HELLO RALF AND A WARM WELCOME BACK FOR ANOTHER COLLABORATION WITH 4BYSIX. THANK YOU FOR TAKING THE TIME TO SPEAK WITH US ABOUT YOUR ART PRACTICE AND YOUR NEW PIECE. TO START YOU DESCRIBED PAINTING AS A LIFELONG STUDY. WHAT CONTINUES TO EXCITE YOU MOST ABOUT THE PROCESS, EVEN AFTER YEARS OF EXPERIENCE?

The more I paint, the more I feel like I don’t know anything. It’s kind of frustrating sometimes, but also the best reason to keep going. It gets me out of bed haha. I still remember the time I had never even heard of composition systems, like the ones Alberti described in his books about painting, sculpting and architecture and now they’re all I think about. I had no idea back then about things like rabatment or pentagram-based compositions that show up in medieval manuscripts. Or that the golden mean wasn’t just a Renaissance idea, but something used even before painters like Giotto or Duccio. Geometry was always tied to God. It was the proof that harmony and proportion were signs of creation. Painters using those systems were, in a way, trying to get closer to God. For me, just knowing that I’m allowed to try this, that I get to paint and study these things every day, still feels like a privilege even after years, day in and day out. That’s what keeps me going.

YOU MAKE YOUR OWN PAINTS AND MATERIALS. WHAT DOES THAT TACTILE CONNECTION MEAN TO YOU, AND HOW DOES IT SHAPE THE FINAL OUTCOME OF A PAINTING?

I like to be in control of the process. I want to know what’s in the paint. Some brands add all kinds of agents or fillers to improve flow or stretch the material, but that affects how the paint behaves. The better the formula, the higher the price.. So for me, as a proper Dutchman, making paint myself started as a cheaper solution, but quickly became a way to really get into the material. Sometimes I mix different pigments before adding the binder or fillers. I try out different kinds of fillers, but wood dust works especially well for me. It’s fibrous, slightly elastic, and doesn’t crack. It also gives me a surface I can build up in layers. Because I mix everything myself, I can also control how much binder goes into each layer. With acrylics, it’s about balance. Too much binder in the top layers can create a slick or glossy surface, but too little binder can lead to cracking or poor adhesion (something I’ve come across in books by Max Doerner and Ralph Mayer). I adjust it depending on the pigment and what I want the surface to do. I usually start with brighter colours and build darker tones on top. You can see it in the way early Flemish painters worked: they often started with light values and then added transparent darker layers on top. That gave the painting a kind of brightness that came from the layers within. It’s the opposite of alla prima or thick impasto, which I don’t use myself, I find it too muddy and dirty. In the end, all of this helps me understand the material better. How it dries, how it moves, how it catches the light. I like that. Maybe it’s the obsessive part of me, but it makes the painting feel more grounded and deliberate.

YOUR SURFACES OFTEN RESEMBLE ANCIENT CAVE PAINTINGS OR MURALS. IS THIS VISUAL QUALITY A DELIBERATE REFERENCE TO HISTORY, OR SOMETHING THAT EMERGES NATURALLY THROUGH YOUR MATERIALS?

Yes, I think it’s both. Cave walls were basically the first painting surfaces we ever had and I think there’s something in all of us that still resonates with that. We used to share stories and warnings, maybe long before we had language as we know it. We were already painting lions, tigers, mountains, rivers, trees. That urge to draw what we saw, or what we feared, or what we dreamed, or to communicate goes way back. Maybe we don’t think about it much, but I believe we still carry that connection. Painting touches something deep, and we often respond to it without knowing why. There’s a kind of collective memory built into it. So when I paint on rough surfaces, or use raw pigments and textures, I think something comes through. not because I’m trying to imitate caves, but because the material leads me there.That’s probably why those ancient textures still sneak into my work. They carry weight. Not just visually, but historically. And every now and then, someone, again, announces that painting is dead which is funny, considering it’s been around for over 30,000 years and still shows up everywhere. Cave walls, wood panels, stretched canvas.. it just keeps adapting. Meanwhile, the people declaring its death often don’t outlast the work they’re trying to bury. I don’t say that to be dramatic, I just think if painting is dead, it’s having a surprisingly long afterlife.

MUCH OF YOUR IMAGERY COMES FROM DREAMS AND MEMORIES, ESPECIALLY FROM CHILDHOOD. HOW DO YOU DECIDE WHAT TO TRANSLATE INTO PAINT?

I feel my paintings are quite circular. They come from something within, not so much from the outside world. They come from dreams, contemplation, prayer and meditation. But in return, point back towards contemplation.

This is inspired by how paintings were traditionally meant to function: as a channel to a world beyond ourselves, beyond the world we can empirically observe and interact with. For me, art connects those two worlds. Max Ernst said it beautifully: one eye closed, one eye open. One eye to look outside, one eye to look within. The blur between those two is what art can be.

How do I decide what to translate into paint? That is very difficult to answer... Most of the time it is intuition. I am quite a melancholic person, and looking back is something I do a lot, maybe too much haha. In my childhood, the symbols I used were often animals: stuffed toys around my bed, films, stories, and creatures that became part of the world I was building in my head. 

IN OUR PREVIOUS COLLABORATION YOU MADE A PIECE ON RECYCLED PLASTIC PANEL, HOW DID WORKING ON THIS NEW UNCONVENTIONAL CANVAS, THE LORRY TARPAULIN COMPARE? DID THE NEW MATERIAL SPARK ANY NEW INSPIRATION?

Yes, it felt quite different. I had to nail the canvas to the wall, and somehow that made the way of painting more physical and direct. I think that is quite interesting. Since my work can be quite fragile, I also started to think about the contrast between this rough material and the delicate image. Maybe it would be good to glue this painting on a wooden panel, with a slight stretch, and frame it behind glass.

CAN YOU TELL US MORE ABOUT THE NEW WORK YOU HAVE MADE AND IF THERE ARE ANY PARTICULAR ART HISTORICAL REFERENCES YOU WOULD LIKE TO MENTION?

I painted a tiger, a lion and a sabre-toothed tiger. These creatures visit me quite often in my dreams, and painting them feels like meeting them again.

The art historical reference is not so much in the imagery directly, but more in the motive. I am interested in the brink between the late Gothic and the Renaissance, where the heavenly and the earthly seem to touch each other. I always try to paint that connection. In my paintings, predators and prey exist together in peace. They recognise one another without judgement. That may sound impossible and absurd, but I think it is something we deeply yearn for, this everlasting peace. It feels like a hunger. Not a hunger for food, but a hunger for meaning. Art can be that channel where the impossible is still allowed to be true.

IN OUR LAST CONVERSATION, YOU MENTIONED YOU WERE “FOCUSING MORE ON QUIET, HARMONIOUS SCENES”, WAS THIS SOMETHING YOU DREW FROM WHEN MAKING THIS NEW WORK FOR OUR COLLABORATION?

Yes, but the harmony in these works is not without fear. I was drawn to quietness, but also to the strange feeling that something calm can still carry danger. It is a bit of a challenge to describe these scenes. I think art needs some absurdity, and sometimes it feels more honest to describe art by what it is not: art opens something that cannot fully be explained. As a human, that reminds me that I do not have all the answers. Maybe that makes art feel more real to me than pretending I fully know what it is.

That is also where my interest in Carmel spirituality comes in. Saint John of the Cross speaks about inner darkness, longing and desire in a way that feels close to painting for me. The prophet Elijah recognised the presence of God not in the storm or in loudness, but in a gentle breeze. It was quiet and peaceful, and it came at a moment when he did not expect His presence. That kind of poetry, irony and contradictions is crucial to how I understand what art can be. A painting can sometimes become more alive the less I look at it. Art starts to move a bit more inward, and that is where the poetry touches the fire in my heart.

GIVEN THAT YOU DEPICT AND REFERENCE THE NATURAL WORLD IN YOUR WORK, DO CONSIDERATIONS OF ENVIRONMENTAL SUSTAINABILITY FIT INTO YOUR PRACTICE?

I do care deeply about environmental sustainability, but I feel it should not only exist as a message in the painting. For me.. it has to become something active, something done with the hands. Sometimes I feel that artists and institutions, myself included, can become too absorbed in images, discussions and statements, while the real world asks for more direct actions. That is why I respect what 4BySix does. You are not only speaking about sustainability, but working with materials and giving them another life. I think that hands-on approach is important, and it gives an important signal to me.

FINALLY, HOW HAS LIFE BEEN IN THE STUDIO FOR YOU RECENTLY? WHAT IS NEXT FOR YOU AND YOUR PRACTICE FOR THE REST OF THE YEAR?

Oooh life in the studio has been good. Every day I can spend there feels like something to be grateful for. At the moment I am working towards a new show at Kristin Hjellegjerde Gallery in London, opening in October 2026, and I am very happy with how the series is coming together. I have been working with Kristin and her team for five years now, and they have given me a lot of trust and freedom. That kind of support means a great deal to me.

At the same time, that freedom also makes me question what I am doing. Last week in church, the pastor said something that stayed with me: words and rules without action are empty, and action without words and rules becomes aimless. That reminded me of Kierkegaard, who is important to me because he shows that something only becomes real when it is lived. It is not enough to say that art has meaning; I have to ask what that meaning demands from me in practice. And also, how do I paint without falling into vanity, recognition, views or likes? I do not think I have solved these questions. They are a daily challenge, and I am still working through them as I speak. For me, these questions are crucial, because if I cannot connect my words to the way I live and work, then I feel my life becomes empty and meaningless.