At my grandmother’s house, on the corner of the street, there lived an artist in an old farmhouse. He came from the West and was married to a woman from the village – a strange bird in the flock, but with roots he had planted himself. How I first ended up inside his house, I no longer remember. Maybe I simply walked in, driven by curiosity. What I do remember is the feeling that came over me there.
Light slanted through the windows, dust particles dancing in the air like tiny planets. The smell of paint hung heavy in the room, mingling with the scent of wood and something elusive – perhaps freedom. Everywhere stood and hung things I didn’t recognize but instantly understood: paintings that were silent yet spoke, stacks of books waiting for someone to open them, and a record player with albums whose covers told stories before the music even began.
There, in that house full of color and quiet, something happened. I realized there was another kind of life – a parallel world that had been invisible until then. A life in which imagination wasn’t something to hide, but something to follow. And to my own surprise, I felt immediately at home, as if I had opened a door to a room that had been waiting for me all along.
From that day on, I looked at the world differently. The ordinary gained a sheen, the dull became layered, the ugly turned interesting. I began to draw – cautiously at first, then voraciously. My sketchbooks filled with lines, thoughts, and shadows of what I saw or thought I saw. I wanted to understand everything, to hold on to everything.
I was a sponge – thirsty for meaning, for form, for something larger than myself. And what I tasted there, in that old farmhouse – that first awareness of beauty, of seeing differently – I have never let go of.
I was a sponge – thirsty for meaning, for form, for something larger than myself. And what I tasted there, in that old farmhouse – that first awareness of beauty, of seeing differently – I have never let go of.
I paint because it is the medium through which I can work quickly and respond directly. My process is intense, intuitive, and focused on honestly capturing what moves or fascinates me. These are not grand themes; an object, a view, the fall of light, a texture, or even a photograph can be enough to set things in motion.
‘Even if it's not always clear and formulatable in thoughts what is painted. It's about the feeling that it gives, the feeling of the place, the object, the memory, the deja vu of it. It's like a distant memory of the object you cannot place. It's not about the separate elements but the wholeness of everything that comes together as a feeling/ sentiment and not a thought. Like visual poetry of everyday objects. Like an abstract projection of the memory that once was a real picture.
The longer you look at the paintings and separate elements as one, the more layers and dimensions come forth, unravelling the feeling I talked about earlier’
The longer you look at the paintings and separate elements as one, the more layers and dimensions come forth, unravelling the feeling I talked about earlier’
"Ook al is het niet altijd duidelijk en formuleerbaar in gedachten wat er wordt geschilderd. Het gaat om het gevoel dat het geeft, het gevoel van de plek, het object, de herinnering, de déjà vu ervan. Het is als een verre herinnering aan het object dat je niet kunt plaatsen. Het gaat niet om de afzonderlijke elementen, maar om de volledigheid van alles dat samenkomt als een gevoel/sentiment en niet als een gedachte. Het is als visuele poëzie van alledaagse objecten. Als een abstracte projectie van de herinnering die ooit een echt beeld was. Hoe langer je naar de schilderijen en afzonderlijke elementen als één geheel kijkt, hoe meer lagen en dimensies naar voren komen, waardoor het gevoel dat ik eerder beschreef zich ontvouwt."
picture: Roy te Lintelo