18 questions with William Farr

Artists are often changing their minds. An idea that was working before might have lost meaning; layers of paint are added to hide old revisions or canvases are discarded altogether. For Yorkshire-born, London-based painter William Farr, this mental back-and-forth has inspired his latest solo show, ‘Metanoia’, which takes its title from a term associated with “the changing of one’s mind”.

At Berntson Bhattacharjee gallery, Farr’s Colour Field paintings swing between bursts of aggression and more pared-back approaches. Viewers are guided through a series of large, window-like paintings that culminate in a large, altar-like work at the end. Unlike most exhibitions, Farr’s ‘Metanoia’ is by appointment only, “allowing for an unpressured and immersive encounter with the work.”

Intrigued, we linked up with the artist to ask him some quickfire questions.

What’s your favourite time of day?

The violet hour and dusk or dawn. That suspended time where the world feels less certain.

What colours are you drawn to the most?

Colour is like a symphony—no single note or hue exists in isolation. I’m drawn to the interaction between colours, especially when built up in many fine layers. That process produces tones I’ve never seen before—shifting, evolving depending on the light, the time of day, or how far you stand from the work.

What’s the story behind the title of your new show, ‘Metanoia’?

My life has felt like a constant cycle of atrophy, breakdown, destruction—and then renewal, evolution. Like a spiral moving upwards: sometimes I feel I’m back where I started, but in fact, things have changed. This ongoing rhythm of construction and deconstruction is mirrored in my work. Making art has often felt like a narration of that internal process. I’ve been tested physiologically, spiritually, existentially—and those limits have become visible in the works. Metanoia is about radical transformation. In Greek it means “a changing of mind”– a turning inside-out of one’s outlook. The gallery’s press release even describes it as “a process of psychic breakdown, renewal, rebuilding, and healing”. Psychologically, it’s about confronting pain or confusion and letting something clearer emerge. I don’t think of myself as preaching a single message of transformation; rather, each work is a record of its own small metanoia–a moment when an idea or feeling shifts shape.

That idea of psychic breakdown and healing – how does it manifest in the pictures themselves?

The process itself is part of the concept. I work by building up and stripping back layers of paint, so every canvas bears witness to change over time. It really is like a dialogue with the surface. I might start with a broad, aggressive sweep of cadmium yellow or rose madder, then I step away, let it settle, then return to push and rub it into the surface further, mute it, or even smear through it. In the final paintings you see areas of colour that pulse and then fade – they carry their own history. In that way, each work touches an absence. As John Berger said, “what any true painting touches is an absence – an absence of which, without the painting, we might be unaware”. I feel that. My hope is that by the end, the canvas has revealed something previously hidden, some quiet ache or question that only paint can give form to. In practical terms, it means I often have to destroy a painting to make another — I literally break down the work so I can build it back up in a new way.

The exhibition notes mention you alternate “fast, aggressive bursts of painting” with long periods of stillness. Can you describe that rhythm?

It’s definitely a physical and temporal oscillation. Sometimes I’ll stand at the canvas and lay in a colour with rapid, rhythmic gestures. Then I’ll let it sit. There are days or weeks when I’m not touching a piece at all, just thinking. Then I come back and glaze it gently, or test some tiny fragment on an adjacent swatch. This contrast – between the eruption of
action and the pause of reflection – becomes ritual. In those furious moments I feel I’m giving form to something raw, and in the quiet moments I’m listening to what the painting needs next. I think of painting in a bit like meditation. It’s hard to explain without it sounding New Age, but each layer is almost like a mantra, each scrub of the brush a kind of breath.

The press material says your work is “rooted in Colour Field painting”. Do you see a lineage there, say to artists like Mark Rothko or Barnett Newman?

Absolutely. I’m very influenced by that mid-century moment when artists used vast swaths of colour to tap into something emotional or even spiritual. Rothko, in particular – his paintings feel like they’re about the space between us, something ineffable. I think about that a lot. When Rothko said he wanted his paintings to be like a “radiator for
humanity,” that idea stuck with me. I, too, want my colours to warm something inside the viewer.

Private views – yay or nay?

It can be great, I do love seeing people and the social aspect sometimes. I feel like I never really get to see the work though and often end up needing to revisit the show at a later date to really get to grips with it. It particularly didn’t feel relevant for this show as it’s so much about calm, healing, hope and reflection. I think I would like to do a show in the future that was more celebratory and energetic though.

If you want to unwind in the city, where do you go?

I usually go and sit in an empty church. I’m not particularly religious in any specific way, but I find the architecture incredible. London has so many—of all different styles—and they’ve become these almost-forgotten, hidden spaces. But they’re everywhere. Sometimes I’ll sit in a park or walk down to the Thames.

Do you listen to music in the studio?

Yes. Charlotte Day Wilson has been on repeat while working on this show—her voice feels almost like mantra, it repeats and repeats creating a kind of rhythm and grounds me. I first heard her before the pandemic, but the connection has deepened. I also kept coming back to Prince’s Piano & a Microphone 1983—it’s raw, immediate, unfiltered. And last year I saw Patti Smith perform one of Charlotte’s songs at St. Paul’s Cathedral, which felt like a kind of full circle.

Do you have any strange studio rituals?

Not exactly. But the whole process becomes its own strange ritual. I work on all the paintings at once—moving them constantly, grouping and regrouping them. They emerge like cards from a shuffled deck: some rise to the top, others get set aside. It’s very physical. I use large brushes, which I have to clean often to keep the colours from muddying. Because each painting is built through many layers of fine washes and glazes, there’s a rhythm of waiting, drying, layering. That process becomes meditative.

Is painting still a form of healing for you?

I’m not sure. Sometimes it feels more like psychological warfare. Maybe it’s a kind of purging—a discipline that demands humility. Painting reflects my inner state more than any other medium I’ve worked with. That meant I had to get physically and mentally healthier to even attempt this show: I exercised more, changed how I ate. It became an endurance trial. I felt totally broken for about three weeks in the middle of it. But then something shifted. I found a kind of flow—those moments of joy that appear suddenly, fleetingly. They’re rare, but addictive. They’re why I keep painting.

Chaos or calm?

Both, at the same time. Chaos is the engine, calm is the surface.

What’s one thing you wish more people understood about your work?

I’m not sure I know what other people think, I’m so often surprised at how much people see in it and understand where I’m at without me needing to say anything. It’s very moving when someone tells me what they have found in the work and when it’s what I had imagined and hoped to convey, it really surprises me. I care deeply about the viewer.

If you could have dinner with one artist, alive or dead, who would it be?

There are so many: Auerbach, Rothko, Nina Simone, Matthew Barney, Louise Bourgeois, Albrecht Durer, Rembrandt. I feel like none of them would be particularly good dinner company though. I think it would be a weird dynamic.

What’s the hardest part of your painting process?

The part I like least is cleaning brushes. I honestly hate having to do it. Small brushes are easy to clean but the big wide ones I use are such a pain. I’ve always hated having to do the washing up as well.

And the most rewarding?

Those moments when it all flows and feels okay, this delusional state I get at the end of the day when it seems like everything will be ok.

What’s the best exhibition you’ve ever seen?

I think Matthew Barney’s opera ‘River of Fundament’ had a profound effect on my perception of everything.

What’s a piece of advice you’ve heard that you return to?

Rothko said that a painting is not about an experience—it is the experience. That’s something I carry with me constantly. If the work doesn’t feel like something, then it’s not finished. It doesn’t matter how it looks—there has to be a charge in it, some weight.