Born as the third son of a dear shoemaker and nursery school teacher who always made sure that there were enough coloured pencils and handicraft tools in the house.
I thanked them by producing an enormous number of scrawls, scribbles, circles and heads with stick legs. Followed by an equally large number of tanks and tigers at the junior school. At college I added landscapes and abstractions to the repertoire. And at the Art Academy, endless variations of sketches. Nudes, still-lives and panoramas. But also folders full of inaccessible studies. My parents must have been relieved when I chose to go into the theatre.
And I didn’t even look at another sheet of paper for a while.
But that was just a short interlude. My little daughter decided to take over my duties. She proved to be passionate about drawing. And while I proudly showed off the posters, brochures and book covers I’d designed and taken home, she conjured forth her scrawls, scribbles, circles and heads with stick legs. When my second little daughter started displaying the same productivity, and inundated us with her drawings, I took a decision: they would be responsible for the consequences of their actions. But I would apply myself to bigger things. Things that were too big to get into the house.
So while our third little daughter was busy at home colouring white sheets of paper, I began filling museum galleries with three-dimensional designs. Stage sets, exhibitions, giant-sized gestures. And the more I looked at her scribbles, the more I understood how much pleasure we were each getting out of it. Creating things, bringing them into the world. But by then I’d decided to establish a boundary for myself: I wanted to apply myself to creating surprise and amazement. Because that experience isn’t noncommittal, it enables and encourages people to look more consciously and thoughtfully. At themselves, and at their environment.
The move to Tinker was only a little jump.