Self-Portrait: Paint by Numbers — or Why I’d Rather Cut Off an Ear Than Make Anything Too Easy

 

 

I’ve Never Been Good at Simple Things.

And I’ve never really trusted things that work on the first try.

If something goes right on attempt number one, I’m not proud.
I get suspicious.

That’s when the doubts start — not about me, about the destination.
Was it too small?
Too comfortable?
Too close to what literally anyone could have done without even breaking a sweat?

I’ve never been afraid of failing.
If anything, it’s the other way round.
Sometimes I’m afraid of not failing.
Afraid something might just work immediately — and then I’m left wondering whether the whole journey was even necessary.

I don’t work in a straight line.
I don’t start at zero.
Zero isn’t freedom to me — zero is homework.
Freedom starts with things.
With material.
With weight.
With resistance.

I collect stuff “for later”.
Things I don’t yet know what I’ll need them for.
But I know this: one day I will.

That’s not mess.
That’s freedom — stocked up in advance.

My projects don’t begin with ideas.
They form around things that are already there.
Because you can work with something you already have.
Touch it. Move it. Misuse it.
Only then does the thinking become free.

I don’t simplify.
I complicate.
On purpose.

Not because I want to be difficult —
but because simplicity bores me.
If everyone can do it, I’m not interested.
I need resistance, otherwise I fall asleep on the inside.

The big bang came with an old, run-down carpentry workshop.
A place nobody wanted.
Everyone saw rubbish, dirt, work, problems.

I saw — honestly — nothing special at first. Apart from one thing: space.

Then came a year of physical labour.
Clearing. Sorting. Decluttering.
Dragging tonnes of material around.
And picking up every single item with my own hands.

Keep it or bin it?
Do I need this — or am I just telling myself I do?

With every decision, something happened.
Every thing that stayed triggered an idea.

Slowly, boundaries disappeared.
Not outside.
Inside.

At some point I realised: those boundaries don’t even exist.
They’re habits.
Invisible rules.
“This is how you do it.”

Who says a living-room window can’t be wide enough for a car to fit through?
Who says you can’t park cars in the living room on a rotating basis?
Who says a glass corridor can’t sit inside the living room?
Or that a floor can’t be made of loose-laid 4 cm multiplex boards?
Or that a roller shutter door can’t be used as wall cladding?
Or that you can’t paint window frames straight onto the glass
so the bars are just an illusion?

“You can’t do that.”
“You don’t do that.”
“What would it look like?”

In the end, people said something else: “I’ve never thought like that before.”

That’s enough for me.

I don’t build solutions.
I build states.
Things you can’t explain — only experience.

I work without a fixed ending.
I know the direction, but not the destination.
Each step provokes the next.

Sometimes I finish something, look at it —
and immediately tear it down again.

99% isn’t enough for me.
That one percent would annoy me every single day.
Starting over is easier than living long-term with internal friction.

“Wrong” isn’t a mistake to me.
Wrong can be the beginning of something far more right.
For some people it’s the end —
for me it’s often the moment it gets interesting.

I don’t delegate ideas.
Helpers can carry, push, pull.
But they don’t get to think.

It’s exhausting trying to convince someone to make something more complicated
when he’s been doing it perfectly simply for 30 years.

I travel the way I work.
No shortcuts.
Old cars.
Long distances.
Winter. Fatigue.

The harder it is, the happier I am.
The more tired I get, the quieter my head becomes.

At some point I consciously chose a partnership.
Consciously, also, a few new boundaries —
or better: a frame.

Because once you’ve tasted real freedom,
you never completely give it back.
You just relocate it.

My freedom lives in writing now.
In photography.
In art.
In old cars.
In long journeys.
In exhaustion.

I laugh at myself.
I shout at myself.
I get annoyed with myself — enthusiastically.

I’m not efficient.
Not simple.
Not compatible.

And that’s fine.

If you could explain me in 150 characters,
I would seriously start doubting my life choices.

Then I’d probably done everything wrong.

Or worse: everything far too right.

 

New Year’s Resolutions

(Written by someone who fundamentally distrusts resolutions.)

For the new year, I’ve decided on the following:

1) I will continue to distrust things that work immediately.
If something succeeds on the first attempt, I’ll assume the goal was too small and try again — preferably in a more complicated way.

2) I will keep collecting things “for later”,
despite ongoing accusations of messiness, hoarding tendencies, or mild instability.
I know what I’m doing.
Even if I don’t yet know what for.

3) I will start at zero as rarely as possible.
Zero is suspiciously empty and demands planning.
I prefer beginnings with weight.

4) I will allow myself to be wrong.
Deliberately.
And occasionally with enthusiasm.
Wrong has proved considerably more productive than right.

5) I will avoid shortcuts, even when they are well signposted, comfortable, and recommended.
If there’s a longer, colder, more inconvenient route, I’ll take that one.

6) I will continue travelling with machines that require attention, patience, and a bit of mechanical empathy.
If they break, I will listen.
If they complain, I will slow down.

7) I will protect my inner freedom carefully, even while sharing my life with someone.
Freedom doesn’t have to disappear — it just needs its own place.

8) I will keep working without knowing exactly how everything is supposed to end.
A direction is enough.
Certainty is overrated.

9) I will take apart things that are only 99% right — without guilt.
Living with that last 1% is more tiring than starting again.

10) I will continue laughing at myself, arguing with myself, and occasionally swearing at myself — this year, more kindly.
Self-mockery remains my most reliable form of self-care.

And finally:
I will resist the temptation to make my life simpler just to make it more acceptable to other people.

If all of this sounds impractical, inefficient, or unnecessary,
then I’m probably exactly on the right track.

Happy New Year.