Interview with Rafael Araujo: art, the golden ratio, and sacred geometry
I discovered Rafael Araujo's fascinating work while leafing through Gary B. Meisner's magnificent book, The Golden Number - The Divine Beauty of Mathematics. Of all the works presented, Rafael's immediately captivated me. His remarkably precise drawings, done exclusively by hand, express much more than simple calculations: they embody the harmony of forms, the golden ratio and an aesthetic that touches on the universal.
I've always been fascinated by art, beautiful proportions and sacred geometry, that mysterious balance that seems to link nature, mathematics and visual beauty. And in Rafael's work, there's that little "something extra" - a visual poetry, a silent quest for the hidden order behind the living - that fills me with wonder at every glance.
So it was only natural that I should ask him to take part in this interview. I wanted to better understand his background, his way of working and his unique alchemy between geometry, discipline and beauty. The original interview was conducted in Spanish.
Rafael Araujo, Venezuelan artist and architect, defines himself not as an artist of sacred geometry - which he says he doesn't practice - but as an engineer-artist. His approach is that of an architect of line, a mathematician of curves and angles, a craftsman of the golden ratio and natural proportions. Through this exchange, he invites us to discover how geometry, far from dogmas and symbolic interpretations, becomes a powerful visual language, both precise and profoundly human.
Interview with Rafael Araujo
Your background is atypical: trained as an architect, you became an extraordinary draughtsman. When did geometry become an artistic language in its own right?
From the very first moment. As a child, I always played an instrument and drew naturally.
When I started drawing "seriously" in my late teens, my subjects were already radial, axial and three-dimensional geometry. What's more, I always knew how.
Looking back, I realize that I did know, but that the methods I was using at the time were, to say the least, precarious, albeit very precise. It was a bit like calculating the area of mathematical functions by adding up tiny rectangles (in the manner of classical Greek mathematics), rather than using the modern integrals of differential calculus.
With practice, I learned to "integrate", to continue this mathematical metaphor.
We often talk about intuition in the creative process. Can you be "inspired" by an angle, a curve or a mathematical structure?
The creative process should be free, but freedom doesn't mean the absence of rules. The type of art I prefer evolves within a framework of strict rules, within which I move fluidly. Aligning with an angle, for example, is no different from writing in a musical key. Bach composed The Well-Tempered Clavier by creating each prelude and fugue in each of the 24 possible keys. In geometry, we work with the number 3 or its multiples (30 degrees), or with 2 (45 degrees), because we have a clear intention. Angles are a means, not a limitation. As for inspiration, it undoubtedly represents a very small percentage of the work accomplished.
You work exclusively by hand, with traditional drawing instruments. What difference does this make to your relationship with the work, as opposed to a digital tool?
I don't work digitally because, when drawing software first appeared, I discovered that, although it was very practical, it lost the obligatory network of calculation lines that you get when drawing by hand. In general, the graphic result also seemed less rich, even if it was just as perfect. Of course, when a mistake is made in an analog drawing, you wish you had a computer to move the drawing a little to the right, for example... but the die is cast: you have to start all over again. It's important to make as few mistakes as possible!
Rigor is omnipresent in your work, but there's also a poetic quality to it. How do you strike the balance between precision and sensitivity?
That's a good question. In reality, "classical" art (not modern art, with its rules and know-how) is generally rigorous and strict, but that doesn't make it any less fascinating. I'm thinking of Caravaggio (and always Bach) as I write this. Their work is not only innovative, it's technically perfect and, at the same time, carries an expressive force beyond words. And it is always "rigorous".
The golden ratio is at the heart of your compositions. What does it represent for you: an aesthetic rule, a principle of natural order or a key to understanding the world?
The golden ratio is at the heart of my "golden" compositions. I use it and other (theoretically infinite) proportions. My real challenge is proportions: how do you choose one from infinite possibilities? There's a tendency to believe that the golden ratio is perfect and that everything is automatically solved with it. Unfortunately, there's no such shortcut. Everything serves a specific purpose.
In my opinion, Phi (1.618) is no better than 2 or 3 (the numbers I work with most).
Many of your drawings feature shapes from nature: spirals, wings, shells... What do these living structures say to a geometric eye?
Spirals have always fascinated me, probably because the world (and the universe) are full of them and we live, consciously or unconsciously, wrapped in spirals.
I started using (butterfly) wings and other elements to make my drawings more legible, as a rhetorical device. At first, geometric simplicity was enough for me, but few people perceived anything in simple curves. And, in reality, we live in a world populated by people, in which it's necessary to communicate our message, whatever it may be. That's one of the reasons why it's so important to master the craft and technique to be able to express any idea as clearly as possible. Because the creative act, while eminently personal, is also a "human" experience, intended to be shared.
When you spend dozens of hours on a drawing, how does your perception of time evolve? Does the repeated gesture become a form of meditation?
For me, it's an act of will and discipline. It's about overcoming the inertia that pushes us to rest. My work isn't much fun because it's similar to something that should be done on the computer (the process). Doing it manually sometimes becomes a leap of faith, because it's hard to believe that in the midst of a tangle of lines and dots, something legible - and better still, beautiful, which is the goal - will emerge.
You've depicted Platonic solids and Metatron's Cube, forms charged with history and structure. What is it about these perfect polyhedra that fascinates you?
The Platonic solids are a geometric "must", you might say. Anyone interested in the subject must pass through these realms of order. For example, the golden ratio is very much in evidence, and is essential for calculating the last two: the dodecahedron and the icosahedron. As for the Metatron, although I've used it and it's aesthetically pleasing, it doesn't appeal to me much because it's not very precise for performing complex calculations. The Platonic solids built from the Metatron frame are pretty basic. While they can do some interesting things, they're not my favorite choice.
How do you see the role of symbols (or art) in a world saturated with images and technology? Can they still "speak" to our souls?
In my geometric mind, I don't really ask myself such questions. I suppose so, that they are important, even in our age of extremely limited, immediate, digital knowledge, of social networks, where we seek to eliminate individual thought in favor of the collective and the basic. Networks have given a voice to fools, as Umberto Eco once said.
But art will always speak to the sensitive soul.
If you had to pass on just one thing to a young artist discovering geometry, what would that "spark" be that you'd like to offer them?
The beauty of progressing in a context of coherence, where everything is interconnected. Geometry is a path towards the Platonic truth of unattainable perfection.
Concluding remarks
I'd like to extend my warmest thanks to Rafael Araujo for his availability, his generosity and the quality of our discussions. Through his answers, he offered us much more than just a technical insight into his work: he shared with us a genuine philosophy of rigor, beauty and patience.
Rafael insists on one fundamental point: he doesn't do sacred geometry. His approach is mathematical, rational, based on proportions, angles and natural forms. Yet... when we contemplate his works, something greater emerges. A harmony that transcends us. An emotion that speaks to our sense of beauty and, perhaps, to our soul.
This raises an essential question: what makes geometry sacred? Is it the presence of ancient symbols? Is it a declared spiritual intention? Or is it simply the capacity of a work to create a deep, silent and universal echo within us?
In an article on our blog about sacred geometry, I develop this reflection. And I'd like to share a conviction with you: when it comes down to it, the concept doesn't matter. What counts is what the work provokes in us. It doesn't matter whether the artist is talking about sacred geometry or pure mathematics. What is sacred, perhaps, is the way we look at the world, and the ability of certain creations to connect us to the subtle order of nature.
What does Rafael Araujo's work awaken in you? Do you see in his lines and curves simply calculations... or a door opening onto a larger mystery?
I invite you to share your impressions in the comments section.
To find out more
If you'd like to find out more about Rafael Araujo's fascinating world, you can visit his official website https://www.rafael-araujo.com/where he presents his work, methods and projects. You can also follow his news and new creations on his Facebook page, where he regularly shares his drawings and reflections on geometry, mathematics and art.
Photo credits: Rafael Araujo
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