Interview with Keetje Mans

Keetje, in your exhibition Ride the Range (and Never Worry) in Your Humble Abode, you present new works that you call ‘three-dimensional paintings.’ What was it like for you to take the step into creating three-dimensional work?

At first, I thought the leap from two- to three-dimensional work would be bigger. Before starting on my new pieces, I closely studied the figurative elements in my earlier paintings and drawings — especially those that could actually become objects. I started playing with those. I did a lot of sculpting and clay modeling and, to my surprise, that felt very similar in mood and approach to how I paint. My brushstrokes are often thick and clay-like. I call my new spatial works ‘three-dimensional paintings,’ but they also incorporate figurative elements made of ceramic and wood, so they might resemble installations more than traditional sculptures.

In your new three-dimensional piece Pour une Courageuse Fillette (2025), we see disembodied feet with brightly painted toenails, a small bust adorned with a large bow, and clogs shaped like dark raven heads arranged around a hearth. The work radiates an incantatory atmosphere where objects and figures - living and inanimate - enter into associative or narrative relationships. How do you create those connections between the elements?

My visual language developed from intuitive drawing, combining figures, objects, patterns, and sometimes typography. The associations between them often arise naturally, just by placing elements next to each other. But it’s never entirely random — I’m always searching for dualities. The raven clogs, for example, are a new element in my work. They might appear somewhat sinister, but because they’re shaped like traditional clogs, I also find them funny. The same goes for the disembodied feet with brightly painted toenails. I like mixing the everyday with the grotesque, the festive with the macabre, and the domestic with the fantastical. These unsettling and disorienting combinations create tension, pulling the scene slightly out of context and opening the door to a story.

Patterns and fabric textures play a significant role in your work. Since 2022, we’ve seen a recurring black-and-white pattern appear — on the female riders in your Shieldmaidens series, on the clothing of figures in your paintings and mural at the Maastricht Academy of Fine Arts, and now in your new three-dimensional works. What does this pattern mean to you?

The pattern first appeared in red and white in my drawings, like in Mumcloud (2022). I had just become a mother and was trying to express my experience of motherhood in a fairly abstract drawing. The structure reminded me of plants or veins — it felt warm and nurturing. In my later work, the pattern gradually shifted to black and white. Maybe it’s even become a kind of signature. What fascinates me is that the pattern creates a sense of connection - figures seem to merge as they wear the same motif - but at the same time, it also feels slightly alienating.

What are your sources of inspiration? What do you enjoy looking at?

My inspiration comes from a mix of films, art, and books. I love the paintings of Ithell Colquhoun and Leonora Carrington, and I’ve also studied the work of Georgia O’Keeffe, Édouard Manet, and Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. My favorite art books are collections of works by self-taught artists and, for instance, an old book on German folk art. The horror novel Lost Souls by Poppy Z. Brite, set in New Orleans, is an all-time favorite. I’m also a fan of the series American Horror Story, especially the third season, which also takes place in New Orleans. That city fascinates me — an eclectic mix of cultures and traditions that shows up in the food, the music, and the strange, twisted atmosphere.

You describe your visual language as intentionally ‘unfinished,’ because perfection would make your work less interesting. Is imperfection also a way of reaching a certain essence that perfection can’t capture?

I’ve found that imperfections allow me to express more feeling - or different kinds of feeling - in an object or figure. A piece only starts to come alive for me when it doesn’t align with reality. Drawing something flawlessly doesn’t interest me; it has to be a little quirky or puppet-like. By depicting something macabre in an imperfect way, the weight of it can become lighter. And the reverse is true too. I admire artists like Rose Wylie, Jean Brusselmans, and Hiroshi Sugito — I recognize the same search for imperfection in their work. Through imperfection, I try to tap into something essential, but it rarely works fully. That’s okay — maybe I don’t even want to reach it completely. The pursuit itself is more important. My work is meant to be deliberately vague and unfinished.

Your work often unfolds on a kind of stage. We see curtains and fabrics that conceal or reveal, with scenes full of leading characters and extras. For your SCHUNCK exhibition, you’ve created set pieces. What draws you to the theatrical, and how does it play a role in your work?

I love how a theatrical performance offers a concentrated telling of life. It feels like an intimate space where you pause to reflect on a feeling or moment. Maybe I try to create that kind of condensed living or experience space — a private world on a stage. I enjoy playing with foreground and background, with objects, figures, or typographic elements that appear and disappear. In a recent painting, for example, a girl’s head extends beyond the frame. In another, a glass carafe seems to fade into or emerge from floral wallpaper. And in Pour une Courageuse Fillette (2025), the same thing happens with toy blocks on a checkered floor.

Your work expresses a fascination with depicting ‘in-between spaces’ or ‘in-between moments.’ What do those mean to you, and how do you fill them?

My creative process is intuitive. It begins with an idea that gradually transforms and develops layers. Out of that emerges a kind of in-between zone - a twilight or dream world - where ambiguity rules. That ‘in-between space’ reveals a gray area: not good or bad, but implicit and open-ended. A painting only feels finished to me when it tips into that other world, when the in-between becomes tangible. That’s when I stop painting.