Memory, Instinct, and the Beauty of Chance
Rani Rai’s paintings unfold slowly.
Built through layers of colour, texture, and erasure, they hover between landscape and memory, suggesting moments rather than places. In this conversation, Rani reflects on instinct, chance, and time—exploring how abstraction can hold emotion, atmosphere, and meaning beyond what words can describe.
Your work often feels like a place remembered rather than a place described. How do you know when you’ve captured the essence rather than the image?
With any piece, you could keep working on it forever. But there’s usually a moment where something just clicks — that little “ahh” feeling — even if not every single part feels fully resolved. When it works as a whole, I just know. It’s completely instinctive.
Many of your paintings look as though they’ve been weathered—scraped, layered, erased. Do you think of your process as additive, subtractive, or conversational?
Definitely conversational. I build things up with lots of colour and texture, then scrape back, paint over, cover things completely. It’s this ongoing back-and-forth as the work evolves. Sometimes I have to paint over something I really love because, deep down, I know it’s not right. I’ve become braver about that — knowing if I’ve done it once, I can probably do it again. I try not to get too attached to those “magic” moments.
With a background in graphic design, structure is part of your visual language. How do you decide when to let structure hold a piece—and when to let it dissolve?
I like that balance between tight and controlled, and loose and flowing — sometimes that’s in the composition, sometimes in the way the paint is applied. I absolutely love really loose, minimal paintings and I’ve tried many times to make them… unsuccessfully! My graphic instincts always take over. In the end, I’ve learned to accept that and lean into what feels natural. I’m more relaxed, and I enjoy the process much more that way.
Your surfaces suggest time passing: tides receding, tracks fading, skies shifting. Is time something you consciously paint, or something that inevitably appears?
Oh yes, very consciously. I’m always thinking about ways to show time passing — whether that’s peeling paint on an old door, the way thoughts and feelings shift, or things like seasons, rock layers, decay. It’s time, history, layers and layers of stuff.
Colour in your work feels relational rather than decorative. When two colours meet on your canvas, what do you hope happens between them?
I just love colour. Putting unexpected combinations together can create really exciting effects. Those clashes, harmonies and contrasts create areas of interest that might not jump out straight away. Understanding how colour behaves — tonally, through saturation and opacity — is something I’m constantly learning. It never really ends.
You’ve worked in publishing and education—fields built on clarity and communication. How does abstraction allow you to say things words never could?
Abstract art is multi-layered, just like my paintings. Everyone brings their own experiences to it, so colours and forms will mean different things to different people. Art creates a response, and how strong that response is really depends on where the viewer is emotionally at that moment. Colour and form can be incredibly stirring — sometimes in positive ways, sometimes more challenging ones.
Some pieces feel mapped, others almost improvised (fabulous). Do you trust instinct more at the beginning of a painting, or at the end?
Definitely at the beginning. I start very instinctively — choosing colours that feel right that day, building layers, making marks. As the painting develops, I start to see something emerging and then I become more focused on shaping that image.
Landscape is present, but never literal. Are your paintings more about where you are, or where you’ve been?
I’ve always been fascinated by skies and landscapes — the changing light and the moods they create. The paintings usually come from imagination, but they’re informed by places I’ve seen or how a place made me feel.
Your work often invites slow looking. What do you think reveals itself only after time?
Because I work in layers, there are details that only show themselves if you really spend time with the painting. Tiny scratches, marks, unexpected bits of colour and texture. I like that you can get really close and discover those details and then step back and feel the overall impact from a distance.
If your paintings were moments rather than places, what would they be?
They might be memories — forming or fading. Or that split second just before something changes, like when a cloud passes in front of the sun and the light shifts. The atmosphere changes, the mood shifts. That could be emotional too.
Mixed media allows for tension between control and chance. Which one do you secretly root for?
Always chance. That’s where the magic is for me. Playing with paint often throws up unexpected gems. Those can then be refined with a bit of control. It doesn’t always work — but it almost always opens up new ideas and new ways of working.
You’ve lived and worked in different places—London, Oxford, Warwickshire. How has geography quietly rewritten your colour palette?
I’m not sure it really has. I’ve always been drawn to strong colours. I think what’s changed is how I use them — I’m more discerning now about combinations and relationships. That probably comes from experience and years of experimenting with different shades and seeing what they do. It’s a never-ending quest.
When a painting is finished, does it feel resolved—or simply ready to be let go?
Knowing when a painting is “done” is tricky — and I think that’s true for a lot of artists. If I’m unsure, I’ll leave it and work on something else. I usually have several pieces on the go at once. When I come back to it — after a few days or even longer — I can see it more clearly. Sometimes it just needs a few tweaks, sometimes it goes away again. But usually there’s an instant gut feeling when it’s finally done.
