Alexander Burenkov: From insects to mythological creatures to pop culture figures, your iconography is diverse and sometimes contradictory. What draws you to this fluid mix of symbols, and how do you see them conversing in your compositions?

Botond Keresztezi: The best way to explain this is through Comte de Lautréamont’s famous line: “As beautiful as the chance encounter of a sewing machine and an umbrella on an operating table.” I believe everything is connected, just a few steps apart, and the greater the distance, the more powerful the connection. Being born in the late ʼ80s, I fall into Generation Y—a strange hybrid in itself. We grew up with the internet and digitalization: too young to fully belong to the analogue world, but too old for TikTok. We absorb influences from both directions. Thatʼs probably why computer graphics had such a strong impact on me—it became a kind of shared language of my generation.

AB: Your use of color often veers into hyperreal, almost synthetic palettes. Do you see color in your work as an emotional register, a conceptual tool, or as a reference to screen-based visual culture?

BK: For me, color is first and foremost a reference to the digital image. My whole process works in a kind of circular loop: I begin with a digital file, transform it into a painting, and then the painting becomes a photographic reproduction that eventually circulates back online. Thatʼs why my colors are so closely tied to the digital image—I try not to alter them too much, because the integrity of that full cycle is important to me. Iʼve always been fascinated by the photographs artists make of their own paintings—like Magritteʼs photo study for "Clairvoyance". I also think of screen colors as constantly shifting, much like the shadows on Monetʼs Rouen Cathedral. My paintings attempt to capture that fleeting moment in a similar way—almost like a form of digital Impressionism.

AB: You were born in Romania within a Hungarian-majority community, and at the age of three your family relocated to Hungary, where you grew up in a quiet mining town near the capital—an environment that taught you to uncover fascination in the simplest of things. Do you see elements of Romanian or Hungarian urban visual culture, or perhaps aspects of folk art, as having left a distinct imprint on your artistic sensibility?

BK: My time in Romania was very limited, as I left at such an early age. I can only relate to it more like a visitor who returned once a year. Itʼs difficult to build a strong identity when your direct connections are lost. Still, having multiple cultural backgrounds can actually be an advantage in todayʼs globalized world. The internet and a shared global language have helped our generation navigate this complexity. Visually, Romania and Hungary have many similarities—they were both part of the same empire in the early 20th century, the Monarchy. After World War II, both countries fell under Soviet influence, though the post-Soviet legacy played out differently in each place. In Transylvania, wood is widely used—especially for the monumental carved gates, which inspired me a lot. Brutalist architecture there also feels harsher, shaped by the extreme mountain climate. In contrast, Hungary is rich in Art Nouveau traditions, particularly in the flatland towns like Kecskemét or Szeged–Tatabánya, where I grew up, has a very foggy atmosphere—almost like Twin Peaks. Itʼs a working-class town, strongly marked by South German influences tied to its mining history.

AB: Graffiti subculture have played a formative role in shaping your early artistic language. In what ways do the ethos and visual strategies of this scene continue to resonate within your current painting practice? Could your work be seen as embodying the mentality of the graffiti writer, and if so, how do these sensibilities materialize in the gestures, structures, and rhythms of your creative process?

BK: Growing up as a middle-class kid in a mining town, my first encounters with culture came through graffiti and rap music—and that influence has stayed with me ever since. The way I use and assemble visual material is very similar to early sampler-based music making. Graffiti taught me how to develop a new, consistent visual language, and it also helped me focus and channel my creative energy. More broadly, these subcultures are great examples of how to build your own alphabet or system of storytelling. Graffiti writing, for instance, often comes very close to the Surrealist method of automatic writing. Because of the need for speed and spontaneity, forms emerge directly from the subconscious.

AB: In your solo show at Seventeen gallery in London titled "NPC (No-one Paints Chrysopoeia)" you presented a series of paintings, where bicycle-like gears or alien mechanical forms transform into fantastical hybrids, sprouting claws, a horseʼs head, or sculpted human masks. Functional metal linkages are overgrown with iridescent porcelain-like filigree, recalling the shimmering glazes of Hungarian Zsolnay ceramics and their Art Nouveau opulence. It reminds a lot Roberto Mattaʼs surreal “churning machines” which exemplify the grotesque and miraculous results of technological innovation and share a visionary kinship with your implausible hybrid technologies. Your obsession with surrealism is well known, but are you particularly influenced by Matta?

BK: Iʼve always appreciated Mattaʼs work, but it was never a direct model for me. His paintings are visionary and abstract, more like emotional inner landscapes. Personally, I relate more to Yves Tanguy—his work also depicts emotional landscapes, but he renders them with a clarity that almost feels like a 3D model. For the "NPC" exhibition, I worked with the Surrealist method of the “exquisite corpse”. I wanted to create these monstrous, giant metallic creatures as examples of metamorphosis—something mechanical transforming into the biological, and finally into the digital. Mattaʼs paintings are more playful and rhythmic, often guided by music. For me, music is a passion too, but translating it into painting can sometimes feel difficult, almost unreadable.

AB: You often work with mechanical components, which in your paintings transcend their functional intent, becoming ornamental or alive through futuristic mutation. Your hybrid forms suggest a future archaeology of technological relics—objects that have evolved beyond human design or necessity. The background landscapes of these paintings further destabilize spatial logic, merging rock formations, game-like aesthetics, and animate surfaces—suggesting that machines evolve, adapt, or even self-generate new identities. Are you interested in envisioning a post-humanist world? You fetishize objects, masks, cars, vinyls, any kind of plastic, metal, non-functional, functional. Do you collect anything? Do you have any specific material obsessions at the moment?

BK: Science fiction often defines itself as speculation about science, but really itʼs speculation about the future. At different times, people have preferred to speculate about ancient myths or the past—but thatʼs still a kind of futurism. Many classic sci-fi films predicted eras weʼve already lived through, mostly the first half of the 21st century. In recent years, Iʼve started to feel that weʼre no longer talking about the future—weʼre already living in it. Technological evolution often happens invisibly, “in the basement,” so to speak. Every year you see three almost identical iPhone models, but beneath the surface the processors grow more powerful and AI becomes increasingly complex. Because functional design feels frozen in this way, many people—including myself—are drawn back to the aesthetics of the ʼ80s and ʼ90s, to the pre-digital or early digital era. Personally, I collect many things, especially vinyl records and watches. I love Swatchʼs idea of making a “second watch” — a fun, affordable accessory. In the ʼ90s Swatch also became a playground for artists and designers, so today you can find some truly wild pieces from that time.

AB: In your exhibition "The Opium Smokerʼs Dream” at The Hole Gallery in New York, you attempted to create an illusion that resembled both a toxic experience caused by drug use, a hallucination, and a vision created with VR glasses. How important is the mystical and esoteric dimension of modern technologies to you?

BK: I believe the esoteric dimension begins beyond the material world. Tools like AI or 3D printers help us make our ideas visible, but they operate with exact measurements, and even the underlying mathematics is evident in the process. Painting, on the other hand, is inherently messy—a challenging illusion that allows something extra to emerge in the viewerʼs perception. Marcel Duchamp, for example, Distinguished retinal art, which appeals only to the eye, from art that engages the mind. In my narrative paintings, I always try to create a fantasy story behind what is immediately visible.

AB: Have you ever wanted to work with virtual or augmented reality or create your own computer game? You work mainly with oil painting, charcoal drawings, pastels, watercolors, ceramics and installations – classical techniques. At the same time, you usually work on one piece at a time, first completing the image digitally and then the painting itself is a more meditative phase, always playing with things digitally, where the really intuitive, creative process happens. Are you tempted to work with computer graphics and CGI animation?

BK: As I mentioned, my process always begins digitally, yet I am not particularly a “computer person.” Lately, Iʼve been trying to step back from the digital world rather than immerse myself further. Iʼve always been fascinated by video games—theyʼre the perfect medium for creating entirely new worlds and environments. Death Stranding from Kojima Productions is a good example, though Iʼve always experienced such technology more as a viewer than as a creator. My father is an engineer and understands both hardware and software, but for me, what happens behind the screen feels like pure magic. I would love to develop something similar myself, but it would require a well-organized team to handle the technical aspects.

AB: Your exhibition at X Museum, Sleeping Muse After Several Snoozes, is described as viewing the present through a speculative future lens with a “mental-Photoshop” aesthetic. How do you understand the act of mental Photoshop in relation to memory, digital layering, and identity?

BK: The term “mental Photoshop” predates the prominence of AI, because it describes the associative “play” I do entirely within my mind. It is not generated digitally, and I still aim to keep it free from automated processes. I want to reflect how the human brain works and the subjective influences on my generation—what I sometimes call Generation P, or the last generation that at least read books. That shared mental framework is a core part of our identity. Perhaps, like previous generations, we may eventually fade into obscurity, but we remain comfortable with the analog world—I still have a turntable and a Sony Walkman from 1987, the year I was born. Some call it nostalgia, but I believe each generation is strengthened by the experiences it accumulates over time. I pay close attention to older generations, especially those raised outside social media. We were the first “chat generation”, first using MSN Messenger, then the modern Messenger. Before that, in the 1960s, mail art was especially important behind the Iron Curtain. Building communities and making connections has always been one of humanityʼs most vital efforts.

AB: The fusion of a PlayStation altar with Brancusiʼs "Sleeping Muse" and Bosch-AI aesthetics evokes post-internet iconography. How do you activate canonical art and digital artifacts in your symbolic pantheon?

BK: During my studies, we learned a lot about art history, but the curriculum was very linear: we started at the very beginning and usually only reached the Renaissance. Whether the program lasted twelve years or five, we rarely got to contemporary art. I remember that before my final art history exam at university, we were discussing Warhol—essentially the “end” of the history we had studied. Perhaps thatʼs why I developed a broader, more self-directed academic perspective on art history. Brancusi has always been a significant symbol for me, especially the Sleeping Muse, which represents both the struggle of creation and a connection to Romania, where I was born, as well as a link to the Western world, where he spent most of his life in Paris. The PlayStation, on the other hand, symbolizes my childhood. In the 1990s, right after the systemic changes and the separation from the Soviet Union and socialist regime, unemployment was high, yet my parents, as young immigrants, had plenty to keep them busy. Meanwhile, we were raised by television and computer games.

AB: Your series “Forever Young” reinterprets ʼ90s rave flyers through metaphysical grids. In your view, how does nostalgia function in the architecture of digital memories and embodied identity?

BK: Unfortunately, I was too young and lived too far away when the golden age of rave culture occurred in Western Europe, so my engagement with it is purely nostalgic. Iʼve always been a fan of sci-fi book covers; there is a famous Hungarian publishing company called Galaktika, still operating just a few meters from my current studio, which I find amusing. Commercial graphic design was strong in this region during the early 20th century, influenced by the Russian avant-garde. These fantastical designs merged with the local avant-garde tradition and shaped the aesthetics of rave flyers, which evoke nostalgia for our childhoods—complete with UFOs and mysterious TV shows. Through "Forever Young", I wanted to create a paraphrase or homage to this visual subculture.

AB: You listed René Magritte and Giorgio de Chirico as your ultimate art heroes by saying that you even started to paint because of encountering their works. Which Hungarian masters are very important for you? Whatʼs special about the contemporary Hungarian art scene?

BK: I come from a very conservative family background, so as a child I was first exposed to historicist art. As I grew up and educated myself, I began to appreciate a wider range of approaches—from narrative storytelling to more sensual or mystical expressions. I ended up drawn to Tivadar Csontváry Kosztka, whose “The Lonely Cypress” was the only Hungarian painting included in André Bretonʼs “Surrealist Encyclopedia”. Csontváry was a great colorist, a mystic, and a self-taught painter. I also greatly admire Lajos Gulácsy, who spent his later years in a mental asylum, yet created profoundly magical works. More broadly, I have a deep appreciation for the entirety of Hungarian art history.

AB: Tim White, representative of a new school of super-realists that began shaping British science fiction art in the mid-1970s, is your another personal hero. Who are your favorite science fiction writers and which sci-fi movies can you re-watch many times?

BK: Iʼm not an obsessive sci-fi fan, but I really appreciate the language of the genre, which resonates with my artistic practice, and it has certainly influenced me. I was never a Star Wars nerd; I was more into "Alien" and "Predator". H.R. Giger is, of course, a major inspiration for my generation. I also love the classic "Blade Runner"—I consider it a masterpiece. The first Robocop movie was also very influential for me as a child. In literature, I favor Philip K. Dick and certain novels by Ursula K. Le Guin.

AB: Jordan Wolfson, Pierre Huyghe, Jim Shaw, Peter Saul, and Jon Rafman, a 21st-century Hieronymus Bosch, are among your most powerful sources of inspiration, building a very dark, AI-centric world through their 3D animations. Who are your recent personal obsessions in art?

BK: Jon Rafman has certainly been a key influence. We share some gallerists, and early in his career he worked extensively with Future Gallery in Berlin. He also comes from a cinema background, which resonates with our generation, raised on television. Avery Singer and Jamian Juliano-Villani were born the same year as me, and Iʼve followed their practices from the very beginning—two New York giants and massive inspirations in painting. I also draw inspiration from the younger generation, such as the Polish artist Stach Szumski; weʼve collaborated on projects in Prague and Krakow. Iʼve also discovered the paintings of Matyas Malac from Prague. From Romania, Victor Man is unquestionably a museum-quality artist. In Hungary, Zsófia Keresztes is a highly talented sculptor and a friend of mine, and Gábor Pintér as a painter, is a significant source of inspiration. Budapestʼs art scene is developing rapidly, although governmental support for institutions remains limited.