I was told that figurative painting was out of fashion in the New York art world—that I should shift to Minimalism, Abstract, or Installation art. But I ignored that advice. I made up my mind to create my artwork regardless of trends.
I wanted to develop a visual language that could be understood by both my native Georgian and American viewers. Figurative painting felt like the best medium for that purpose.
How did your experience with painting ignite your passion for art? For you, what is the importance of the arts? I have been painting since I was about 3 or 4 years old. Our mother encouraged both my brother and me to draw and paint. She bought me oil paints when I was 11 and my father spent his 2 month University professors salary, to get me brushes that were only available at illegal markets.
But my mother wanted me to attend Medical Institute, as in high school I had high grades and was likely to pass the very difficult entrance exams there. In the school hall they organized an exhibition of my landscape paintings that I had created entirely from memory. A well-known Georgian artist was invited to see it. He immediately said I should become a professional artist. So my mother decided I’d go to study at the Academy of Arts, instead of becoming a doctor. Due to the uncontrollable corruption in the USSR, normally professors were taking huge bribes at the entrance exams and some parents would sell their houses to bribe in order to get their children into higher education. At the age 16, very determined and sure of myself, I passed exams at the Art Academy without any bribes.
After finishing my studies there, when I arrived in the United States, I was surprised to find out that hardly anyone had even heard of Georgia—the country. On world maps, it was within the borders of the Soviet Union, just another part of the vast empire. I found myself constantly explaining where I was from, what language we spoke, and that we had our own ancient culture, distinct from Russia. In those years, I felt like the “representative” of my nation, the voice for Georgia in the room. I carried a deep sense of responsibility—not only to assert my own identity but to make sure Georgia wasn’t forgotten. Every painting I created, every conversation I had, felt like an opportunity to bridge that gap between cultures.
For me, creating art—and striving to make interesting compositions—was closely tied to a desire to draw attention to the existence of my country and I never aimed to paint pleasing or trendy subjects just to gain financial and commercial success. I often took a long time to complete a piece, making sure I was personally satisfied with it.
When I moved to NYC (1992), after painting all day, I'd go to nightclubs, and fell in love with Hip hop and Reggae music. I got interested in painting people who were often misrepresented or misunderstood, especially Rastafarians—people who, at the time, were often stereotyped as drug dealers or criminals due to their association with marijuana, which was illegal those days.
In my experience, real Rastafarians were saint-like individuals: devoted vegetarians, no alcohol drinkers, and spiritual people who used cannabis to connect with their God.
For years, I painted Rastafarians from my memory, aiming to show their spirituality through their facial expressions, using my self-taught Old Masters technique—even though no one in NYC wanted to buy these portraits, and I struggled to pay my studio rent at the time.
Later, when I moved to Kingston, Jamaica, nostalgia made me want to focus on painting Georgian themes in order to draw attention to my country’s geopolitical issues, which were often overlooked. Through my paintings, I’ve tried to highlight the forgotten conflicts in 1990-ies, 5 day Russo-Georgia war in 2008, Georgia’s occupied territories by Russia, I wanted to use my art to bring all these into the viewer’s awareness, to remind the world about Russia’s never-ending imperial ambitions.
I also want to use my art to draw attention to the ancient values and traditions that make no sense in modern days, but many people are still obsessed with.
When I am in Georgia I create conceptual art that talks about the themes that ordinarily, people wouldn’t discuss. Years ago I staged an exhibition in Tbilisi, after priests have chased the LGBT rights defendants beating them with chairs and crosses.
Recently, during months of ongoing protests in Tbilisi streets against Georgia's illegitimate government, I staged 3 exhibitions. To express my protest I created installations to mock the members of the Georgian Dream party now in its fourth term in power. Ruled by a “Made in Russia” oligarch, a party announced it was suspending European Union accession talks until 2028, halting a long-standing national goal.
I believe art is a great tool for cultural development, transformation and progress.
What does your typical day in the studio look like? Walk us through your studio and your most-used materials and tools. I’m a bit of a nomad—I like to move my studio to different neighborhoods and countries. The places I’ve stayed the longest are New York City, Kingston (Jamaica), and my hometown, Tbilisi (Georgia).
I usually live in the same space where I have my studio, and I tend to keep it very clean.
I turn my finished paintings to face the wall so I can fully focus on the one that is in process. Before I begin painting with oil on linen, I usually create a few drawings. I’m a vegetarian and eat mostly raw food in my studio. I spend long hours painting, while listening to political news. When I’m done for the day and about to sleep, I enjoy watching documentaries.
What projects are you at work on at the moment? And what themes or ideas are currently driving your work? At the moment, I’m taking a break from my studio to focus on writing a memoir and a screenplay for a potential film. Visually, the film will be based on my paintings and installations, while the sound and audio will reveal the stories and emotional undercurrents behind the artworks.
The narrative is a psychological journey—my own—as a first-generation Georgian immigrant. It explores how immigration shapes one’s perception of place and belonging, while delving into themes of nostalgia, memory, fantasy, and displacement. At its core, it’s a story about emigrant artists—in this case, my brother and me—struggling to survive as artists in New York, and our ongoing resistance to compromise, as we strive to remain true to our art.
What emotions do you aim to evoke through your art?
For me, painting is like visual poetry—a silent song—where I’m free to express my thoughts, vulnerability, and emotions, sometime I don’t know how to deal with. I devote a great deal of time to shaping the facial expressions of my characters, trying to capture the emotional essence of each painting’s theme. My hope is that viewers will form a connection with these figures—that something in their gaze or posture will stir empathy, or reflection. I am glad to see people standing in front of my artwork, quietly observing every detail for long minutes, even when the subject matter is disturbing.
What conversations do you wish you could have with the artists who have influenced you? The list would be extremely long… Would love to meet James Turrell— one of my dreams is to collaborate with him by contributing my own ideas for light installations.
Do you draw inspiration from music, art, or other disciplines? I can’t listen to music while working on my art, as it demands all of my attention. However, I enjoy attending live music performances and going dancing from time to time—it feels like a form of meditation through movement. While there, my eyes study gestures, glances, the language of bodies in motion. These silent observations carry deep importance in my own paintings, where through posture and facial expression, I shape characters who speak without words, conveying what language often cannot.
A great thing about living in New York City is… I’m deeply attached to New York City—for its diversity, its music, and its vibrant art scene.
After every couple of years, I have a psychological need to return, even if just for a few months, to my hometown, Tbilisi. It helps me reconnect with my roots, my friends, and the neighbors I grew up with. I’m well known there, and often, young people approach me on the street to tell me how much my art has inspired them. That’s the greatest compliment I could ever receive.
On top of that, my studio in Tbilisi has a beautiful view of the mountains.
At the same time, I feel very much at home, in Kingston, Jamaica where I lived for about 12 years. Time with friends whom I bonded with there, while living in the tropical landscape of the country of my favorite--Reggae and Dub music --- was an unforgettable experience...
Tell us about important teachers/mentors/collaborators in your life. My taste for an unconventional lifestyle and non-pragmatic thinking never really allowed space for mentors. But I was fortunate to have a father who never restricted my self-expression or sense of freedom, even while living in the very traditional, macho culture of Georgia. My teachers and friends at the Academy had a great sense of humor, and I have unforgettable memories from those fun and inspiring times in class. I was also very lucky to be married for a few years to a truly remarkable person—my super-intellectual ex-husband, whom I mentioned earlier—who always respected my need for freedom. Even my boyfriend, who was a heavy drug user but had an incredible sense of humor and intellect, became an inspiration for my paintings. The fact that Gian Enzo Sperone fell in love with my work and collected most of my paintings for over a decade kept me going. I’ve been lucky to meet intellectual people, who truly understood and valued my work. I believe those relationships helped shape the confidence and mindset I needed for making art.
I collaborate with my brother, Gocha Chkadua, on an ongoing installation project titled Alien Bloom, which is made entirely from disposable plastic bottles. The idea began about ten years ago, during a visit to Georgia, when we noticed that all types of trash were being thrown into the same garbage containers. We wanted to raise awareness about recycling and environmental responsibility. The installations feature original, otherworldly flowers that are hand-carved from plastic bottles and painted by my brother. We intentionally created a visually attractive, hallucinatory garden, to capture the attention of people from all walks of life and across generations, aiming to provoke thought about plastic waste and its impact on nature and the environment.
Sustainability in the art world is an important issue. 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? I remember being deeply impressed by the film Walking Thunder, created by my friends Cyril Christo and Marie Wilkinson (the son and daughter-in-law of Jeanne-Claude and Christo). They dedicated many years to crafting a mesmerizing portrait of wildlife in Africa, with their teenage son playing an essential role in the film. The film helped raise media awareness about the ongoing slaughter of elephants.
I strongly recommend everyone watch this film, as well as explore their photography books Lords of the Earth and Wonder and the World.
I’m a vegetarian and deeply conscious of how a vegetarian diet is better for the environment. I’m trying to encourage my friends to make the shift as well, as it can significantly reduce greenhouse gas emissions and water pollution.
More than inspiring my creative process, being in nature actually takes my mind off art. It reminds me of the urgent environmental issues we face—particularly the long-term effects of plastic pollution and its devastating impact on biodiversity. As you may know, researchers have found bugs, snails, birds, and mammals with fragments of plastic in their stomachs. These fragments release harmful chemicals, which are then passed up the food chain to larger animals that feed on them.
In addition to climate change, I hope these facts will draw greater, everyday attention from both-- individuals and companies, encouraging them to change their behavior in order to protect nature.
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 concerns or hopes do you have about AI in the art world? What are your reflections about AI and technology? What is the importance of human art and handmade creative works over industrialized creative practices? Yeah, I think AI is definitely reshaping how we experience creativity. It’s fast, it’s powerful, and in some ways it’s exciting because it opens up creative tools to more people. But at the same time, it also raises some deeper questions. Like—what happens to the meaning of art when it can be generated instantly? What’s the role of the human hand, or the human story, in all of this. For me, human-made art—something created slowly, with intention, with emotion—is still incredibly important. There’s a kind of honesty and vulnerability in handmade work that AI just can’t replicate. It doesn’t come from lived experience. It doesn’t carry memory, pain, joy… the things that make us who we are.
I don’t see AI as the enemy of creativity. I think it’s a tool. But we have to be really conscious about how we use it. Because if everything becomes automated, we risk losing the texture and soul that comes from real, human expression. And maybe now, in a world of AI-generated everything, more than ever, that handmade art—is something we actually need to hold onto--it might become even more valuable—not just as art, but as resistance to technology.
Besides that human made art preserves diversity and history, to create things with hands is very therapeutic.
Yes, I think AI is definitely reshaping how we experience creativity. It’s fast, it’s powerful, and in some ways it’s exciting because it opens up creative tools to more people. But at the same time, it also raises some deeper questions. Like—what happens to the meaning of art when it can be generated instantly? What’s the role of the human hand, or the human story, in all of this. For me, human-made art—something created slowly, with intention, with emotion—is still incredibly important. There’s a kind of honesty and vulnerability in handmade work that AI just can’t replicate. It doesn’t come from lived experience. It doesn’t carry memory, pain, joy… the things that make us who we are.
I don’t see AI as the enemy of creativity. I think it’s a tool. But we have to be really conscious about how we use it. Because if everything becomes automated, we risk losing the texture and soul that comes from real, human expression. And maybe now, in a world of AI-generated everything, more than ever, that handmade art—is something we actually need to hold onto--it might become even more valuable—not just as art, but as resistance to technology.
Besides that human made art preserves diversity and history, to create things with hands is very therapeutic.
Exploring ideas, art and the creative process connects me to…
my inner self, my past, memories and my emotions—some of which are difficult to process. It also connects me to people across different generations, cultures, traditions and religious backgrounds. It becomes a bridge, allowing me to connect with communities I might never have encountered otherwise. It made me even more committed to developing a visual language rooted in human stories—something that could transcend cultural boundaries.
