A painting can look like a celebration and still hold a private storm. We meet Vienna-based visual artist Alfred Bow in his flat-studio, surrounded by huge canvases, tulle, and colour that refuses to behave. He tells us why he doesn’t identify as a “painter” and how moving between painting, sculpture, textile, performance art, and music helps him stay honest to the work.

We follow the thread of mythology and spiritual process: images that appear, creatures that feel like bridges to the more-than-human, and a canvas treated as a room of possibilities. Alfred talks about “masks”, about the ideas society builds and then mistakes for truth, and about using art to push back against fear of the unknown. If you care about contemporary art in Vienna, queer art, and what creativity looks like beyond theory, this conversation gets specific about how it’s made and why it matters.

Then we go straight into colour and costume. Think drag makeup on canvas, neon greens, cherry reds, pop culture sparks from The Matrix to Queen, and the carnivalesque freedom of dressing up. We also unpack a practical studio tactic with emotional weight: covering parts of a painting with fabric, turning errors into conscious layers, and letting the work carry both power and vulnerability. Finally, Alfred shares how he’s building performance and music videos as “soundscapes” of his paintings, translating visual density into collaged sound experience.

Who watches whom when the trees stare back? We sit down with visual artist Elena Kristofor to trace how a childhood between sea and steppe collides with the dense, watchful woods of Austria, and how that tension fuels a practice that blends analogue photography, sculpture, and site-responsive installation. Elena shares the visceral experience of moving through the forest at walking speed, camera at her belly, layering multiple exposures onto a single negative to compress an entire path into one image—then carrying that print back among the trees to let balance and breath draw a second line across the surface.

From there, the conversation opens onto the Mongolian Gobi, where the horizon runs unbroken and the body relaxes into radical openness. In that empty sweep, Elena works with mirrors, slicing space into reflective shards that challenge the camera’s central gaze. Think cubism for landscapes: thin spatial slices rearranged so you see more than one side at once. We talk about why disrupting single-point perspective matters, how Western habits of looking are not neutral, and what happens when sculpture and photograph meet in high wind and bright light.

Back in the studio and gallery, branches become actors, not props. Self-portraits face a precarious pile ready to fall. Tree portraits stare back like witnesses. Hybrid figures—half human, half tree—emerge from a chance moment in the steppe, evoking something mythic and tender. We follow Elena into fog-thick exhibitions that erase sightlines so visitors must feel their way, engaging balance and breath as part of seeing. Threaded through it all is a candid admission: the inner conflict between early inscriptions of endless steppe and later marks of forested Austria, a split that refuses to resolve and instead powers the work’s urgency.

If you’re curious about analogue processes, environmental art, landscape interventions, or how place writes itself into the body, this conversation offers clear methods and resonant ideas you can carry on your next walk. Listen, share with a friend who loves landscape, and leave a review to tell us which world shapes you more—steppe or forest.

What if the future feels dangerous and tender at the same time? We sit with visual artist Beáta Hechtová to wander through her post‑collapse worlds, where faceless figures grow thorns, bodies melt beyond gender, and cultures are rebuilt through ritual and care. These scenes are not about escape; they are about returning to empathy, crafting belief systems from scraps, and finding a way to belong amid uncertainty.

Beáta introduces the idea of “futuristic folklore,” a living myth that fuses sacred plants, drifting liquid energies, and ceremonies formed after a fall. The last orchid sealed under glass becomes a relic worth protecting; bubbles hover like new ideologies or digital spirits; and an unknown light source glows just out of reach, pulling characters forward. Her colours carry the rainforest’s heat and saturation while her surfaces slip toward a digital smoothness, echoing VR’s cinematic skies and the soft shimmer of post‑internet light. The effect is immersive: paintings that feel screen‑born and sculptures that invite touch, from fluffy tentacles to carnivorous forms lit from within.

We explore how hope works as a practice rather than a promise. Nature pushes back, technology liquefies into belief, and desire refuses to die. Beáta traces influences from neo‑surrealism to contemporary installation, shares plans for whale‑bone scale and soundscapes, and reflects on why she might choose to live inside the worlds she paints. The result is a conversation about adaptation, community, and the art of holding beauty and threat in the same frame.

If you’re drawn to contemporary art, neo‑surrealism, speculative futures, and the meeting point of ecology and technology, this journey will stay with you. Listen, subscribe, and leave a review to tell us: which part of humanity would you carry into a new world?