Rooted in a lineage of painting yet firmly shaped by her own distinct voice, Zheni Warner’s practice unfolds through a deeply intuitive and materially rich engagement with the canvas. Born in Bulgaria and later based in the UK, her early exposure to art came through her mother, the accomplished painter Violeta Maslarova, whose influence instilled both discipline and a commitment to the painterly tradition. This foundation was further developed through formal study at Norwich University of the Arts, where Warner refined her approach under the guidance of notable tutors.
Warner’s work resists fixed categorisation. At first glance, it is driven by gesture, colour, and surface, yet beneath this lies a considered structure where each mark is deliberate and each layer builds towards a cohesive whole. Her paintings emerge through a process that is less about control and more about dialogue, an evolving conversation between artist and image that unfolds over time. While she describes her approach as formally led, her work often absorbs and reflects the urgencies of the world around her, with recent pieces responding to the visual and emotional residue of conflict and displacement.
Drawing from a wide spectrum of influences—from the expressive freedom of Wassily Kandinsky to the luminous precision of Johannes Vermeer and Rembrandt – Warner has developed a language that is both painterly and expansive. Elements of abstraction, figuration, and constructed form coexist, often extending beyond the canvas through the incorporation of materials such as neon and Perspex, echoing the interdisciplinary ethos of artists like Robert Rauschenberg.
Despite the weight of her subject matter, there is an underlying sense of vitality within Warner’s work. Her paintings do not seek to narrate directly, but rather to distil experience into something more elemental – an atmosphere, a tension, a resonance. In this way, her practice moves beyond storytelling, instead capturing what she describes as the ‘moral of the story’, inviting the viewer into a space where meaning is felt as much as it is seen.
In this interview, Warner reflects on the evolution of her practice, the interplay between instinct and structure, and the ways in which personal history, cultural memory, and contemporary realities continue to shape her work.
Are you self-taught, or did you undertake formal artistic training?
My mother, Violeta Maslarova, was a professional painter in Bulgaria. (see her entry on Wikipedia). I began learning how to paint from watching her and when, at the age of 17 I declared I was determined to be an artist like her, she gave me a concentrated course in drawing and painting. When I moved to Britain I studied at what is now the Norwich University of the Arts for four years with Ed Middleditch and John Wonnacott.
How would you define your visual language or conceptual approach?
I always tell myself that the work I do is purely a formal continuation of initial marks and ideas. It’s only when I finish that I realise that what I’ve produced is a result of what concerns me at the moment, whether it is a landscape or images of fleeing refugees in Gaza or the Sudan. Even at its most aggressive my work is always painterly, based on glazes and the careful construction of form and colour. In the past I’ve been accused of ‘drip and splatter’, but that’s far from the truth. Every mark and surface is carefully considered, especially in a piece such as ‘Crown of Thorns’ where it is so easy to allow the expressionist feeling to take over.
Can you describe your creative process from conception to completion?
Honestly? No. Or at least, not in a coherent manner or as a formal ‘process’. I start with a vague idea which I sketch out in rough. Once that finds its way onto the canvas I enter into a conversation with the image. By the end of week one, that’s as far as I’ve got.
Next week, I come in and stare at what I’ve done with delight (or revulsion.) Make a cup of tea. Look at it again, walk round the room. Perhaps spend most of the morning doing that, seeing what possibilities there are with the piece, if it demands neon or lightbox, which areas are strong and which weak. This is now a formal stage where the structure is determined before becoming more painterly in terms of tone and colour interactions.
Final stage is all those little tweaks that move the work from ‘that will do’ to ‘that’s absolutely right’.
Does narrative, symbolism, or storytelling play a role within your work?
In theory it doesn’t, but as I’ve mentioned before, it creeps in. A series of paintings using small green plastic domes came out of aerial photographs of a Rohynga refugee encampment, something I only recognised in retrospect. My subconscious is working unrestrainedly. Similarly, using a square canvas is obviously a throwback to Bulgarian church ikons, as is my habit in earlier paintings of emphasising a central object encircled by related forms.
Strange as it may seem, given my current obsession with the detritus of war, my work derives more from a whole sense of joy and wellbeing than any wish to tell a story. My work isn’t about telling the story but about the moral of the story.
Which artists have most influenced you historically or contemporarily and why?
Well, my mother, of course. She made me a professional rather than a dilettante. Even when I had small children I painted regularly, carrying them with me to my exhibitions at home and in Europe.
Other painters have had an influence at different times. German expressionism, particularly Kandinsky, when I first came to Britain and felt a huge lack of constraint in my personal and artistic life. Full of energy and colour and a surprising amount of tonal differentiation, which most people miss.
Then abstract expressionism, for that limitless feeling, their breaking away from the art establishment, the ‘what the hell, let’s do it’ feeling. Vermeer and Rembrandt for the magical light in their work. A whole flock of renaissance painters, using tone and glazes to achieve their effects. Rauschenberg for his motto of ‘painting playing the part of sculpture’, which I do now with my neon and perspexs pieces. I’ve been my own woman for many years now, so whatever influences I may have had have been melded into a coherent whole. I’m like a well-balanced stew, you might say! My father urged me to be myself and keep to my path despite the criticism of others.
What personal, cultural, or environmental influences shape your practice?
My mother (again) and my grandmother. I spent most of my first seven years in my grandmother’s garden with her beautiful flowers and vegetables. She was a workaholic and never stopped, and a lot of that has rubbed off on me. Living now in open countryside and in my own garden I recognise how I have imbibed the flowing manner of form and colour in nature. My mother’s painting was as close as the regime would allow to the abstract and that has given me ‘permission’ to go the way I have. Some of my use of colour comes from Bulgarian folk art and church ikons.
Where is your studio based, and how does the space inform your creativity?
I have a studio on an industrial site outside town alongside several car workshops, a plumber, a firm which cleans gutters and another which sells and installs garden sheds. I have two huge storage racks (courtesy of the car mechanics) and occasional use of a van (courtesy of the shed makers). The space has high double doors and roofline which allow me to produce work as large as I wish without restraint. It’s also away from the house, so no domestic distractions, and way from other distracting artists. And the phone connection is rubbish!
Do you have any rituals or rhythms that anchor your studio practice?
I paint a minimum of three days a week. Only three? Because the paint needs time to dry and because there is nobody at the industrial estate at the weekend and I’m nervous of being there on my own. And don’t start too quickly; let the work sink into the brain and begin talking to you. Thinking and analysing is as important as putting on the paint and I do this all the time, wherever I might be.
Away from the studio, considerable time is spent ‘the factory’ talking to technicians, benefitting from their professional advice on how to incorporate physical elements, particularly the electrical ones, into the paintings before they produce and fix them. Then my husband makes my stretchers; I’m bouncing ideas off him and requesting a formal crit. Then there is the necessity of consulting with printers on cards and catalogues and with galleries on exhibitions.
What bodies of work or projects are you currently developing?
I’m currently working on a series of paintings entitled ‘The Disasters of War’ as a homage to Francisco Goya. I’ve been lucky growing up in an era when wars have only been minor (except for those involved in them) but the world has become more turbulent and wars have come closer to home, both physically and via the media. I can’t do anything about wars in Ukraine, Gaza, Iran and the Sudan but I can do my part, like Goya, in pointing out their stupidity and horror. The pieces themselves use various collage materials, particularly offcuts from the process involved in making cribs for premature babies, which relates to images of bombed out hospitals and schools. Broken surfaces relate to the struggle people find in their daily lives navigating their way through the detritus of war.
Where can collectors encounter or acquire your work?
Most of my work is in private collections, but some can be found in public places such as Addenbrooke’s Hospital in Cambridge. More will be on display at an exhibition in Kennington in the summer, and Curiat.co will soon take on responsibility for handling the larger works following the retirement of my current gallery owner. Otherwise, viewings can always be arranged at my studio just outside Norwich. www.zheni.uk
