Viktoryia Dijk (b. 1992) is a Belarus-born, Rotterdam and London-based painter. Her work carries the layered sensibility of someone who has moved between visual languages and cultural contexts, engaging with themes of identity, transition, and belonging, rendered through a painterly vocabulary shaped by years of rigorous graphic thinking. Recent group exhibitions include Tender Ground (Terrace Gallery, London, 2025) and CHISMATA (Greatorex Street Gallery, London, 2025). She holds a BA in Graphic Design from the State College of Art, Minsk (2012), a BA in Graphic Design from KABK, The Hague (2016), and completed her MA in Painting at the Royal College of Art, London (2025).

She paints on the floor, in dry pigments and rabbit skin glue on unprimed linen — a surface chosen because it absorbs, breathes, and resists in its own way. In this conversation, she talks about what’s non-negotiable in her process, what surprises her every few months, and what she wants you to walk out of the room carrying.

Can you take us back to the moment you first felt like you had to create something — and did you understand at the time what it was actually about?

Playing with art materials is my earliest memory of curiosity towards creating. I didn’t understand the significance of it then,  how it would connect to everything I make now, but I remember one thing clearly: the will to use it. To pick it up and do something with it. That impulse, I think, was already the whole story.

Where does the work live before it becomes an object? Is it a feeling, a space, a colour, a conversation — and how do you keep hold of it long enough to put it down?

It lives in a combination of all things — a feeling, a colour, a conversation, a space. What I’ve come to understand is that when I go deeper into one of them, the others start to become clearer. They illuminate each other. So I don’t try to hold on to all of it at once — I follow whichever thread feels most alive, and the rest tends to find its way.

Describe your studio to us — what does it look like right now, and what does it say about you?

It’s not a large space, but I’ve structured and organised it so there’s a place for everything — material storage, a mixing area, a large table, archive shelving for references and sketches. Systems help me. The largest part is kept clear, because I paint primarily on the floor. That needs space and movement. There’s also a working wall, and I’m lucky with the light — three large windows, which makes all the difference. I surround myself with work — there is always something in progress, always a series, and the pieces influence each other. I suppose it says that I need both order and freedom. Everything has its place — I try to respect the function of each thing. And underneath that, something about how I see myself in relation to the work. My relationship to the work is one of service. Process matters to me — not just as a means to an end, but as something worth taking seriously.

Are there elements of your process that are non-negotiable — a particular material, a gesture, a ritual? What is it, and what would be lost without it?

There are, though they have their own fluidity too. Right now, it is the surface and the material — dry pigments and rabbit skin glue on unprimed linen. The linen is unprimed for a reason: it absorbs, it breathes, it resists in its own way. The pigment on that surface behaves unlike anything else. What would be lost without it is hard to separate from the work itself — the material is not a vehicle, it is part of the meaning.

What cultural moment — a film, a show, a performance, a record, a book, a place — genuinely changed something in you?

Studying in three different countries, three different cultures. Each move was a serious shift in how I understood myself. Moving to the Netherlands was the biggest of those. Being curious, seeing how differently people can live, finding what I recognise in myself as a response. I have chosen to remain open to change. It is a continuous self-discovery through others — and I think that openness is something I carry into the work.

When did you last make something that surprised you — and did you trust it?

It happens every few months. It takes a lot of work to catch a new moment of surprise, but when it comes, it is very rewarding. I trust it, and I investigate every aspect of it, to not lose it and anchor it.

If someone who knew nothing about art walked into your show, what would you want them to walk out with?

Anything personal. I want you to take it personally.

What images or objects have just always been around — things you’ve carried with you, kept on a wall, refused to throw out? What makes them feel like home?

Honestly, I am not attached to physical objects. I am sentimental, and I do carry stones from every mountain I visit, but they rotate, and with time serve their purpose I guess. What I make sure to maintain is the freedom to change — that feels more like home to me than anything I ever owned.