In the quiet, sunlit stillness of her studio, Sere Rivérs moves between canvases, ceramic forms, and fragments of handwritten poetry. The air is soft with the scent of Palo Santo, and on one wall, words bleed into color like half confession, half spell. The room seems to reflect on each canvas. Her work resists categorisation, balancing between the functional and the sacred. Born outside the traditional art-world bubble, Rivers built her voice instinctively, unshaped by academic dogma yet grounded in a need to create.
What emerges is an oeuvre that feels both deeply personal and invitingly open: bodies dissolve into fields of blue; ceramics blur the line between object and sculpture; phrases appear as sudden thoughts overheard. Over more than a decade, Rivérs has expanded her practice from illustration to studying fashion design, painting, writing, and now immersive installations, always following the thread of curiosity rather than the pull of convention.
In conversation, she speaks just as easily about childhood drawings of burning heads as about the sensory architecture of her upcoming olive oil installation. We talk about beauty, vulnerability, and the comfort of a single color and about finding a home in your own work, even when the world told you it wasn’t a home worth building.
Let’s start with how you got into the art world. The beginning can be hard, like finding your place and making connections. How was it for you?
Honestly, I think not coming from an artistic family shaped me a lot. I didn’t have any preconceived ideas of what art was supposed to be, which gave me a lot of freedom. But it also meant I had to find my own voice from scratch, completely on my own, in a very autodidactic way. It wasn’t just a pastime; it felt existential, like I needed to create to make sense of myself and the world. At first, I didn’t have a clear vision or message, just a strong urge to get out what I was carrying inside.
So art was always part of you, even before you thought of it as a career?
Definitely. Since I was a child. As cliché as it might sound, in kindergarten, drawing was how I processed life, especially difficult things. There was a period when I fought a lot with my dad, and I once drew his head on fire. I remember it vividly. Art was my way to communicate when I didn’t have the words. It was always about expression.
And your family didn’t encourage you to pursue it professionally?
No, not at all. Growing up, I heard constantly that art was “unprofitable” and “a waste of time.” My family didn’t even know that being an artist could be a job. That doubt from others gave me even more motivation to prove that my work and inner expression could support me and carry me through life. While my friends were partying as teenagers, I spent weekends at home drawing and uploading to Tumblr. Eventually, I became a bit of a “Tumblr queen” and completely unexpectedly got discovered by German Vogue.
Through Tumblr? That’s amazing.
Yes, a Vogue editor saw my illustrations. I had started as an illustrator, often drawing women, and at 16, I was already studying fashion design. She reached out for me to illustrate a double-page spread, but I didn’t even have a bank account, so they had to pay my ex-boyfriend. It was surreal. Everyone back home was shocked, especially because I’m from a tiny town in the south. That moment gave me a huge boost of confidence. It was proof that I could put something out into the world and have it resonate so much that someone would pay for it.
Did that early success affect how you approached your work?
In fashion school, the dominant aesthetic was minimal, clean, and visually pleasing. I learned to create work that was attractive to the eye, which influenced my early years as an illustrator. But over time, especially in the last 4–5 years, my motivation shifted. I went through a phase of trying to create “messier,” more maximalist work, but in the end, my art naturally gravitates toward beauty. I’ve accepted that. We all need beauty in our lives, and it’s part of my work.
What themes are you exploring now?
Lately, I’ve been fascinated with the body not just physically, but also in its subtle, intangible dimensions. I think about the relationship between spirit and matter, what’s visible and invisible, what lingers in us. I work intuitively, like a sponge that absorbs experiences and then releases them onto the canvas. I rarely start with a fixed goal; the process unfolds naturally through the movement of my hand and body.
That sounds almost ritualistic.
It is. My studio is calm, almost zen. Sometimes I burn Palo Santo when I arrive, as a way to mark the start. I prefer to work alone, to escape the outside world and immerse myself in a tunnel-like focus. It’s a very personal, almost sacred process.
Is the urge to create art more of a privilege or a burden?
Mostly a privilege. I’ve found what I believe is my purpose, something many people search for their whole lives. But with that comes responsibility. I feel a duty to honour it, which can sometimes be heavy.
Do you feel vulnerable showing your work?
Yes, because art is a deep self-revelation. It’s more than showing an image; it’s offering a piece of your emotions. I’ve trained myself not to let other people’s opinions affect me too much, but of course, there’s still some vulnerability, especially since there’s also financial pressure to keep creating. What matters most to me is not whether someone says my work is “beautiful,” but whether it stirs a genuine feeling in them: joy, sadness, anger, love, anything.
You also use text in your work now. How does that change things?
Text makes a work more accessible because it requires less interpretation than abstraction. It reveals intimate thoughts directly, which can make me more vulnerable but also more empowered. I can now put into words what I once could only paint. My writing has become another art form for me, and integrating it with my visual work feels like a big personal step.
Is accessibility in art important to you?
Yes. The institutional art world can be very exclusive. I try to approach it without a master plan, going into exhibitions and spaces intuitively. I think that authenticity comes through in my work.
And that must influence how you feel about your work and your place in the art world. Before, we were talking about your lyrical pieces, you mentioned that they allow you to express in words what you once only expressed visually. How do you see that connection?
Words can trigger thoughts in people more directly and immediately. If I write “the sky is green,” it instantly provokes questions; do I see color differently, what exactly do I mean? It’s a very precise and demanding way of communicating, compared to visual art, which leaves more room for interpretation. I write words as they come to me, giving them space to exist in raw form. It took me years to be able to articulate my feelings in words, so for me, giving them that space is significant.
You’ve also started working with ceramics. How did that come about?
It’s in my roots, my great-great-grandparents were nomads in Anatolia who made pottery, like bowls and plates, and traded them. I became fascinated with the process of working with clay, with how it’s sourced, shaped, and fired. I wanted to break with tradition: instead of perfect, functional pieces, I made rough, deformed forms, sometimes inscribed with crayon and quotes. My work often blurs the line between sculpture and functional object. I love pushing it to where it’s almost unusable, like a knife block that fits only one knife, because that tension makes it interesting.
And how did you learn the technical side?
Honestly, I didn’t aim for perfection. I have huge respect for master ceramicists, so I never tried to make flawless pieces. Clay is unpredictable: temperature, glaze, even a hidden shard can affect the result. That uncertainty fascinates me. I experiment constantly with different clays, glazes, and additives. It’s an endless exploration.
So, adding ceramics and poetry, was that about finding new outlets besides painting on a canvas?
Not consciously. With ceramics, I didn’t even intend to sell them. I just wanted rough, tactile objects I couldn’t find elsewhere. But people saw them, wanted to buy them, and I said yes. Now they’re part of my practice.
Do you see more mediums coming into your work in the future?
Definitely. I’m already working on a room installation in Zurich with large, rough ceramic. basins filled with different olive oils. The room will be draped in fabric, with projections, scents, and tastings to engage all the senses. Ten years ago, I never imagined creating immersive spaces, but now I want to make environments that can move or even heal people, combining all the skills I’ve built over time.
That’s beautiful. One last question, you often use blue in your work. Why blue?
People ask me that a lot, and I used to avoid answering. Recently, I realised it’s because blue is the most familiar color to me, both in nature, like the sky, and in our modern world, like screen light. Over the years, I’ve explored countless shades of blue, and it feels like home, a piece of reliability in an otherwise unpredictable creative process. Other colors I choose intuitively, based on impressions I absorb in daily life, sometimes inspired by random combinations I see on the street. But it is always a feeling that guides me.
