An alumnus of the Ghent Royal Academy of Fine Arts (1991-1995), Stef de Brabander has been making collages and resampling paintings for over thirty years. His work sometimes features paint on canvas cut up into abstraction or scratched away to reveal another layer. In an online conversation, we discussed his preference for old and used material, reflected on how inspiration strikes and tried to describe his work without explaining it.

Hi Stef, how did you start making collage?
I was browsing through some belongings stored at my father-in-law’s house and came across some works, some old canvasses from over twenty years ago. They were made with pieces of cut-up paintings. I realised I had already been cutting and pasting back then. From there it grew organically; I never started out to make collage specifically. It’s something that just works well for me. These small pieces that I call ‘paintings’ come from paintings that I repaint or cut up because I’ve grown tired of them. I never start on a white page or white canvas because I need something that has layers. It has to have already “lived”.

In my work, there’s always a moment of rediscovering something that already existed. Following that, I do my own thing to make my own story with it, re-engineering and creating something new. This method has been a constant in my work. I’ve been reflecting on why collage has consistently featured in my work, and the answer is that I can’t start a piece, even a painting, without first starting to cut and paste.

How do you source and choose your material?
Like I said, I don't want to start with a new, white page. I use gloss paint, oil paint, and any pots of paint that I find in second-hand shops. I want to avoid going to the art store and buying brand-new products. If I realise I need a yellow, I will buy it, but that's usually an exception and not the rule. So I go to thrift stores and friends or acquaintances give me things. Working with old and used material means the starting point of your work already has a story. Using an old painting as a canvas, I paint over it, scratch off the new layer and find what's happening underneath; it's an uncalculated discovery, and I like it.

I also make assemblages with found material that I really enjoy finding out and about. If I spot a container, I’ll look inside, or I might find something on the ground. So, to answer your question, I don't intentionally look for material.

Your curiosity leads you, and you are often in an ‘open state’ to the world around you.
Yes. I think that’s vital if you’re an artist - to be present in the world as a child is. Always try to be in a state of wonder. It's not a given or easy to do, you need to make time for it, which helps you be in a particular mental state. You'll miss it if you’re constantly running from A to B, such as going to the supermarket, picking your kid up from school, taking care of household stuff, etc. But the longer you practice, the more you can apply these interval moments. It’s not like I can consciously turn it on and off, that's not how it works. But you need to be open to it like children are. For instance, if they’re busy doing something, and suddenly, a different situation presents itself, they will drop what they are doing and dive in. We call that “being distracted”, but I enjoy their curiosity. It's fantastic, and as adults, we could aspire to do (more of) this.

I agree, and I think adults unlearn how to play. Does it mean you work from an intellectual context of a theme or subject?
No, I can’t do that. Many artists hone in on a specific theme and dig into its essence, which I admire, but I also wonder how they do it. I can't work like that because I get bored when there’s no surprise in the things I create. If that happens and I lose that feeling of surprise, then I get stuck. People say my work is playful and colourful, which is a big compliment.

It’s a matter of going to my studio in our attic at home, sitting down and getting started. I’m in my studio every day, and I always think that once I’m here, I should get on with work and be productive. It’s a deal that you have to make with yourself; be patient and start. That sounds easy, but getting to that point can take three days of roaming around the house and wandering my neighbourhood to find a beginning.

I also read a lot. I might be sitting here reading, and then I see a piece of paper that will trigger something. That combination of letting my mind focus on reading and then spotting a visual hook will be my point of departure, and it could be the beginning of a series. Generally, the making process is very short. Short and contained. That’s probably because I know my material. I have these pieces of paper, snippets, and trays full of ‘potentials’. I might have had them for two, three, or five years already. Just waiting for the right moment. I enjoy digging into the chaos to make new work and at that moment, I know exactly what piece I am looking for. I know where to find it too. It looks chaotic, but it is all quite organised.

You’re describing organised chaos then because you know where everything is. I’m curious how big your studio is.
Currently, I have a 4x5 square metre space in the attic. I have trays and boxes of ‘rubbish,’ and always think my studio is too small (said with a smile). Don’t all artists say that? Right now, I just make it work within the limitations. But next year, we’re replacing the roof and building an attic extension, so in addition to this space, I will have a ‘clean room’ to make my frames and do all the tidy work.

You said that inspiration might come when you’re reading. So do you get an idea and then get to work immediately, or where does your inspiration come from?
Yes, from reading, but music is another great source of inspiration. I’m jealous of musicians. To me, they practice the highest form of art. I’m not musically talented at all, but I regularly go to gigs and classical concerts, and I love jazz music. Watching jazz musicians collaborate and make a complete sound is like a sound collage - fantastic.

Currently, I'm reading a book called Kairos (Kairos by Joke Hermsen). It’s an enlightening read about non-linear time and the Greek God of time - Kairos - and describes the moment of inspiration. It’s exactly that moment—the disruption of continuity—that I need in order to make something new. That ability to see the idea when inspiration hits and have the guts to do something about it.

It sounds like being struck by lightning. But less painful.
In her book, Hermsen calls it a kairotic moment. Kairos had a long golden lock of hair covering his forehead, and it’s said that you have to grab onto that lock of hair and not let go. The same goes for inspiration; you take it when it comes. Otherwise, you’re going to have to let it pass by. Again, kids are so good at this. Adults aren’t, and what a pity because it’s unique to humans: the ability to intervene in the world and look at it in a new way, free from the structures of society.

Can you hold on to one of these lightning-bolt moments until you return to your studio? Or how do you ‘save’ your inspiration?
I carry a paper diary with me all the time. Very old school, I know. I take notes and draw shapes. It’s a convenient solution to capturing inspiration. Another thing I do, which is more like a practice, is go away alone for a few days. While outdoors, I easily slip into a state of openness and I experience these ‘Kairos moments’ of awe and wonder more often than usual. I need these solo dates, so I hold myself accountable by planning them, I’m going hiking in Luxemburg soon. But it could also be a cycling trip in France..

Your collage practice is strongly linked to regular physical activity.
Yes, they have been consistent throughout my life and are so important to me. When I was a youngster, I spent a lot of time in my room listening to music and drawing. But I also did physical outdoor stuff, such as hiking trips, swimming, and whatever else. I approach both the studio time and the physical activities with the same drive, and in return, I enjoy a mental state that serves me well. If I couldn't have either of these, I’m not sure how healthy I’d be!

I knew very well from a young age what I wanted. I wasn’t rebellious or stubborn but I was headstrong and aware of constant societal pressure. And I guess this is why I appreciate collage so much. In collage you choose your material and your pieces and combine them in a new way, resample them and create a unique new world. Nobody else is doing what you do - at least, I don't think you will find another piece like these I made here - unless there's a parallel universe.

When people ask me why I make collages - well look at how difficult it is for me to explain it right now, if I could explain why I make collages then I wouldn't be making collages. If I could write down my reason for making a collage or stand up in a room of people and tell them why I make collages, then I wouldn't make collage. Why do I make collage? Because I have to. That’s the simple answer.

Although you say it's not your focus, I notice your strong composition.
Well, it's not the goal. I've been doing this for thirty years, and I know the classic rules of composition, but they’re not what drives the work. I can recognise a bad composition though, and I really think there are collective universal forms that we all recognise and find pleasing.

Your recent work is more geometric and has cleaner lines and tighter forms.
I felt I was going in the geometric direction, and I wanted to check if I could still make other things, so I started to work with organic shapes and forms. I have a non-geometric series, the Natur Morte series, which looks like still life, almost flowers in vases. The thing is, I don’t want to limit myself or be known as ‘that guy who makes geometric modern forms’.

Ultimately I have to be able to allow whatever there is, to come to fruition. I have noticed that others have expectations about what I will do next. I try to reject those expectations and do what I feel like doing because that's what it is all about. There are no rules.

And that takes effort. Not letting yourself be led by the expectations of others, even after thirty years of experience.
Yes, even more so now than back then. If I had an exposition in the early days, there was no baggage, and nobody would have expected a particular result. Nowadays, if I exhibit, people want - no they expect - me to explain my work. It’s a typical human need, we want to explain and understand our way through life. The whole reason I make art is not to have to explain myself.. Going back to what we talked about earlier, children just do it. They do what they feel like doing, with intention, attention, and concentration. I think it’s beautiful.

Aren't you afraid to reach a point where you repeat yourself and think, “I’ve already done this”?
It might be a good thing to experience! But it’s quasi-impossible. If you're not open to new impulses, nothing will happen. It requires a particular way of being, and it requires time. Consider how you spend the time you have. It's an abstract concept that humans have found a way of organising into days and hours, but time is a matter of becoming. It is not 24 hours or 365 days, it's a continual ever-moving thing. Nietzsche talked about “the eternal recurrence of all things”.

So you don't want to be led by a pre-determined idea but rather work freely and yet you ensure your work has a framework and leans toward order.
Yes, that’s it. My work comes from that tension. When those aspects come together, the freeness combined with a framework, and they are executed well, a piece is made.

You said you want to refrain from analysing your work, but it sounds like you just explained it to an extent.
Ha, yes, I guess I did. If we discuss it too much, the moment the work works, the mystery disappears.

So are you content with what you make now?
Yes, there is less searching than I used to have to do. When I say my work is free of structure and expectation, that's not entirely true, over time you build a certain way of working that works for yourself and therefore, the process does get easier. After thirty years of working, you start to see structure in your work which makes it easier to get started every time again and also to know better what you want. When I get those old works from the attic and see them in the light of today, I realise it has been a long process of exploration to get to where I am now. Of course, the pursuit is never complete and therein lies the contradiction, there are always new discoveries and surprises but it’s still satisfying because I still enjoy the search.

With thanks to Renée van Nievelt from Gallery NoNo in The Hague.
This article was featured in printed issue 2 of Contemporary Collage magazine