We sit down with Giorgio Pilla, owner of the ReDot Fine Art Gallery based in Singapore, to discuss his journey from finance to art, the ethics of representing Indigenous artists, and the evolving role of the art gallery in the digital age.
From investment banking to Indigenous art dealing is a rare leap. What was the moment that truly catalyzed that shift for you?
GP— The leap from investment banking to dealing in Indigenous art might seem unusual, but for me, it wasn't a sudden break; it was a gradual pull, culminating in a definitive moment of realization. My initial exposure to Indigenous Aboriginal art during banking trips to Australia sparked an initial curiosity which then became a deep interest, but the true catalyst for the career shift came down to a profound sense of purpose and authenticity that I felt my finance career could no longer satisfy after a career that had spanned almost 15 years.
The investment banking world, while intellectually stimulating and financially rewarding, eventually felt like it had run its course for me, and whilst it remains a huge part of my essence and I remain extremely proud of it, a more tangible connection to human experience and cultural value was calling me. Deals were becoming more abstract; success started to feel that it was increasingly being measured purely in numbers. The satisfaction, though real, was becoming more fleeting. It became increasingly evident that I needed a career pivot.
In contrast, the more I learned about Indigenous Australian art, the more I understood its immense cultural depth. It wasn't just beautiful; it was a living, breathing testament to millennia of history, spirituality, and connection to land. I saw how this art empowered communities, preserved stories, and offered a unique bridge between ancient traditions and the "new" contemporary world.
The specific "moment" that truly crystallized this shift wasn't a single dramatic event, but rather a culmination of many experiences that built upon each other. It was the quiet privilege of meeting artists in remote communities at their art centers. Witnessing their dedication, the profound connection they had to their work, and how "the art" directly supported their families and cultural practices, which was incredibly powerful. These interactions contrasted sharply with the sometimes-impersonal nature of high finance. It was also the realization that I could use my skills, honed over many years in a demanding fast-moving environment, to advocate for something truly meaningful that held great appeal.
I saw a unique opportunity to build a bridge between these incredible cultural treasures and a vast global audience, ensuring ethical practices and fair returns for the artists. The idea of helping to elevate these voices on an international stage, while adhering to the highest ethical standards, became an irresistible draw. The choice, ultimately, became clear: to pursue a path where my work could contribute not just to economic value, but to profound cultural understanding and the preservation of an ancient legacy. It was a shift from dealing with abstract financial instruments to engaging with tangible expressions of human spirit and heritage. This quest for deeper purpose and authenticity was the true catalyst for my pivot into the world of Australian Indigenous art.
American Express Centurion Dinner Install Image
You've mentioned that your discovery of Aboriginal art came through visits to galleries during your banking trips to Australia. What was it about those works, especially the abstract minimalism, that first interested you?
GP— My fascination with Aboriginal Indigenous art, particularly its abstract minimalism, truly began during those early banking trips to Australia in the early 1990s. Initially, it was a striking visual encounter that attracted me, but very quickly, it evolved into something much deeper. Here's what initially captivated me:
The Immediate Visual Impact: Hypnotic Repetition and Rhythm - Artists such as George Tjungurrayi and Ronnie Tjampitjinpa's monochromatic, parallel lines or concentric circles. This repetition creates a powerful optical vibration and a sense of endless movement. It's not static; it pulsates and draws your eye across the surface in a mesmerizing way. It appealed to my eye. Despite their complexity, the designs often boiled down to fundamental geometric forms. This simplicity was incredibly elegant and powerful. It wasn't cluttered; it was distilled essence.
Coming from a background exposed to Western art history, my mind immediately drew parallels to movements like Op Art (Victor Vasarely, Bridget Riley) or even Minimalist art. The clean lines, the exploration of perception, and the reduction of forms felt familiar on a purely aesthetic level. However, it quickly became clear that this wasn't just "Op Art from the desert." The power wasn't just in the visual trickery; it was in the meaning. This art was not merely abstract for abstraction's sake. It was a visual language deeply rooted in millennia of cultural and spiritual knowledge. This layered meaning elevated it far beyond purely formal experimentation.
Learning that these seemingly abstract patterns were in fact highly sophisticated "maps" of ancestral lands, representations of dreamtime stories, and embodiments of sacred law was profoundly moving. It transformed the art from beautiful patterns into living, breathing narratives. The idea that lines could represent ancestral journeys, waterholes, sandhills, or even the subtle undulations of the landscape, imbued the "minimalism" with an incredible depth and gravitas. It was a tangible link to one of the world's oldest continuous cultures.
It represented a completely unique approach to art that I hadn't encountered with such power before. It wasn't about figuration in the Western sense, nor was it purely symbolic in a way I could immediately decode. It demanded a different kind of engagement - one that encouraged learning and respect for its originating culture. The "less is more" aspect of "minimalism," in this context, amplified the spiritual and cultural weight rather than diminishing it. Every line, every dot, had purpose and belonged to a grander narrative.
In essence, what first interested me was the powerful aesthetic, its surprising resonance with Western art, yet complete isolation from it, and the immediate curiosity it sparked about the profound cultural meaning embedded within every dot and stroke. It was a revelation that art could be so visually compelling while simultaneously being a direct conduit to ancient) wisdom and an enduring connection to country. It fundamentally reshaped my understanding of what art could be.
Artist Patju
"Pinanti"
**You’ve said your work acts as a chronicle. When I view your work, it feels like I am viewing a picture or catching a moment in time. There is so much movement and life in your paintings. What moments, rituals, or emotions feel most urgent to archive in your work?
GH— Every painting is its own story, and I try to make sure there’s subtle movement because it makes the scene feel alive. I want viewers to not only see the work, but feel it as well. To imagine themselves there, or maybe be pulled into a memory they didn’t expect to revisit. Joy and love are the emotions I reach for most. But I’ve realized lately that joy doesn’t have to stand alone to tell a good story. Someone told me before that, “life can’t always be peaches and cream,” regarding my work, and they were right. So I’m starting to lean into the messier parts too; quiet tension, soft grief, stillness. They’re part of the picture. And sometimes, it’s those emotions that make joy shine a little brighter. At the heart of it, my work displays the everyday moments that deserve to be publicized, the ones that keep us close.
“Plastic on the Couch”, 2025, acrylic on canvas
“Family Reunion”, 2022, acrylic on canvas
“Rocking Chairs on the Porch”, 2022, acrylic on canvas
That Boy Sharp — 2022, acrylic on canvas
Can you take us inside your process? What does your research or pre-painting ritual look like?
GH— I wish I could say I just walk up to the canvas and magic happens, but my process starts long before any paint touches the surface. It’s mostly research... and a little bit of chaos. My mind is constantly racing with ideas. I have sketches, reference photos, and full concept paragraphs in my phone’s notes app. Once an idea really grabs my attention I dig a little deeper, and start looking into historical references, gathering images, talking through ideas with people I trust, and sometimes even taking my own photos to get the exact feeling I’m after. Once that’s done, I’ll prep my canvas, start on the painting, and when I’m about halfway through… I scrap it and start something new lol which happens more often than not. Some pieces stay unfinished, some get painted over, and evolve into something completely unexpected. I guess it’s all part of the story.
Artist Glenn Hardy
There’s a quiet but radical joy in your paintings. Do you view joy as a form of resistance especially with the world we live in currently and even looking at history?
GH— Oh wow, this is a great question. As someone who tries to stay positive, I can definitely see joy as a form of resistance. Not in a loud way, but as something quiet and steady. It’s like second nature to me, this instinct to push back against hardship by choosing light. There’s so much history, and burden that we carry. And the world we’re living in now can be overwhelming. Joy reminds us that we’re still here, still have reason to celebrate, and still thriving. For me, joy doesn’t mean ignoring pain, it means refusing to let pain be the only story. I also know that not everyone moves through the world this way. People resist in different ways, and that diversity is part of what makes storytelling through art so beautiful. Three artists can tell the same story, but each one will choose a different lens, a different truth, a different color palette of emotion. Joy is my way of reclaiming space. Of saying, “we exist in fullness,” even when the world tries to empty that.
Much of contemporary Black figuration still grapples with visibility through conflict whether on film, TV, or even in art. What does it mean to you to opt out of that narrative?
GH— If I’m understanding the question correctly, I don’t see opting out of conflict-based narratives as removal. It’s more about balance. Conflict is definitely real—it shapes us, and it’s part of our story. But visibility through struggle doesn’t have to be the only focus. Visibility through light is a part of our story too. For me, choosing to focus on pleasure, leisure, and everyday beauty doesn’t negate those other realities. Some people just know how to tell a certain story in a better, more concise and understandable way than others, and I acknowledge that. People carry so much emotionally, historically, and sometimes you want to speak to what uplifts you. There are those of us who’ve seen the same images of pain over and over, and now feel a need to reflect something softer, something that makes you smile. I think that's just another angle of truth. Another part of the same story—told from a different room in the house.
Matching Sets — 2024, acrylic on canvas
Happiest Hour — 2022, acrylic on canvas
As a self-taught artist, how did your creative education evolve outside of traditional institutions?
GH— Man, I think about this so much! Being self-taught I actually haven’t had a close-up look at what traditional institutions offer, so it’s tough to say how my journey might have looked if I'd gone to art school. Would my style be totally different? Would I paint with more confidence or have sharper technique? Maybe. Maybe not. What I do know is that learning outside of a classroom pushes you to find knowledge in unexpected places. You become your own teacher—watching tutorials, going to galleries, soaking in anything you can. It’s a lot of trial and error... emphasis on the error. You stumble, revise, start over, and eventually, you carve a path that feels like yours. One thing I do wish I had access to is consistent critique—the kind of feedback students get in formal settings that helps them push their work further. That’s something I’m still seeking out. But honestly, every work I’ve done has taught me something. My education is untraditional, but it’s constantly evolving.
Make Your Next Move, Your Best Move — 2022, acrylic on canvas
How do you see your work contributing to a new visual language for Black identity in art history?
GH— I probably sound like a broken record at this point, but I really do see my work as speaking for the stories that often get cropped out—the picture-perfect moments that rarely make the frame. Black identity is vast, rough, and deeply personal. My upbringing is both similar and different than so many people who may not always get the chance, or have the platform to tell their story the way they'd want to. Artists like Kerry James Marshall and Ernie Barnes have had a huge influence on me. I appreciate how they captured Black life through comfort, beauty, and a kind of quiet freedom. Of course, life comes with worry—we all carry something. But there are also those moments where you kick your feet up, let the weight fall off, and live fully in the now. That’s the energy I chase in my work. I want to contribute to a visual language that shows those moments—the ones we hold onto, the ones that get overlooked but are worth of a lifetime.
Make Your Next Move, Your Best Move — 2022, acrylic on canvas
Momma I Made It — 2023, acrylic on canvas
How do you see your work contributing to a new visual language for Black identity in art history?
GH— When I envision the viewer standing in front of my work I hope they are able to walk away with a specific memory in their head, not necessarily of the work, but a time in their life that resembles a similar moment as what they saw in the work. I want the work to trigger a sense of something personal, and familiar. If they walk away thinking of a time they felt like the image in the painting, or just a little more like themselves… then I feel like the painting did its job. I want my art to be like a deep breath, or that little sigh of relief you take when everything slows down for a second. If they carry that feeling with them, even just for a moment, then mission accomplished!
Images courtesy of the artist.