Fräulein Talents: Adelisa Selimbašić

Adelisa Selimbašić:

I feel Italo-Bosnian. I go to Bosnia very often, at least two or three times a year, and I’m deeply connected to my roots. I love being there and doing everything a Bosnian typically does. At the same time, I also have a strong Italian side because I grew up there from the age of four.

Now that I’ve left both Bosnia and Italy and I’m in New York, sometimes I feel very Italian and other times I realize how Bosnian I am. At the same time, I feel shaped by every place I’ve lived — Berlin, a residency in Morocco, Miami, and now New York. Each place gives me something new, and I take a small piece of each with me.

I find it fascinating that all these places are becoming part of who I am, both as a human being and as part of my artistic reserve.

Definitely. That was the first thing I noticed when I started moving, especially outside Italy. I had a funny moment while painting, because sometimes I design sun tan lines on the body. In Italy, girls want to hide them. Then some Latin girls came to visit my studio in Miami and said, “Oh, sun tan is so sexy, this is so hot. In Brazil we even put tape on because it’s cool to have a tan.” And I thought, well, that’s a completely different way to see sun tan.

In Italy, it was more my playful way to provoke this obsession with beauty, since people want to hide it so badly. That was a realization for me. I also recently had an exhibition in the Dominican Republic, and it was interesting because my paintings include piercings and tattoos, which are considered cool in Italy, Berlin, and New York. But there they told me, “I would buy this, but there is a piercing. I don’t like having that piercing on the body.”

It’s always interesting to see these reactions because they give a different perception of how the body is viewed, and also what nudity means.

I don’t think it’s changing my work; it’s giving me new tools to look at it. In New York, I definitely collected new tools, not only from the art world.

I’m a big fan of dancing and I love the underground techno scene. It allows me to observe different bodies while they dance and approach each other, freely being themselves. I love this because it feels like having an open lens through which to see things, and it has helped me become more open in my work.

I studied at the Academy of Fine Arts in Venice, and when I left, it was the first time I moved away from a place of comfort, a place that felt like home. There, I could receive advice and feedback on my work, but at the same time it didn’t allow me to become stronger in my own decisions.

When I moved to Milan, I was in a place where I didn’t know anyone. I didn’t know artists or galleries; I was just coming out of a school environment. I did a residency where I met new artists, and it allowed me to be surrounded by people doing different things and bringing different experiences from all over the world.

That was my first real experience of encountering different perspectives. Then I started to see a vision in my work, but I no longer had professors or classmates to ask for advice. You have to make a choice yourself. I think this is where I built the courage to make decisions in my work, even when they moved away from what I was used to. I feel like it was part of my research and my work, and this came from seeing new things and interacting with new people in Milan. That’s what brought the change in colors. It’s never something you wake up and decide “I want to paint with more vibrant colors.” It comes from being patient and listening to the work.

It’s like a baby. I don’t have a baby, but I imagine it feels like taking care of something and learning how to care for it. It’s really about listening and understanding that every choice you make on the canvas has a consequence. As an artist, you need to take responsibility and have the courage to go against your initial ideas when you realize the work is asking for something else. That’s how the research progresses.

It’s simple: I’m not interested in painting faces. Every time I tried, I realized it didn’t spark curiosity or honesty in me.

For me, the body can belong to everyone and no one at the same time, especially without the face. Faces are tied to identity. IDs, passports, names. I wanted to strip that away, letting the body exist without labels.

Without faces, viewers can connect and feel empathy, recognizing themselves in someone else, a shared tattoo, a familiar gesture, the way someone sits. Deep down, we don’t care if someone is skinny or curvy; we respond to small, human details that feel familiar.

Gestures and simple moments become meaningful because they are part of identity and intimacy. That’s why I avoid faces: they limit openness. I want the work to be perceived freely, letting each viewer form their own vision without needing me there to explain it.

I think it’s because it feeds the ambiguity of the body. I like to give my paintings a suspended, dreamlike moment. You’re never sure if what you’re seeing is happening now, has already happened, or is about to happen. It creates a surreal space where the viewer can pause and decide for themselves that whatever is happening feels right. There’s no single answer. I use color and shadow to convey this, sometimes making skin soft and powdery, like makeup, so it feels delicate, almost as if it could disappear with a breath. This adds a dreamlike quality and keeps the work from being strictly tied to reality.

As a painter, I’m interested in my own perspective rather than an exact replication of reality, photography can do that. For example, sometimes violet appears in the skin, reflecting the light in the space around it. That violet isn’t just about skin color; it can exist in anyone and reflects differently depending on the surroundings.

I find this fascinating because it highlights how we are so similar yet so different at the same time. It makes the vision dynamic and personal, while also creating a subtle universal connection.

Honestly, the process often surprises me. I usually start with a photo when I begin a painting. I focus on the details that make me curious about the person, a tattoo, a piercing, a scar, the shape of the hips, or the position of the hands. Once I memorize these details and begin drawing, I like to forget the photo. This allows me to stay open to the suggestions the work itself offers.

The process becomes a collaboration between me and the painting. I let the work decide its own path. I need to be surprised by it because otherwise I would get bored.

For me, the photo is about imprinting, capturing who I see in front of me. That’s why I love clubbing and taking long walks; observing people inspires my work. I fall in love with how they dress and move, because identity isn’t a name or surname, it’s how you inhabit your body. Confident people who are true to themselves make me want to paint them.

I approach them, explain that I’m an artist, and ask if I can paint them. Some I meet while traveling, in Valencia, Sri Lanka, and elsewhere. I want them to feel part of the process, representing the freedom to be themselves, beyond societal expectations.

The process is gradual. I focus on details, color, and atmosphere, sometimes forgetting the original image. Inspiration can also come from social media; I see a small detail and imagine it as a painting. I always ask permission, even when identities aren’t recognizable, because it’s a matter of respect.

I want my subjects to feel part of the work, acknowledged in a way that connects them to the painting itself, rather than just standing as anonymous figures.

Regarding the female gaze and feminism, I want to clarify how I approach these topics. In Italy, many people assumed my work was only about women, linking it automatically to feminism. While I do consider myself a feminist, my focus is broader: I’m concerned with female identity, gender, and everything related to our experiences.

My work isn’t just about the female gender; it’s about femininity. I see femininity as something that can belong to every gender, including non-binary people. For example, pink is often associated with women, but in my work, it’s a color that can embrace everyone.

I like to emphasize that my work is about women, femininity, empowerment, sisterhood, and motherhood, and yes, it can be seen through a feminist lens. But feminism, for me, also includes allowing men and non-binary people to express their own femininity without fear. That inclusivity is really important to me.

It’s interesting because people see so many different things in my paintings, thanks to their ambiguity and openness. Some see male figures, some see female figures, and some are reminded of their mothers, sisters, or childhood experiences, like the first time they tried on their mother’s heels or a sister’s skirt, playing at being a woman. It’s fascinating how these images can unlock memories and open viewers’ minds.

Most people recognize the female gaze and femininity in the work, but interpretations vary by culture: some see only women, others see more androgynous bodies or even males. I love being at openings because these conversations feed my research.

It’s especially interesting when viewers debate: someone sees a male, another notices breasts, someone else asks what it means to have breasts, and it leads to deeper discussions about gender.

I want to free the body from the vulgarity often associated with sexuality. I see sexuality as something gentle, sweet, and delicate. It doesn’t have to be linked to pornography or vulgarity. When I paint, I try to respect the bodies in front of me and capture an innocent sexuality, something we are born with before society defines it for us.

As children, being naked or seeing others naked is natural and part of ourselves. In my work, I focus on this purity a person in underwear or without a bra, depicted respectfully, sometimes in a way that evokes care or motherhood. It’s always about honoring and respecting what I see in front of me.

Right now, my work is taking a new direction, especially in the use of color and light. I’m thinking of the body not just as a form, but as a surface touched by light, shaped by layers of color and the lines that contain it.

I’m increasingly focusing on zoomed-in details. I started with whole-body paintings, but over the years I’ve moved toward crops. Small moments or parts of the body we usually overlook, like the skin revealed when an arm is lifted. These details, seemingly insignificant in everyday life, can feel unexpectedly sensual or captivating in a painting. That’s the direction I’m exploring now.