Mark Halfin is an artist who does not simply transfer images onto canvas, but "sculpts" them with color, preserving the mindset of a sculptor in his painting. His creative path began at the age of 16 at the Faculty of Sculpture at the University of Haifa, and since then, the search for form has become the work of his entire life. In his works, the strict geometry of Cubism paradoxically coexists with the fluid decorativeness of Art Nouveau, and the Israeli sun dictates its own rules of light and shadow. But Mark is known not only for his canvases. He dedicates a huge part of his life to teaching, helping people with disabilities find their voice through art. In this interview, we talked about the "surgical" Israeli light, about why the canvas is a territory of absolute equality, and how discipline helps to defeat inner silence.
Mark, you became a student at the Faculty of Sculpture at 16. How did this "forced" start affect your creative ego? Was there no fear of losing your originality under the pressure of the academic school at such a young age?
At 16, there was no fear. They accepted me after seeing just a few of my works. Honestly, when I was enrolling, I didn’t fully understand myself what was waiting for me — I was driven by pure interest.
It turned out I was the youngest student. But that didn’t embarrass me at all, quite the opposite — it immersed me in an amazing atmosphere. Academic school is not a censor, it is an anatomical theater. If you came into it with a desire to understand how the world is structured, and not with a desire to defend your “I,” then the pressure turns into a support. There was real magic in the classes. The teachers and fellow students treated me wonderfully, and in this supportive environment, fear was completely absent. It was defeated by interest.
Chernivtsi and Haifa are two cities with completely different architecture, light, and energy. How did the Israeli landscape and the blazing sun change your palette and perception of form compared to your European roots?
Of Chernivtsi, only one short route remains in my memory — the road from home to school No. 6. Everything else is like in a haze. But I remember well how I grew up in the city of Acre, right on the seashore, and later — moving to Haifa.
Looking back, I understand: European light is the light of twilight and fogs. It softly envelops the form, making it painterly, melting. Israeli light is a surgeon. The blazing sun does not envelop, it burns out the halftones, leaving a harsh contrast of light and shadow. The architecture of Haifa consists of terraces descending to the sea, and stone that literally glows from within. This changed my palette: I stopped being afraid of open color and understood that volume can be created not only by nuance, but also by the collision of local patches. Chernivtsi taught me lyricism, Haifa — drama. This energy lands on the canvas by itself.
By education, you are a sculptor, but you work mainly with the plane of the canvas. How strongly does your "sense of volume" influence your painting? Do you see a portrait as a mass that needs to be "cut off" with color, or as a graphic silhouette?
I never left sculpture, I just changed the tool. For me, a canvas is not a window into an illusion, but a field for building a relief. When I paint a face, I don’t draw it, I sculpt it with color. I am not interested in the contour, I am interested in the mass. I see the model’s head as an apple or a stone: one needs to find the boundary where light turns into shadow, and cut away everything superfluous. This is pure sculptural logic: “cut off with color,” rather than outline with a line.
The human brain is structured in such a way that it “completes” reality. When we see a lighter patch next to a dark one on a flat surface, our experience suggests to us: “This is light, and this is shadow, which means before us is volume.”
In your works, opposites coexist: the rigid fragmentation of Cubism and the soft decorativeness of Art Nouveau. How did you manage to reconcile these elements into a single artistic language?
This is a question of the architecture of feeling. Imagine a stained-glass window in the Art Nouveau style: rigid metal binding holds fluid, living glass. Cubism gives me this binding, this frame, this rhythm of the city and broken glass. Art Nouveau gives me a soul — stems, hair, water. I place the soft into the rigid, and they begin to resonate. It is like looking at an antique statue through a prism: the form is recognizable, but broken into thousands of glimmers. Harmony is born in this conflict.
Acrylic and watercolor require different temperaments: one — control and determination, the other — the ability to trust chance and water. In what moments of life do you choose the transparency of watercolor, and in what — the density of acrylic?
These are like two life strategies. Watercolor is Zen. It does not forgive mistakes and teaches one to trust the moment, the flow of water. I take it up when I want silence, when I need to hear not the voice of reason, but the voice of chance.
Acrylic is architecture. It is control, it is determination, it is the possibility to rewrite layer after layer, to build a fortress. I choose acrylic when I need to speak loudly and confidently. Watercolor is meditation, acrylic is dialogue.
The human body in your work is often reduced to a clear silhouette and a minimum of details. What is more important for you in a portrait: to convey anatomical truth or to capture a "pure emotion" through the geometry of the body?
Anatomical truth is a vocabulary. Without it, you will not compose a sentence. But when the vocabulary is learned, one can forget about it. In my portraits, I strive not for a resemblance to an X-ray, but for a resemblance to the vibration of a person. If I need to convey anxiety, I will distort the proportion, make the silhouette too elongated or, on the contrary, compressed. Pure emotion is often found between the vertebrae, in the geometry of a pause, in the rhythm of emptiness.
What was the point of no return after which you decided to dedicate a significant part of your time to teaching people with disabilities? Was it a search for new meanings or an inner need to share?
There was no single “click.” It was a process of accumulating silence. One day I realized that the conversation about art within sterile white gallery walls was becoming too pretentious. I wanted to check if the magic of creativity works where there is no pathos, where a person remains face-to-face with a sheet of paper and their limitations. It was not so much a search for new meanings as a test of the old ones for strength. It turned out that art is a universal language that works always.
Your methodology helps students reveal their creative potential. In your opinion, what is the main "magic" of this method specifically for those who in ordinary life encounter physical or mental limitations?
The main magic is the removal of the fear of being judged. In the ordinary world, a person with limitations often hears: “You cannot.” Our workshop says: “Try.” The method works because we remove the goal “to draw beautifully” and leave the goal “to express yourself.” The brush becomes an extension of the hand, and the hand — an extension of thought. When a physical barrier ceases to be an obstacle, a miracle happens: you see how a person straightens up not only in the drawing, but also in life.
What have your "special" students taught you as a professional artist? Were there cases when their non-standard, naive vision forced you to reconsider your own artistic techniques?
They taught me the courage of naivety. A professional artist is often caught in the vise of skill; he is afraid to do something “wrong.” But students do this “wrong” every day, and in that is their incredible strength. I looked at their works and caught myself thinking: this line is trembling because the hand is trembling, but there is more truth in this tremor than I will ever achieve with any virtuoso stroke. They returned to me the courage to be simpler and more honest.
For you, art is a universal way of growth for everyone. Do you believe that the concept of "disability" does not exist in creativity at all, and the canvas is the only place where everyone is absolutely equal?
I am convinced: before a canvas or a sheet of paper, everyone is equal. Disability is a social, physical concept. In creativity, other laws operate — the laws of the spirit. The canvas is the only place where gravity is not important. Art is a territory of absolute freedom, and one can get there with only one “passport” — with the passport of the soul.
What is the most difficult challenge you have faced over your years of creativity? What helps you not lose motivation and continue creating in moments of creative lull?
The most difficult challenge is the silence within. Creative lull, when you come to the studio and don’t understand why you should mix these paints. In such moments, only one thing helps — discipline. One just needs to start doing. Take charcoal, draw a line, ruin the sheet. And in this fuss, in this daily labor, a spark suddenly flashes. I am motivated by the process itself, not the result.
Do you feel a special responsibility, being an artist in such a complex and multifaceted country? How important is social integration through art for modern Israeli society?
