On Asperger's syndrome, a bipolar mood disorder, and the place of art in my life.
"My way of thinking is woven into what I do."
I have Asperger's syndrome myself. For a long time I searched for a place where my way of seeing, thinking and working would come together with something I was good at and that gave me peace of mind. I eventually found that place in making realist art.
Realism demands precision, repetition, patience and a sharp eye for detail — qualities that, for me, aren't separate from who I am, but a direct expression of it. The stillness and quiet visible in my paintings aren't an incidental stylistic choice: they reflect how I experience and order the world around me.
Where for others it might be a deliberate artistic decision to choose balance, simplicity and understated lighting, for me it's an extension of how I think. Structure, precision and a slow, focused way of working fit how my mind works — and precisely because of that, making art doesn't feel like a burden to me, but like a place where I can be completely myself.
Alongside Asperger's syndrome, I also live with a bipolar mood disorder. In my daily life these aren't two separate boxes, but two currents that run through each other and together determine how a day, a week, or sometimes an entire season feels.
There are periods when I withdraw for extended stretches of time. Not out of discontent or rejection, but because stillness is what I need to catch my breath again. Things that come naturally to most people — a conversation, a birthday, just picking up the phone — cost me more energy than they give back during those periods. I retreat into the studio then and work on a painting in small, repeated movements, preferring to let the world pass by rather than standing in the middle of it. That isn't always easy for people around me to understand, and I get that a long radio silence can feel like distance. For me it's often the opposite: a way of staying upright, so that later I can be fully present again.
Apart from mood, contact is often already a challenge for me regardless. Social situations don't come naturally to me the way they do for most people; I consciously think about what an appropriate response is, how much eye contact feels "normal," when a conversation is actually finished. That takes attentiveness and effort that passes unnoticed for others. Fatigue after a day full of stimuli and conversations is, for me, not an exaggeration but simply the reality I have to account for.
But there's another side too. In good moments — and thankfully there are those too, often right after a period of rest — the picture can flip completely. Then I feel an overflowing need for attention and contact. I want to share, to tell, to meet people, to give a workshop, to sit at the table with visitors in the studio. That energy feels almost limitless, and I notice that in those phases I sometimes want too much at once: too much talking, too much planning, wanting too many people around me. It's a kind of abundance that belongs to me just as much as the stillness that precedes or follows it.
I share this not to ask for explanation or to set myself apart, but because it's an honest and important part of who I am — as a person and as an artist. Anyone who has followed my work over the years may recognise something of that rhythm in it: periods of stilled, repetitive precision, alternating with periods when I turn outward, into new series, exhibitions or encounters. Both belong to how I work, and both are an honest reflection of who I am.
If you have questions about this topic, or would like to talk about it — feel free to get in touch.