The Second Chapter : Interview with Erb Mon (English ver.)

The twelfth conversation in our series, The Artist’s Muse, introduces Erb Mon, a painter who moves fluidly across walls, canvas, and paper. Working between color field painting, abstraction, and minimalism, he develops a visual language that translates lived experience into shifting fields of color rather than fixed imagery.

At the center of his recent practice is Isla, an ongoing series that unfolds as a psychological and conceptual space rather than a physical place. Shaped by years of nomadic living, altered states of perception, and a commitment to minimalism, this “island” becomes both a site of observation and a personal refuge. Existing in a condition between belonging and detachment, Erb Mon quietly questions collective narratives while constructing a more intimate and self-defined perspective.

This sensibility extends into the way he approaches both life and painting. Encounters with natural landscapes and moments of introspection have led him to view reality as something fluid and continuously reshaped. In turn, his process remains open and intuitive, guided less by intention than by perception. Closely tied to this is his minimalist way of living, where limitation becomes a generative force, allowing him to create works of complexity through a restrained use of materials.

For Erb Mon, painting begins with sensation rather than intention. Dreams, memories, and what he describes as a “poetry of things” move directly onto the surface, unfolding without a predetermined structure. In works such as Licking the Wound, thought recedes and feeling takes precedence, resulting in images that do not seek to define, but instead invite quiet interpretation.

An inherent duality runs through his practice, as he moves between the introspective solitude of the studio and the public scale of mural painting. While his paintings hold a more personal and reflective quality, his murals engage with a wider audience, requiring clarity and negotiation. Navigating these two modes, he adapts his approach while maintaining a consistent sensitivity across both.

Rather than seeking continuity in form, Erb Mon embraces change as an essential condition of his work. Each painting exists as part of an ongoing process—shaped by movement, experience, and transformation—where repetition gives way to constant renewal.

More recently, his attention has turned toward the notion of silence, a theme that has long lingered in his thinking and is now beginning to take clearer form. Influenced in part by Japanese philosophical ideas surrounding impermanence and quietude, this direction signals a deeper engagement with perception and presence. Here, silence is not understood as absence, but as a heightened state of awareness.

We invite you to step into Erb Mon’s intuitive and ever-evolving artistic world, where painting gently opens a space for reflection and the quiet exploration of perception, memory, and inner experience.

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Q. It is a pleasure to have you with us today. I'd love to begin by hearing about you and your practice. How would you introduce yourself as an artist, and what work are you currently engaged with? 


A. Hello, I’m Erb Mon, an artistic painter working on walls, canvas, and paper. My work moves between color field painting, abstraction, and minimalism.

Q. What is the main source of inspiration for your current work? When did this particular muse first become meaningful to you, and can you describe that initial encounter?

A. Since 2025 I’ve been painting a series titled Isla. In it, I express emotions through color. This body of work emerged from three vital experiences that transformed my perception of life: 

Nomadism

Over the past nine years I have painted 120 murals in 90 different cities. During this journey I had no fixed residence, at times living in five cities within a single year. When you are the outsider, you become, in a way, taboo; people relate to you without the commitment of belonging, and that makes relationships more sincere—for better or for worse. Existing without belonging gave me a different perception of time and of faith. Routine alters time; everything slows down without anyone noticing. And belonging creates beliefs—faith—that are often not very empirical.

Not sharing common customs and narratives creates an existential “Island”: you become a witness to what is foreign. That forces you to construct a very solid personal narrative in order to confront the collective one, which usually seeks a mirror—a reflection of itself. 

Entheogens

During this long journey I often chose to take refuge in natural landscapes. There I deepened my metaphysical studies through altered states of consciousness induced by the ingestion of psychedelics. I worked with Peyote, Psilocybe cubensis, Ayahuasca, Salvia divinorum, and LSD, always within a therapeutic framework.

As a society—and consequently as individuals—we shape our perception of “reality.” The collective, continuous exercise of these perceptions leads to a degradation of our neuroplasticity; as a person grows older, their capacity for introspective analysis diminishes, and their ability to change opinions or understand new points of view is drastically affected.

What is most interesting about altered states of consciousness is how they dissolve the ego, creating new neural bridges and enabling the assimilation of new approaches to “reality,” even allowing you to dive into magical thinking. My process in this field has been extremely creative and, at the same time, deeply educational. I feel I had the opportunity to reset my consciousness and, through that, to assimilate a pantheistic vision of the human experience on Earth. Once again, my conclusions brought me back to the “Island”. 

Minimalism

At sixteen, I made a pact with myself: not to own material things that weigh more than my own body. From a very young age, I struggled to understand why nature had to supply humanity with an immeasurable amount of matter; from that misunderstanding arise the environmental problems we now face. By observing animals, I understood early on the meaning of life: I am on Earth to learn how to be the fullest expression of freedom. Human baggage makes cities live for the object, generating need and scarcity. In this game, besides destroying the planet, we ourselves become objects.

Through a minimalist life, I discovered a delightful game: doing everything with almost nothing. This developed in me the importance of virtue—of having sufficient technique to create complex works with very few materials. My studio fits into a small backpack; wherever I arrive, I create my “Island,” a place where I release imagination, what seemingly does not exist.

Q. When you first discovered this source of inspiration, what emotions did you experience? How did it change your artistic direction or working methods afterward?

A. I don’t think there is a specific moment in which one discovers something. Ideas are like the four seasons: each day it grows warmer until one day, suddenly, it is summer. Life experiences are a distiller of consciousness; something happens and, some time later, you realize how deeply it has changed you.

Everything happens at once; I find works I painted years ago that were already where I am now— not many, one or two. It’s like that theory of the quantum double: there is another Erb in the future experiencing possibilities, and another in the past, understanding what happened. Understanding this places you in a state of constant transformation. It brings another wonderful lesson: I stopped trying to change and became change itself. The shoreline explains this perfectly—it is the sea, yet it can never repeat its form; it changes every second.

Good memories

Q. How does your muse typically appear to you—as visual images, sounds, spatial feelings, or particular emotions? Could you describe its specific characteristics or qualities in detail?

A. Sensations, dreams, and what I call “the poetry of things.” You go out into the street, walk through the mountains, and if you pay attention, you begin to see poetry everywhere. I consider myself a visual poet, because I read life in a poetic key, and as a result, everything I express follows that logic.

Memories are a powerful poetic tool; through them we can lend life a certain romanticism. You are on that emotional “Island” of memory and, with binoculars, you relive loves, defeats… You become aware of human heroism in the small absurdities of your own existence. All of this trains you to step outside and perceive from the same place that once gave meaning to your memory: to see poetry in real time. It is everywhere.

Q. Could you walk us through one specific work that you feel most powerfully embodies your muse? What was the journey from initial inspiration to finished piece, and what challenges or discoveries emerged along the way?

A. Licking the Wound perfectly represents the visual poetry I’m talking about. There is no defined creative process. One rule I have when painting is not to think; thinking comes later. The game is about feeling and painting. Thought is of little use because I paint things that do not exist and cannot be repeated.

I have very absurd dreams; I interpret life in a very strange way while I sleep. I wake up emotionally affected, and immediately a memory blends with something from everyday life. I reach a very specific emotional state. While I paint, I am not thinking about the painting.

Licking the Wound

Q. Has your relationship with your muse evolved over time? Are there aspects that have deepened or new dimensions you've discovered that you'd like to share?

A. It evolves every day, but one must start from the premise that the muse is also me—and sometimes my other self, or a tourist self that stays for a couple of days and never returns. Everything becomes clear afterward. I began Isla during my stay in Madrid (2025), then traveled to paint three murals, and now I am in Badalona, facing the sea. I try to return to the same place in painting, but over these two months many things have happened, as always, and you realize that the idea has evolved to the point of becoming something else entirely. It’s vertiginous.

Q. Do you have any intentional activities or routines for connecting with inspiration? Conversely, when inspiration doesn't come easily, how do you handle those periods?

A. I am inspired 24/7. I don’t rely on inspiration; I live an intense life. Those who tell stories are those who have lived stories—that’s what it’s about, living fully. Painting abstractly is about creating a story, embodying an emotion that has no nose, eyes, or mouth. There is no sky; the painting object is merely its abbreviated synthesis in symbols. Relying on inspiration is like waiting for a story to appear in your head; I prefer to be the story itself, so the creative thread is never lost.

Navigators

Q. Can you tell us about a moment when your muse led you somewhere unexpected or challenging? What did you discover about yourself or your practice through that experience?

A. I live a double pictorial life: on one hand, the studio—canvas, paper, wood; on the other, being on a crane painting a large-scale mural. They are very different practices. I used to paint the same things on canvas as on walls; that was the period I call metagraffiti. Over time, each found its own rhythm and place within me.

Paintings are the narrative of my private life—of that intensity I mentioned and of the complex thoughts that arise from my life experiences. When I spend too much time locked in the studio, I develop a way of living that completely distances me from external reality. I feel like an intruder in the world.

Murals are very different. Painting a mural is like taming a giant—a fantastic experience—but it involves working with institutions, city councils, and large teams, dealing with many people who usually understand little about art, which tends to be approached from a very pragmatic standpoint. This makes it unthinkable to transfer to the wall what happens in my paintings. I am ambitious in everything I do, and I don’t want to see myself painting under a bridge, in the dark, simply because I am considered strange. I’m interested in connecting with people, and to do that, one must simplify the discourse and the intention—and that comes at a cost.

I can spend weeks on my “Island,” painting in silence, and suddenly arrive in a new city, surrounded by people in suits, families, passersby, children—and the thermal shock is astonishing: a bath of “reality” I never quite get used to. And if you add the fact that I have a manager and don’t deal with bureaucracy or promotion, you can imagine it… on the first day, I feel like running away. 

The muse is a vessel that takes me very far away; coming back is not always easy, and sometimes I even question whether I should continue painting murals at all.

Challenge

Q. How does your audience's response to your work affect your relationship with your muse? Have viewers ever helped you see new aspects of your inspiration that you hadn't noticed before?

A. My relationship with the public is usually great—until I open my mouth. I tend to raise questions that simultaneously fascinate and distance people. I am that castaway from the story of the “Island.” People talk about painting, and for me, painting is an excuse for metaphysics, philosophy, and even spiritualism. At the same time, I have worked to make my mark indecipherable; the viewer cannot identify the technique, which gives me a tremendous argumentative advantage. The other day, a gallerist who discovered my work online thought some of the paintings were digital pieces.

Erb Mon - mural

Q. How do you balance staying true to your core inspiration while also allowing room for growth and change? Have there been times when you've had to choose between following your muse and meeting external expectations?

A. Growing and changing is being faithful to my inspiration. It’s like sex: it’s about changing; pleasure lies in the diversity of situations you create. Everything else is affection or attachment. Each day dawns differently—why should my inspiration remain the same? I don’t intend to make hundreds of versions of the same painting; I’d rather be criticized for changing than for repeating myself. Fidelity is moving forward. Be yourself, but don’t always be the same self. Challenge yourself and contemplate yourself from the edge of the cliff. The game is how many versions of yourself you want to experience. Life is the theater of “reality”: will you play the same character forever? The best part is not knowing what will happen.

Q. Thank you so much for sharing such thoughtful insights with us today. As we conclude our conversation, I am curious to know in what direction you think your muse will develop or expand as you look ahead. Are there new territories of inspiration you are eager to explore, and what draws you to them?



A. I’m very excited. On the “Island,” I was able to return to an idea that had been in my mind for a long time: I’ve been circling around the concept of silence for about five years. 

Since arriving in Badalona, I’ve begun painting around this idea. Entering this investigation—silence—has been very difficult, and I believe I am now ready.

Over the past two years, there have been major changes in my life: I left absolutely everything behind, burned a few bridges I don’t intend to cross again. It’s a fantastic moment, though intense. Japanese philosophical influence has been of great help to me; for years I’ve been engaging with concepts such as Wabi-sabi, Mono no aware, among others. Japanese culture truly has a profound impact on my life and work: boro, food… I am certain I can face the challenge of painting silence. I’ve been distant for a while, barely relating except through painting, and I feel I’m moving somewhere else. 

It is in “Silence” that I can be now—even if it is very loud. 

Thank you. I loved answering your questions, and I consider myself an admirer of everything you do.

Contact

Artist : Erb Mon

Instagram : @erbmonart