There was a time when Isaac Andrews thought his art would change the world. He was young and naive, and the atmosphere was being pumped full of fossil fuels with such brute force that, at the time, it felt ignorant to not make work about it. “The intention was important,” he reflects now, sitting in his studio, describing his older art and wincing a little. “But the work felt secondary.”
Sometimes, with artists, a wrestling match occurs between what they make and what they want to say. In some cases, the harmony is never quite struck: empty spectacle or something overly wise but creatively dry. Despite what he thinks, Andrews never really made work that felt like either of those things. He has, since he first burst into the art world as a teenager (his first sale came when he was 16), made stuff that felt fresh, free from the constructs of what his industry instills in most people, because he was too young to be jaded by its rules.
Only now, at 22, does he feel like a balance has been established. It took time and a few creative revelations to get there. “I think I realised the human side is what I was more interested in, both personally and conceptually,” he says. “And then I thought, ‘If that’s what I’m drawn to, that’s what I should be making.’”
With nearly a decade under his belt, and creative collaborations with everyone from Miu Miu to Converse, Andrews’ ethos is still the same––it’s just his call to arms has become softer and more tangible. Curated by Dr Matt Retallick, his latest show Love Letters takes place at London’s NoHo Galleries. It’s a series of oil paintings that takes a microcosmic look at the nature of relationships, be it platonic, romantic, or familial, and the gestures that come with them.
The show was unlocked when Andrews painted “All in Love is Fair”: a toweringly large canvas with the evocative image of a person clutching peonies behind their back. The tight framing, just a blue-striped jersey and a burst of flora, asks more questions than it answers: is this an expression of love? Gratitude? An offering of forgiveness? “I like the idea of the flowers being behind someone’s back, like a surprise moment,” Andrews says. “There’s a lot of avenues that could go down.” That ambiguity, and this pairing of intimate human connection with an inanimate object laden with symbolism, helped the rest of the works slot into shape. The figures and faces he paints are entirely imagined, their eyes closed to guide any kind of emotional response. He points to a painting of hands interlocking. “You don’t know what is going on here,” he says. “But you kind of know how it would feel to be held like that.”
Among the other works: peaceful portraits of two young children facing away from the camera, side-by-side, inspired by a pair he saw while cycling to the studio one day. A mother, pulling her child in close to plant a kiss on their head. Hands held. Cradled lilies and tulips. Though the works look completely different, he credits the “very fluid and moving” paintings of Impressionist artist Mary Cassatt as something he’s inspired by.
Andrews first wanted to be an actor, then an architect. A “stubborn” school kid who didn’t perform well in his GCSE art classes, he found covering canvas and paper with charcoal was a release for him. It helped him process a lot of his life back then. Even now, his work’s human quality stems from a desire to capture what’s right in front of him.
In 2023, he lost one of his closest friends. The work he had made, grandiose in scope, hadn’t saved the world the way he once hoped. “It made me think, well, what can I change?” he says. Love Letters is his answer to that. Its ambitions aren’t lofty. They’re real—and within reach. “Everyone has people in their lives that are important to them,” he says. “Focus on them. Make sure the people around you are okay. Go catch up with your friend. Go tell your family that you love them.”
A DESCRIPTION OF ISAAC ANDREWS’ STUDIO
A space with high ceilings, a metal roof, and a skylight. Paint splatters on the stone floors. A trolley overflows with brushes, spirits, and half-squeezed tubes of paint. There are no candles or incense. “I’m scared the whole place might go on fire because everything is flammable,” he says.
Potted plants—some thriving, some not—line the edges. A shelf that includes art books on everything from South African painter Zanele Muholi to German advertising. A record player sits nearby, rarely used. CDs, however, get more action: the current soundtrack includes jazz festival recordings, Lianne La Havas, and the ambient white noise of Channel 4 crime shows.
He shows up late and leaves around 2 a.m.
FURTHER QUESTIONS FOR ISAAC ANDREWS
What is your Uber rating?
4.8. But I cycle most places these days.
You have one pound left in your pocket. How are you spending it?
A cheap paint brush.
What are you not interested in?
Raves.
What is bad art?
Art made with no real intention.
Are you a lover or a hater?
I’m a lover—but a critic. I think nowadays you can’t be a critic without being labeled a hater, and I think that’s causing a lot of bad stuff to be made.
Text or voice note?
I like to send texts and receive voice notes.
You can resurrect one artist and ask them one question. Who is it, and what are you asking them?
Noah Davis, and I’d ask him why he painted.
Isaac Andrews’ Love Letters runs at the Noho Galleries in Fitzrovia, London from 2 May to 5 May.
