Ian Myers
Tempera and Time
Ian Myers doesn’t just paint—he builds. Every surface, every layer, every mark is constructed through a meticulous, almost ritualistic process. “I paint almost exclusively in egg tempera,” he says, referring to the centuries-old technique used in early Renaissance and medieval paintings. “Same materials, same process—but removing the imagery, setting up a way where I can be surprised by the painting.” His work isn’t about control; it’s about discovery.
That element of surprise is fundamental to his practice. Ian mixes his own pigments, crafts his own gesso, and hand-prepares his panels, layering muslin and animal glue before applying 15 coats of thick charcoal gesso. “It’s an all-day affair before I even get to painting.” Each work unfolds over months—sometimes half a year—building translucent layers like geological sediment. Then comes the moment of excavation: he scrapes into the surface with razor blades, etching into the paint, peeling away layers to reveal textures and patterns that he never could have planned. “When I see something that feels different from my having put it there, I know it’s a keeper.”
Ian is fascinated by the idea that a painting can have its own autonomy—that it can do something beyond the artist’s intent. “I push myself to the periphery,” he says. “I let the materials respond to themselves, and I react to that.” It’s not mystical or spiritual, but an evolving relationship with paint, where the work takes on a life of its own.
The natural world is a major influence—his studio is filled with an ever-growing collection of rocks, his “library.” “Every color exists in these stones,” he says. “If nature can do it, I can do it.” Some of his pieces feature subtle halos—a nod to religious iconography but also, in his words, “kind of a joke.” “In traditional icon paintings, halos are these labor-intensive marks, laid on layer by layer. Here, it’s a reference, but also a little absurd. The material of paint—especially tempera—it’s an egg, it’s gross. It’s both beautiful and unseemly at the same time.”
Ian prefers small-scale work, paintings that require close, intimate engagement. “I love that my work doesn’t exist unless you’re eight inches away from it,” he says. “From across the room, it’s nothing. But then you get closer, and suddenly, it opens up into this whole other world.” He’s considered unconventional ways of displaying his work—benches in the gallery so people can sit with the paintings, hanging them lower so they demand an almost reverential posture. “You have to opt in,” he says. “Like reading a book. If you don’t want to engage, that’s fine, but I hope it’s rewarding for the people who do.”
Ian is skeptical of the commodification of art. He’s not interested in his paintings becoming trophies, sitting in storage or hidden away in private collections. “I hope my work ends up in places where people can see it for free,” he says. “If you opt in, you should have access.” He still wrestles with the role of art in a market-driven world, questioning whether it’s just another asset class, a “parking lot for rich people’s money.” But he continues to paint, drawn to the quiet conviction that a painting can still do something. “There are moments when I look at a painting and think, ‘This is doing something.’ Like Bonnard—his paintings do something. They have a function in a way. That’s what I’m chasing.”
For Ian Myers, painting is an excavation—of materials, of history, of meaning. His works ask for patience, for proximity, for engagement. And in return, they offer something elusive and just beyond reach.
