On Collecting Souvenirs From the Past and Greek Vases in Museums

Essay

I am a collector by nature, and I like keeping souvenirs from the past. I have to be careful not to gather too many empty glass jars, stones from beaches, or bits of wood that might someday prove useful for building something. Recently (Summer 2025), I redesigned my website, shifting from what a friend once called “a literary feel” to a short, video-clip–based experience. The intention was to create a first-person view, a more intimate connection with past exhibitions. With the exception of my debut, I am fortunate to have video footage spanning from The Man Without Qualities (2010, Danneskiold-Samsøe Gallery) to Graphite (2022, Galleri Weinberger Schandorff).

In 2007, just before the financial crisis, I decided to stop painting figuratively and begin making monochromes. The first videos on my site show footage from 2008 and 2009—me working in two different studios, painting in a reduced, monochromatic manner. I added subtitles to the clips describing this shift from figuration to abstraction. The text begins, a little dramatically: “The most difficult time for me as an artist was December 2007…”

…when I ruined my last figurative painting. Something inside me wanted to destroy what I had just created. Not because I didn't like the painting, but because I liked it too much. I was in love with being talented… and I didn’t like that feeling. So I painted a dark brown colour over that painting. And then I felt a very strong feeling of regret. I cursed myself. I really, cursed myself for destroying that painting. I thought, 'I’d quit painting, never paint again.' For three days… I quit being a painter. I remember this strange feeling of regret. What was going on? Why did I destroy the best painting I'd ever made? What on earth made me do that? Then it began to make sense. Imagine how liberating it is to work as an artist and NOT care about being talented. I began to paint monochromatic paintings. I used my body as a scale and my proportions as measurements for all my paintings and drawings. I made up rules, and I used numbers as guidelines. I became a “dogme” painter… and, in a way, an abstract painter.

The art world has never been stable. Shifts and upheavals are the norm. As an artist, I never know if, where, or when I will be able to exhibit again. When I had my first solo show in 2010, I naively thought: “I’ve made it!” A few shows later, I understood the importance of patience and documentation. In 2025, there is upheaval once again: veteran galleries are closing, while new platforms such as Artsy.net bring art online.

Veteran gallerist Tim Blum announces closure of his physical spaces.
”In an interview with ArtNews, Blum said the decision was less about the current art market and more “about the system.” Blum described the gallery’s participation at Art Basel last month as a “thunderclap—confirmation of everything I’ve been feeling for years,” referring to a growing dissatisfaction with the expanding infrastructure of contemporary gallery life, including constant art fairs, openings, and administrative obligations.”

I am now in my early fifties. My walking shoes are well worn, and my pace has slowed from sprinting, to jogging, to simply taking my time. What matters is to keep working, whatever the upheaval. In my experience, most obstacles originate in thought: ideas about talent, about success. I had to learn that ambition should be directed inward, as motivation. Ambition about the work itself—not the response to it. Mental gymnastics are necessary to overcome hardship and resistance. Since my debut in 2008, I’ve shifted my goal: from overturning the art world to simply creating something meaningful for the small audience my work touches. Success, I’ve learned, can be measured within the studio.

Artistically, the decisive change in 2007 was to stop painting figures and begin asking: How can rules and restrictions act as catalysts for new ideas, new ways of seeing, new ways of working? By refusing to make recognisable images, I had to turn my attention to other aspects of painting. The tactile quality of paint became my foothold in this new territory, leading to years of experimentation with materials. Chalk remains a favourite. So do beeswax and graphite. Every pigment has its own personality. Colours behave like children at play, restless in the light. Two colours act as lovers; add a third and you have a family. Add more, and you are building a family tree. Before long, you are writing novels with these characters—novels about relationships across generations, like the best of stories.

In painting monochromes, I realised how essential layers are. Each layer holds a moment in time. Looking at the strata in a painting feels like time travel—akin to stargazing, where the light we see has travelled for years before reaching us. By 2025, layering has become my way of working. I imitate historians and conservators: wall restorers in museums leave behind tiny squares of paint layers, a discreet record of colour histories. Tree rings mark decades of growth and pause. In my studio, I alternate between reading about painting techniques and conducting trial-and-error experiments. I use eggs in my work—egg white as a glue, yolk as an emulsifier binding oil and water into paint. The technique aims at both a pleasing result and stability.

I will never know if I succeed. The true scale for durability is the Greek vases in museums, thousands of years old. I wish I could watch my oil paint grow brittle, see colours gradually become more transparent. But in the end, none of that matters as much as the fervour—the drive to keep making.