Where paint meets passion and the street becomes a canvas, we catch up with Argentine artist Martín Kazanietz, aka Gordopelota, whose brush captures the raw spirit and beauty of street football.
Martín Kazanietz was born in Buenos Aires in 1985 and raised between the city and the flatlands of La Pampa. A self-taught painter with a background in graphic design, Kazanietz, who has adopted the moniker Gordopelota, came of age amid Argentina’s street culture and Sunday football rituals. His pseudonym — slang for “fat ball” — carries both humor and affection for the messy, improvised beauty of everyday life.
Through bold colors and creative caricatures, his work explores the B-side of football — the cracked fields, the plastic goals, the neighborhood heroes. Gordopelota turns those familiar rituals into portraits of belonging: part folklore, part social mirror, capturing Argentina’s popular culture in all its contradictions. His paintings, murals, and objects blend irony, tenderness, and nostalgia, elevating the local game into a universal story about identity and community.
In conversation with Urban Pitch, Gordopelota celebrates the raw, social essence of fútbol de potrero — the improvised, collective game that shapes Argentine life. Kazanietz reveals how his art bridges nostalgia, popular culture, and the universal language of the beautiful game.
Urban Pitch: You found your artistic calling around the age of 30. What moment or experience made you realize that painting football scenes was your path?
Martín Kazanietz: At that time, I didn’t allow myself to think about a body of work or about painting as something developed over time. One day in my studio, I noticed that football kept appearing in many of my drawings. I’d always been interested in the work of Molina Campos, an Argentine illustrator who dedicated much of his life to depicting the countryside and gauchos.
His watercolors and temperas referenced classical Argentine painters like Prilidiano Pueyrredón but with a caricature-like humor. My grandmother had prints of his work at home, and they always caught my attention. I joked that I wanted to be the Molina Campos of amateur football.
Many of your works feel deeply personal. How much of your own football life — friends, places, emotions — do you see reflected in them?
They’re a mix of those experiences, but also crossed with references from painting, illustration, comics, film, TV, music videos, and the work of other artists.
Was there any particular match, player, or memory that pushed you to paint football?
When I started, we used to play a weekly match at El Tinglado, a small field in the Flores/Caballito neighborhood. We were a mix of graffiti artists, skaters, tattooists — a more bohemian, street crowd.
It was more of an excuse to hang out than about the game itself. At the same time, I played another weekly match with my lifelong friends — guys who were already dads with steady jobs. I’ve always liked that contrast. In both cases, it was an excuse to get together, where the social part mattered much more than the football itself.
Argentina has one of the richest football cultures in the world. How do you try to capture that identity and passion in your art?
By learning how to look.
You often paint amateur or street football — fútbol de potrero. What does that side of the game mean to you?
I grew up in a small town in the ’90s, when basketball was more important than football at my club (Independiente de General Pico). I’ve always been a Boca fan, but I didn’t visit La Bombonera until I was 14. I watched every match on TV, listened on the radio, but couldn’t go to the stadium — I lived 600 kilometers away.
Still, I’ve played football my whole life — on the street, at school, at the club, in the countryside, with friends. For me, that’s always been the real football: improvised, spontaneous, and an excuse to share time with others.
How do you portray the mix of joy, suffering, and obsession that defines being a fan in Argentina?
Joy, suffering, and obsession are things any Argentine lives with daily, about almost anything — the economy, the weather, choosing your favorite pizzeria, or arguing politics with a taxi driver. I don’t have to make much effort for that to slip into my work.
What do you think your paintings say about Argentine society beyond football?
The best thing about paintings is that they don’t say anything — they’re just paintings.
What’s your creative process like? Do you take photos first, make sketches on the field, or paint directly from memory?
Sometimes I work automatically, drawing without thinking. Other times, I use preexisting images. I like working from other artworks, old sketches, cartoons, photos, models — a bit of everything.
Do you listen to music while you paint? If so, what kind?
Yes, depending on the day. Like a good millennial, I listen to a bit of everything. Lately, I’ve been back into Faith No More, a band I loved as a teenager. I enjoy the cuarteto groups that cover Latin pop songs — La K’onga, Banda XXI, Q’Lokura.
These days I’ve had Ulises Bueno’s “No Puedo Fingirlo” on repeat. I love anything DJ Premier has produced, Sade’s entire discography — especially a live concert in San Diego on YouTube — and a great album by Mujer Cebra. I also listen to Cafrune, a folk classic my mother used to play a lot.
Do you think people outside Argentina can truly understand football’s emotional depth the way locals do?
At best, anyone can be moved by a painting or drawing. There’s something universal about football beyond localisms. It’s like food — made with fresh, local ingredients, but meant to be shared anywhere.
How do you define success — through exhibitions, impact, or simply keeping the culture alive through your art?
The only success I care about is that my back and knees don’t hurt, so I can keep playing football.
