Samarel Erotic Art Interview | The Art of Fuck Manifesto
Explore Samarel’s provocative erotic art in this exclusive interview. Bold, raw, and unapologetic — the Art of Fuck redefines contemporary erotic painting
Why erotic art? Why not landscapes or still life like every other “serious” painter?
Because a fruit bowl never made anyone’s pulse race. Because the human body is the only landscape worth getting lost in. A mountain can take your breath away, but it will never make you moan. Still life paintings are boring (in my eyes only) — my canvases are alive, sweating, moaning, daring you to look twice. Painting sex is painting life in its most unfiltered moment. It’s the closest thing to painting energy. Sexual energy.
I did try “serious” art once. A friend asked why my horizon lines were always crooked. I told him, “Because the earth tilts when you’re aroused.” That was the end of my career as a landscape painter.
Isn’t calling your series The Art of Fuck a bit… vulgar?
Only if you’ve been trained to think the word “fuck” is vulgar. To me, it’s the most honest word in the dictionary. “Making love” has lace curtains and candlelight. “Having sex” is clinical; it wears latex gloves. “Fuck” is raw, human, and unedited—exactly what sex art should be.
The title was never meant to shock for the sake of shock. It was meant to strip the act bare, just as I strip my subjects. If a word ‘Fuck’ can make you blush, my work is done and there is still hope for the sinners 😉
Do you want people to get turned on by your paintings?
Yes and no, actually. If someone looks at my art and feels aroused, I’ve done my job. If they look at my work and feel conflicted, embarrassed, or strangely exposed — I’ve also done my job. Art should be felt in the body before it is understood in the mind.
Some people see porn when they look at my work. I don’t argue with them. I just remind them: porn is designed to make you come. My paintings are designed to make you stay. Stay with the discomfort, stay with the beauty, stay with the realization that desire is more complicated than release.
What inspires you to paint erotic scenes instead of abstract shapes?
Who said fucking isn’t abstract? Two bodies colliding, lines curving, colors bleeding into each other — that’s abstraction in its rawest form. I just don’t hide the subject matter behind geometry. Instead of triangles and circles, I use thighs and lips. All sets of lips…Instead of brushstrokes that mean nothing, mine mean everything.
Abstraction is the art of suggestion.
I’m not suggesting anything. I’m declaring it.
How do you respond to critics who call erotic art “low” or “illegitimate”?
I usually laugh. The same critics will walk into the Louvre and drool over Rubens’ voluptuous nudes or Caravaggio’s half-naked saints. They worship ancient eros but panic at modern arousal. They want their desire safely trapped behind centuries of dust and velvet ropes.
My answer is simple: if desire offends you, you’re already in the wrong gallery. Art that makes you feel shame is still art. In fact, it might be the most important art you’ll see that year.
What do you want people to feel when standing in front of your paintings?
That pause between heartbeat and breath. That vertigo of recognizing themselves in the canvas or remembering their own sexy moments with their lovers. Maybe lust, maybe discomfort, maybe freedom. Ideally, all three at once.
The greatest compliment I’ve received wasn’t “beautiful” or “powerful.” It was from someone who stood in silence, staring at one of my canvases, and whispered: “I feel like I shouldn’t be here… but I can’t leave.” That’s exactly the moment I paint for.
What’s your most personal work?
’Enter My Mind.’ It isn’t just a painting — it’s a dare. It says: come inside, explore, lose your way, and don’t expect to leave untouched. I painted a man’s head entering a vagina, but when I named it, the vagina became my mind. It’s not a painting you hang in a dining room; it’s a painting that hangs in your memory.
It was the first time I stopped trying to “make something beautiful” and started trying to make something inevitable. That work is me, undressed, unapologetic, and unguarded.
You once said your dream is to see your paintings on the wall of MoMA. What would that moment mean?
Validation — but not for me. For the word ‘fuck.’ For every artist told their work was “too explicit,” “too much,” or “too raw.” I’d want MoMA’s walls to echo with that forbidden word, finally allowed to be what it always was: art.
The art world has always flirted with sex but refused to commit. I want to drag it into bed and say, “Stop pretending you don’t want this.”
What role does censorship play in your career?
Censorship is my uninvited collaborator. It follows me everywhere, wagging its finger, pretending to protect some fragile innocence. But here’s the secret: censorship is proof that my work still has teeth. If it didn’t scare someone, it wouldn’t matter.
People sometimes ask if I’m tired of fighting censorship. I tell them: no, because censorship is the best press agent I never hired. Every time a platform bans my work, it becomes more desirable. Every time a gate closes, curiosity grows. Desire always sneaks past.
Do you see your work as political?
Yes. And not in the way people expect. It’s more social than political. I don’t wave banners; I paint orgasms. But there’s nothing more political than saying desire is not dirty. That woman’s pleasure deserves canvas space. That fucking is as legitimate a subject as flowers in a vase.
Every brushstroke says: we exist, we crave, we burn. And no amount of moral panic will erase that.
How do you choose what moment to paint — before, during, or after?
Mostly I live for the moment between. Between the kiss and the moan, between the arch of the back and the fall into release. Porn shows the climax; I show the suspension. Desire is sex in slow motion, and that’s where I like to paint. Sometimes I paint the climax as well. We all aim to get there right?
Do you ever worry your work will be misunderstood?
It already is — and that’s fine. Some call it porn, some call it liberation, and others call it sin. But the moment people agree on what I do, I’ll know I’ve failed. Art doesn’t need agreement; it needs friction.
Just like the witty quote “I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member” by Groucho Marx.
Final question: If you could describe your art in one long sentence?
It’s not porn. It’s not polite.
It’s the mirror you avoid and the fantasy you secretly keep.
Thank you!
My pleasure indeed.
You may ask whatever your filthy mind thinks…
I’m here
Read also:
Erotic art is NOT porn
Congratulations Samarel! ♥️💋🖤