VIN SERVILLON

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ARTIST | NYC

LATEST WORK

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ABOUT

Vin is an Asian American artist whose work explores growth, transformation, and the tension between structure and instinct. His process is deeply intuitive—colors and forms emerge organically, creating textured, tangible surfaces that invite the viewer to not just see, but feel. Influenced by personal history, introspection, and a lifelong fascination with sensory experiences, Vin’s paintings capture moments of quiet evolution.

Born outside the U.S. and raised navigating cultures, Vin often felt like he existed between worlds. That sense of in-between informs his work, where emotions take shape through layers, movement, and depth. Art became both a refuge and a way to make sense of what words couldn't. Each piece is a reflection of that journey—an ongoing dialogue between past and present, control and release, presence and absence.

#MOODS INSTAGRAM

Some paintings. Last slide for a surprise.

When I am in this space, I am drawn to the unknown. The process is unpredictable, at least for me.

I might start with an idea, but by the time I am finished, it is something entirely different, like it took on a life of its own. I never know exactly where it is going, and that is what makes it exciting. It is chaotic and messy, but somehow there is clarity in that.

It still feels like being a kid, figuring things out as I go. Unfiltered and unplanned. Watching the work take shape, every mark feels alive.

Spent some time as the Artist-in-Residence at @bergdorfs. Seeing my work in the Bergdorf Goodman windows and featured inside was surreal, an unexpected but memorable chapter. Grateful for the space to create, the BG team and everyone who stopped by to experience it in NYC.

‘This was Never Just a Path’
Acrylic on canvas
24 x 36 in

I’ve wanted to be an artist for as long as I can remember, but I never really thought it would be my reality. It wasn’t something that was encouraged, just something I did in my own time, something I was supposed to outgrow. But I never did. No matter what else was happening, I kept painting. It felt natural, like something I just understood without needing to explain.

I never learned in a traditional way. I figured things out as I went, letting colors and shapes find their own rhythm. My process is more about feeling than planning. Some paintings come together easily while others take time, shifting and changing until they finally feel right. Either way, painting is what keeps me going.

It is the one thing that has always made sense to me.

When I started painting this, I had one idea in mind. What actually happened— completely different.

‘Phases’

36 x 36 in
Acrylic on canvas

Curious to know what you think of this piece?

‘What The Light Doesn’t Reach’

Acrylic on canvas
30 x 40 in

Center of Gravity

48 in x 48 in
(121.92 cm x 121.92cm)

Chaos and calm, paints scattered, unfinished works waiting, light pouring in. I truly spend more time here than anywhere else, maybe more than I should. Here, I can be myself, creating, listening to music, making a mess, and sitting with my thoughts.

“Eat Your Vegetables”

24 x 30 inches (61 x 76 cm)

Inquiries: mail@vinservillon.com
or via link in bio

Art school was never an option for me, and I used to wonder if I was missing out because of it. Watching others with degrees and formal training navigate the art world so seamlessly and so confidently, sometimes made me question if I’m in the right room. But not taking that path has allowed me to approach my work in a way that feels deeply authentic to my experiences. That sense of being on the outside has shaped my perspective and given me the freedom to experiment, explore, and create on my own terms.

Over time, I’ve come to realize that being self-taught has shaped my work in ways I never expected. Everything I know has come from trial and error, making mistakes, starting over, dealing with frustration, and trusting my instincts when nothing else felt clear. It’s messy, unpredictable, and deeply personal. Painting has always been the one thing that feels right, no matter what. I can’t imagine doing anything else. If I’m lucky, I’ll get to do this for the rest of my life.

I remember the first picture I ever drew, a giraffe. I was very young. I used yellow and brown markers for the giraffe and lime green for the grass. I think there was even a sun punching through a cloud somewhere in the background. I was quite happy with it and gave it to my mom, I thought she might hang it up somewhere. Later, I found it in the trash. It hurt at the time, I remember also being a little confused. In my family, creativity wasn’t seen as something worth anyone’s time, not unless it was practical or made sense in black and white. My mom wasn’t trying to hurt me I believe, it just wasn’t something she understood or had been taught to value.

That moment shaped me in a lot of ways. I started hiding my love for creating art, slipping my drawings under the bed where no one could find them. When I wanted to improve, I taught myself because art school or any iterations of it wasn’t an option. It wasn’t seen as practical. To learn more, I turned to storybooks, staring at the illustrations and trying to replicate them as closely as I could. To be honest, I didn’t think I was any good. I’d guess at what materials might have been used and experiment on my own. I’d save my lunch money for school to secretly buy supplies. I wasn’t even sure why it felt so necessary to keep it all hidden. It was almost like wanting to create art was something to be ashamed of. But little by little, I pieced it together on my own.

I think about how fearless we were as kids. We created without hesitation, without worrying about whether it was good or made sense to anyone else. It was just about the freedom and curiosity, letting it be whatever it was, whatever it wanted it to be. I always thrive to be that free— I think that’s what makes it all the more meaningful when it all finally clicks.

It’s my birthday today—I know it might sound self-indulgent to mention, but it feels tied to this memory. When I was a kid, for my birthday gift, I got a robot. It was the first and only robot I ever got. It could turn into a spaceship, its shiny reds and silvery blues unlike anything else I owned. I carried it everywhere, and I mean everywhere, I even slept with it beside me, tucked under a blanket like this little plastic toy might get cold.

It wasn’t just a toy—it was something that felt alive to me, something that could go anywhere. One moment it was solid and familiar, and the next, it was transformed, ready to explore worlds I could only imagine. I think that’s why I loved it so much. I’ve always been drawn to space, to stars, planets, to the quiet mystery of everything beyond us. Even now, I catch myself staring at the sky, counting stars. Maybe that little robot was the first thing to teach me that the unknown wasn’t something to fear, but something to chase. I wonder what happened to it.

Painting these feels like a way to reconnect with something very familiar, like nature. It reminds me of planting flowers with my mom as a kid, a simple but meaningful ritual and one of those rare things we did together. She’d hand me a packet of seeds or a small plant, and we’d dig holes in the dirt together. “Dig deep so the roots can hold,” she’d say, and I’d follow her lead, giving those plants their best chance to grow. That memory has stuck with me, and painting brings back that same sense of calm.

Art has become the only constant in my life, the one thing that’s stayed true. It’s my world, it’s what I know. Much like those roots holding firm, painting gives me a sense of balance and stability, even when life feels unpredictable.

I remember curiously walking into an old cathedral on a quiet afternoon during a trip, not really knowing what to expect. The stained-glass windows caught the sunlight, and suddenly the whole space came alive. Bright blues, fiery reds, and vibrant yellows scattered across, shifting as the light moved. It felt less like a place and more like an experience, like stepping into something alive. I wasn’t there for any particular reason, just drawn in by curiosity, and I ended up staying much longer than I thought I would.

Not long after, I came across mosaics that brought back that feeling. Tiny tiles, carefully placed, each one imperfect but essential, came together to form something bigger. Up close, they looked like scattered fragments, but from a step back, they made perfect sense. The shimmer and bursts of color felt intentional, as though they had been waiting for the right light to come alive. I stood there in awe, thinking about how many people before me must have felt the same connection to something created so long ago.

When I started these paintings, I kept those memories in mind. I like that feeling of wonder, seeing something that has existed for so long but still feels alive and new. The smallest details, the scattered pieces, come together to create something whole.

#2024 is wrapping up, and honestly, it’s been one long, strange blur. There were some clear moments, some highs, some lows but mostly, it was just about showing up, even when I didn’t feel ready. Sometimes growth is just letting things sit and not trying to force it.

I’ve realized the quiet moments count just as much as the big ones. The small changes add up, even if you don’t notice them right away.

Not everyone will get your pace, your choices, or your silences, and that’s fine. What matters is finding the people who do, the ones who make space for you as you are, no explanations needed.

Here’s to closing out the year with whatever peace we can find and walking into the next one a little easier on ourselves.

Many years ago, I left California and moved to New York City. I’m not someone who cries easily—but I teared up on my first day here. Visiting the city was one thing, calling it home was something else entirely. Leaving behind what I was used to, including lifelong friendships, was harder than I thought.

As someone naturally shy and introverted, the city’s intensity was a lot to take in, and being surrounded by so many people only made the adjustment harder. Navigating this loud world felt impossible at times. I missed the comfort of familiarity and the ease of being around people who truly knew me.

The only thing that stayed steady was art. It’s always been my anchor, the thing I turn to when nothing else makes sense. Even when I doubted myself, I kept creating—not because I wanted to, but because I had to. Painting was how I made sense of everything. Art is where I feel most myself, it kept me grounded and gave me a purpose.

Over time, the city softened. I found small pockets of comfort like coffee shops, art galleries, my neighborhood bar—and met people who understood me. New York challenged me in ways I never expected. It forced me to grow, adapt, and show up for myself and my work. Once you’ve lived in New York and made it your home, no other place ever feels the same.

And I’d do it all over again.

These creative outlets are how I share my perspective, my way of connecting without needing to find the perfect words in the moment. It means a lot to share it here and I love having this space with you all.

When I was a kid, planting flowers with my mom was one of those rare things we did together. She’d hand me a little packet of seeds or a small plant, and we’d dig out these tiny holes. Every time, she’d remind me to dig deep so the roots would stay put, and I’d follow her lead, almost like I was giving those plants a better shot at holding on. There was something nice about the idea that these delicate things could dig in and hold steady.

Now, as an adult, I think back to those moments, especially when I need a reminder to stay grounded. There’s something calming about it, like those flowers we planted. I guess part of me is still figuring out how to dig in deep enough to feel steady—finding that solid spot that keeps me rooted, even when life gets a bit chaotic.

Growing up, I often felt like parts of myself were hidden, like there were layers others couldn’t—or perhaps chose not to—see. Whether it was my quiet nature or never quite fitting into the roles laid out for me, there was always a sense of being somewhat obscured. My work, too, doesn’t always fit into the neat categories that some expect from painting, but over time, I’ve learned to lean into that. In my new series, I want to explore those hidden layers, bringing them to the surface in ways that feel honest to me. It’s easy to overlook what doesn’t fit neatly into our own boxes, but that doesn’t make it any less valid or less worth exploring.

Walking past @bergdorfs, I’ve always been captivated by the worlds inside their windows. Now, as their Artist-In-Residence, seeing my name and work displayed there feels like a full-circle moment. My art was showcased throughout September and will continue to be featured in their iconic windows through October —and I’m excited for what’s coming next.

Part of my months-long Artist Residency at BERGDORF GOODMAN. My work on display inside, and now I’m featured in several windows, which I’m still wrapping my head around and the work will be on display all through October. I’ll be sharing more photos soon, but if you’re in the area, maybe swing by and check them out!

It’s wild seeing my work in @bergdorfs, such an iconic place. It’s amazing and humbling to know it connects with people.

Whenever I’m in my studio, there’s always an urge to explore something unfamiliar. Almost like the materials themselves are pushing me. I really like the unpredictability, the way the materials move where they want to, as if they’re deciding for me.

Sometimes, I start with an idea in mind, but by the time I’m finished, it’s transformed into something completely unexpected, like it’s taken on a life of its own. That’s what I love the most: the surprise, even for me. The process is chaotic, messy, unpredictable—yet within that mess, there’s a kind of clarity.

There’s still that same sense of wonder I had as a kid as I discover things, the raw, unplanned expression that reveals itself as the work evolves. It feels like I’m back in those moments of early exploration, where every touch and every mark felt like a small adventure.

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VIN SERVILLON

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