Glen Pudvine might just be your favorite artist’s favorite artist. The Chester-born, London-based painter has been working and showing in the city for over a decade, and his wry pop-culture-laden, Renaissance-inspired canvases have gained him a dedicated if somewhat local following, especially since 2019. That’s when his series of dinosaur paintings made a splash at his Royal Academy degree show. One of these, titled Born, featured him nude touching finger to talon with a T-rex in a nod towards Michaelangelo’s Creation of Adam.

Now, the artist is making his international debut in a group show called “Home and Away,” organized by Matt Carey-Williams at Gallery 2 in Seoul this month, just in time for Frieze Seoul. A second part to the show is on view at Carey-Williams’ London outpost.

It’s worth noting that Pudvine, 35, has a penchant for self-portraiture. He appears often in his work, usually nude except for some tube socks. His penis has frequently played a supporting role, too. In a 2020 series it was often strangling or consuming him. It’s a knowingly “bro” style of painting, according to the artist.

“Yeah, I guess people would characterize me as that sort of ‘bro-ey wellness guy,’” he said, smiling in a self-effacing way. We were sitting in his Elephant & Castle studio, where dozens of reused Greek yogurt containers dotted his work surfaces near a tub of electrolyte powder and a bottle of moisturizer. “I resent it a little, but I do understand it.”

Glen Pudvine outside of his studio and project space, Plaza Plaza, in London’s Elephant & Castle neighborhood.

Beyond his evident technical facility with a brush and paint, it is Pudvine’s self-awareness that adds to the appeal of his work. Despite building an oeuvre that is dominated by depictions of himself—his latest, a Patrick Bateman-inspired portrait of the artist squatting a kettlebell (nude, of course)—he said no one has ever accused him of being a narcissist.

“At least not to my face,” he added. Gesturing around his studio to the various versions of himself looking back, he said, smiling: “I guess no one would really say it because it’s so obvious.” Slightly more soberly, he noted that he can’t rule it out.

“I think to be an artist, you have to be somewhere fairly up there on the narcissism spectrum. You’re making something and putting it out in the world and expecting people to care, when why should they?”

There is an endearing earnestness to the work and the way Pudvine talks about his practice that keeps all of it from feeling self-aggrandizing or overly performative, despite the subject matter. Many of his latest paintings draw in other people in his life, too, ranging from his parents to Rachel and Ross from Friends.

Glen Pudvine, Detail of Squatting in Head (2024). Courtesy of the artist.

Other curious figures and objects crop up frequently in addition to dinosaurs, such as turtles or coffee mugs. These illogical introductions often lend a sense of the surreal to his works, but Pudvine comes across as much more interested in the simple process of painting than the symbolism of what he has painted.

“Of course Magritte is amazing, but I wouldn’t call my work surreal in that way,” he said. “I just paint what’s around me, what I’m interested in.”

I spoke with him in the spring as he finished up a few paintings for the show, among them a painting of Kate Middleton’s photoshopped hand and a new self-portrait in which he depicts himself at, well, the center of the universe.

Tell me about your studio.

It’s a bit of a mess, a little scrappy I suppose. My friend Jesse set up a studio and project space here, called Plaza Plaza, with some other artists in 2011, when they graduated from the Royal College of Art. Jesse was living here, and then there were workspaces downstairs, and then they’d have some shows in the very front bit. In 2013, I rented one of the studio spaces and then sort of took it over and moved in after Jesse moved away in 2015. I’ve turned the living area into my studio now.

In Pudvine’s studio, a sculpture by Hamish Pearch, a can of primer, and a toy T-rex sit side by side on a shelf. Photo: Margaret Carrigan.

What kind of atmosphere do you prefer when you work?

I listen to all the worst podcasts you could imagine. My algorithm is clearly dodgy. One I listen to a lot is “The Rest is History.” The hosts just talk about history, but they are centrist dad types. I find them quite funny. I wish I listened more to history in school, but it was probably the way it was taught, or what they were teaching. I learn a lot from this podcast, though.

Pudvine in his studio with an in-progress painting. Photo: Margaret Carrigan.

There are a number of recurring motifs in your paintings, some of which are historical and others are more idiosyncratic, ranging from cracked iPhones to mugs, Frasier characters to dinosaurs. What do these represent?

Lately, I start a new work by responding to the last work I made, so things just keep cropping up. I painted Frasier because I was watching it with my dad. The mug, that came from my brother’s ex-wife. She sent me a mug with my nephew’s face on it—it was a picture of him taken when he was first born, so his face was all swollen and hideous looking… But obviously she thought he was perfect and beautiful in that moment. And it became a joke [in the family], and she made me a mug with that face on it. I thought it was interesting, capturing a baby’s first moment on earth that way and I thought “why not paint it.”

In one work, I pair the mug with the static from a TV, which you never see anymore because everything is digital. And then there’s Frasier in the mug’s handle. I’m interested in seeing everyday things that we don’t think about too much in a different way.

Glen Pudvine, He’s Listening (2022). Courtesy of the artist.

Because there is a lot of unexpected elements in your work, it can come across as funny. Would you say your work is funny?

Funny? No. But I guess my work has humor. I’d say humor is often a catalyst for an idea that I want to paint. But humor can also be sad; I think some of the things in my painting are just… sort of sad.

There are a lot of TV and media references in your paintings, like characters from 1990s sitcoms such as Frasier and Friends. It makes your paintings feel accessible, in some ways, since there are these pop culture references. But do these shows have special significance to you?

I think it stems from an interest in my own culture—if that’s not too gross to say—but from a kind of academic perspective. I want to put it up against Renaissance imagery or other historical references.

Glen Pudvine, Talking About Dad (2023).

There is certainly Renaissance style to your paintings, formally speaking, from your very fine brushwork to your use of color. Are there specific artists you draw inspiration from?

I suppose some of the obvious ones, like Caravaggio or [Hieronymous] Bosch. I love medieval imagery, which is so awkward and just a bit crazier than anything in the Renaissance. But there’s something about a Caravaggio or a Bernini sculpture, which is just the best. It’s like Beyoncé or something—maybe it’s not your thing or you think it’s a bit cliché, but it’s fucking good and you can’t deny it.

You feature in a lot of your paintings as well, often nude with socks on. What’s the draw toward self-portraiture?

I suppose I didn’t know what to paint; I needed a subject and I was around. And I didn’t really want to paint the clothes, because I feel like they could say too much about the person. They would have other meanings. To go back to the Renaissance thing, there was an emphasis on the nude and flesh back then and I really like that.

Pudvine with his preferred brush. Photo: Margaret Carrigan.

What tool or art supply do you enjoy working with the most, and why?

This Da Vinci Colineo brush, size 5/0. It’s thin and long and it gives you a natural flick. I’ve also been using protractors a lot lately. And tweezers—they are great for getting flies and other things out of paint. You’d be surprised how often flies go into paint; they like warm colors, like yellows, oranges, and white.

Glen Pudvine, Europe Man (2024). Courtesy of the artist, Matt Carey-Williams, London, and Gallery 2, Seoul.

When you feel stuck while preparing for a show, what do you do to get unstuck?

I don’t often have that “writer’s block” vibe when I’m in the studio because I’ve got the next ones to make. Not that I’m making work just for the sake of it, but I feel like it’s better to make shit work than always trying to make a masterpiece. You just have to keep the momentum going. But other than that, I also try to exercise; if I do some sort of exercise in the morning, I feel energized. I also find going to see shows energizing. In London, there’s so much to see. It gives me ideas.

Glen Pudvine, England (2024). Courtesy of the artist, Matt Carey-Williams, London, and Gallery 2, Seoul.

What are you working on right now?

I’m making two paintings for a group show in Seoul and London. It’s about painting in Britain today. This one [a self-portrait] has the European Union flag colors of blue and yellow, and the background is based on an image taken by a camera that the European Space Agency sent up to take pictures of the universe. There’s a smug me in the middle. I don’t know that there’s any great commentary behind it. It’s just that Brexit just feels so bad and the country is in shit place, but that being said, even the Remainers are annoying.

This other one is close-up of the weird hands in Kate Middleton’s photoshopped picture that went viral this year. These two works just felt like a good way to express what’s happening in Britain today.