With a strong inclination towards narrative, David Schmitt explores the intersections of Folk, Pop, and Cave art, offering a thoughtful reflection on culture, memory, and the enduring power of visual storytelling. Read on to explore Schmitt's approach and inspirations behind these “deeply human” works.
Was there a particular moment or image that first drew you to painting as a form of storytelling?
I was initially drawn to the idea of digital illustration. While I never had a natural talent for realistic drawing, I had a good sense of how something should ultimately look. The ability to correct lines without wasting much material was a game-changer for me. Over time, I gradually transitioned to analogue printing techniques and eventually to painting. It became a journey of expanding my practice and adding new facets along the way.
How did your background in graphic design shape or challenge your journey into painting and printmaking?
Even though I realised early in my studies that I did not want to work as a traditional graphic designer, creating brand identities or logos for clients, I learnt a great deal about typography, composition, and hierarchy. I incorporate these concepts into my work. Even while using a naïve and straightforward visual language, I aim to maintain a balance between image and text, much like on a book cover or poster.
You describe your style as a crossover between Folk, Pop, and Cave art. Could you talk more about how those visual languages come together in your work?
Early human art has a distinct directness that invites viewers in and transcends language barriers, allowing us to explore our universal strangeness. The simplicity of silhouettes and pictographs in my work may echo that early expression, perhaps serving as a form of cave art for future generations.
Folk art reflects a specific culture at a particular time, characterised by everyday objects created by self-taught individuals. It often contains commentary on life during that era and expresses the experiences of people from a particular region.
This art form typically incorporates everyday materials and techniques, and it can be decorative, utilitarian, or both. I have a fondness for old rustic furniture, rugs, and ornamental pieces; they convey so much without needing words.
When combining these elements with a background in graphic design and the addition of text to illustrations, it could be categorised as “popular” art. I’m certainly not an art historian, but to me, it feels like a natural blend of these various areas.
Your work emphasises “texture and rough shapes” to convey “timeless simplicity.” What does simplicity mean to you in an age of visual overload?
I suppose it’s about doing less, but with greater intention and clarity. For instance, by removing colour, I can draw attention to form, contrast, and spatial relationships. If an image can evoke wonder or recognition with just one colour, then colour becomes secondary and almost decorative.
How do you approach imperfection in your work, and why do you think it’s important to preserve the 'soul' of the world around us?
Embracing the possibility of making mistakes, and being okay with them, is important. Accepting the crooked, the awkward, and the unfinished can be a form of quiet rebellion. It allows us to return to a more instinctive mode of expression, where things don’t have to make perfect sense to hold meaning. There is a certain charm in a crooked line, a wonky foot, or an unusual smile. I want to be surrounded by these natural imperfections, as they make us all feel more comfortable and at home.
You’ve mentioned the influence of folklore and traditional craftsmanship. Do you actively research these areas, or are they more intuitive references for you?
I actively seek these influences in my daily experiences, but only because I feel drawn to them. Wandering through flea markets and second-hand shops, and scanning the internet for inspiration. There is a spirit in certain things, something that can be found in vintage furniture, children’s poetry, cultural tales, and ceramic tiles. When an item possesses this distinct quality, it’s something you can truly feel.
Are there recurring characters or symbols in your work that carry personal or mythical significance?
There is a recurring set of characters, but in a sense, that’s only because they come from the same universe, the same visual language. They do carry personal significance simply because I created them, but in general, I do not attach specific meanings to individual characters. Instead, they serve as an offering, inviting each viewer to bring their own context and memories to the experience. I believe this openness is why my work resonates with so many people. Sometimes, the right question is more valuable than the right answer.
In your storytelling through paint, are you more interested in preserving old narratives or inventing new ones?
It’s likely a combination of both—the narratives, stories, and sentiments are already present. The real question is how to present them effectively. In my view, this is where things become intriguing. It involves rethinking traditional aesthetics and merging old narratives with a fresh approach, blending ancient methods with modern tools.
Is there a specific folk tale or visual motif you keep returning to in your practice? If so, why?
Some time ago, I came across The Book of Knight and Barbara, a collection of stories told to children. Published in 1899, the stories have been corrected and illustrated by children, so they make sense to them. The illustrations come with little commentaries and are beautifully innocent, likely unintentionally humorous, so there’s a lot to discover in this book. I find myself returning to it every once in a while and always have a great time!
Do you consider texture and surface to be part of your storytelling language? If so, how do you intentionally shape those elements?
Yes, I believe texture is essential in my work because the illustrations and colours are quite simple and straightforward. A lot of the personality and liveliness in my prints and paintings comes from the materials I use. I enjoy getting close to a painting and noticing signs of ageing, use, and distress, traces of life that tell their own little stories. My goal is always to find the right balance: I want the artwork to have the right setting that complements it, but without being overshadowed.
What drew you to Barcelona, and how has the city influenced your creative outlook?
I completed my design course in Barcelona and decided to stay afterward. The city has long been home to many artists and has a distinctly bohemian vibe, which explains its appeal. Barcelona boasts a vibrant community of creative individuals, and just being around people on a similar journey helped me a lot. It’s inspiring to exchange ideas, have studio visits, and discuss each other’s processes and approaches.
As a self-taught painter, how do you continue to challenge or surprise yourself in the studio?
I enjoy exploring new methods and techniques in my art. My focus isn’t on constantly reinventing myself, but rather on expanding my visual language through different forms and approaches. For example, I have been experimenting with embroidery and recently created some ceramic tiles, which I absolutely loved!
In a world increasingly shaped by digital tools and AI, what role do you see for “the human hand” in future art-making?
Our technological advancements will only deepen our appreciation for our humanity. It’s a familiar narrative: the fear of losing control over what makes us human. That does not fade away easily. Now, I hope this does not become some kind of elitist selling point that only a few people can afford. However, I firmly believe that we still have some control over where this is all going, and the vast majority of people want to have real human hands involved in the process.
Photography Credits: Jean Michel Conyedo