Joy Kinna (b. 1997) is an abstract painter based on Vancouver Island, Canada. Her internationally exhibited work explores connection—to self, family, and the ocean—rooted in lived experience. She is known for a tactile approach, where texture and material play a central role in the process. Her paintings emerge from the interplay of landscape, memory, emotion, and physical space. Through careful mark-making and an openness to chance, each piece evolves organically. Kinna’s work invites rest, reflection, and meaningful personal connection.
Your work feels deeply intentional and layered. Can you walk us through your creative process — from the first spark of inspiration to the final result?
Absolutely, some of my work is definitely more layered than other works, and I think what it comes down to is that my work is very process-driven. On every canvas, I’m learning something new from the last, and sometimes it’s the exploration of a colour, a certain mark, a certain texture, etc. I often go into the canvas very open-minded: typically with a few colours in mind or a general sense of direction or shape, but so much of what happens on the canvas is intuitive and honestly just reacting to little moments that happen that I want to preserve or shift. It feels like a constant little game, and I’m just a player moving the chess pieces.
What role do materials play in your work? Do you choose your canvases, pigments, or tools with the same care that a leather artisan chooses their hides?
As an abstract artist, material is at the core of my work. From the beginning to the end of creating a piece, material selection is fundamental. I work on heavyweight raw canvas, which allows me to apply numerous layers of materials, water, and pressure with the confidence that my canvases will support the work I am creating. I mainly work with water-soluble acrylic paints. Because of this, water plays a fundamental role as a material; its fluidity is everything. I can only control it to a certain extent, and it changes due to temperature, among other variables.
In recent years, I’ve been very drawn to graphite, oil sticks, and salt, as each of these materials interacts with water in very different ways. When I use salt, the result is a bit unpredictable. The graphite I work with is also water-soluble, so I can build it up in layers or dilute it heavily so that it dissolves into the water. Oil sticks usually have to be applied in the final layer, over any dry acrylic and graphite marks. I use them for my final marks, as oil and water do not mix like other mediums.
I frame all my finished works in ash wood. My team sources Canadian ash wood, and I personally select each piece of the frame that will surround the artwork. Due to the variations in grain and colour, we make an effort to match the pieces in a harmonious tone that complements the painting.
I believe that, just as leather artisans choose their hides, the materials artists work with shape and condition their work. As an abstract artist, much of my practice revolves around the interaction between materials. I am currently developing some sculptural ideas, and once again, I am realizing that the importance of the connection between materials is even greater.
How do you balance spontaneity and precision when creating a piece? Is there a moment when you know the work is “finished”?
I love this question. I think it brings us back to the importance of truly observing the work as if you were a player in a game. When those spontaneous moments arise on the canvas, they often escape my control—but that’s exactly where the magic lies. Just like in life, the more you let go and release control, the more room there is for magic. My role as an artist is to observe and preserve those beautiful moments, while also deciding which ones should remain and which might need a bit of support or adjustment, so to speak.
I think the decision to finish a piece or to know when it’s complete is quite intuitive. When, as an artist, you feel at peace looking at the work, you know it’s done.
Is there a particular ritual or environment that helps you enter your creative flow?
Yes, in my studio I need time and focus to prepare my creative space so that I can enter a state of flow. For me, this means lighting incense, putting on music, and clearing away old works and other objects so I can truly focus on what’s in front of me. These are simple but important rituals that I carry out before starting a new piece or returning to work in progress.
How do your cultural heritage and personal history influence your work? Are there any traditions or techniques that have shaped your style?
I love this question. Much of my work is inspired by living on the coast. I’ve spent my whole life on the west coast of Canada, but my father was born in Norway, on a coastal island, and I’ve had the privilege of returning there several times. My grandmother has undoubtedly been the driving force behind sharing our Norwegian heritage and our deep love for coastal waters, and that has had a profound impact on my work. Both my Scandinavian roots and knowing that my family comes from a small coastal island give me a deep sense of belonging. It feels like a thread that connects generations of artistic creation on my father’s side, along with this deep connection to nature.
Are there materials you return to again and again, almost like trusted collaborators?
Water, salt, acrylics, and graphite. When it comes to canvas, I work on raw canvas. It feels more natural, more honest in a way. Much of my work contains negative space, allowing the texture and fibres of the canvas to remain visible and interact with the piece. Although, over time, as some of my works begin to cover more and more surface, the canvas can sometimes disappear from view.
I love how this canvas holds the materials and the water I feel so connected to.
How much of your process is visible in the final work, and how much remains hidden beneath the surface?
It really depends on the piece. Some works have been reworked again and again over months, constantly shifting in form. There is probably an entire series of paintings beneath the surface; however, other works seem to come to life in an instant. These are often more minimal and can be completed in the first or second layer.
If someone could witness one part of your creative process in the studio, which moment would you choose and why?
The first moments on the canvas. They feel sacred and yet free. The moment I pour the first stream of water or paint and then set these materials in motion is unique every time. It’s just the beginning, and you truly don’t know how the work will evolve. I find it fascinating to compare the first marks with the finished piece and see how different they really are.
What artistic common ground do you see between your work and that of PARIS/64?
In my practice as an artist, my process is in constant evolution and refinement. It’s something I’m fully devoted to, and it’s inevitable for any artist or artisan who wants to create authentic, handmade work that stands the test of time. These works require time, energy, and attention. There is a level of quality I strive for in my work, reflected in the materials but also in the artistic effort—something I also see in the craftsmanship of PARIS/64. More than ever, I believe the value and importance of handmade work is growing. In a world of artificial intelligence, overproduction, and low-quality consumption, art and design that endure are invaluable.
The emphasis on material quality and creative dedication is where I see the connection between my work and the remarkable creations of PARIS/64.
