Exploring Emotion, Memory, and the Abstract Inner World
Petra, could you describe a typical day in your stu I dio? When I arrive at my studio after a short bike ride, I often start by sitting in front of my most recent works, simply contemplating them while having a coffee. I take it all in and then decide which piece calls to me, draws me in, or feels easy to approach. Often, I’ll choose some music that inspires me—and sometimes I need complete silence instead. Occasionally, I’ll flip through a few catalogs and read interviews with other artists who fascinate me—and then, gradually, I begin.
When beginning a new painting, what tends to guide you first—emotion, memory, color, or form? That’s an interesting question. I often start with a specific color, which in turn evokes memories and stirs up emotions. The form then develops during the painting process. Sometimes, when I begin a new piece, I set myself a certain formal intention—for example, not to cover the whole canvas right away, or to start with a monochrome layer that initially covers the entire surface. These are small experiments that keep me from always doing the same thing. Sometimes I also begin by drawing only lines on the blank canvas, perhaps even blindly, without looking at all.
Your work feels both intuitive and deliberate. How do you know when a piece is complete? That’s sometimes a difficult decision to make. There are works where I immediately feel the moment when nothing more can be added—when it can’t become better, denser, more intense, or more delicate. With others, I’m unsure. In those cases, it helps to let the work sit for a while and look at it again after a few days. Often, it’s the pieces where something new is emerging, and I need time to get used to this new perspective. And of course, there are also times when I believe a painting is finished, but then add something six months later. I allow myself that freedom—to keep working on it as long as the piece is still in my studio.
Much of your work has been described as “emotional landscapes” or “inner worlds.” What does this phrase mean to you personally? Yes, they are indeed paintings of an "inner world." What I mean by that is that, as an abstract painter, I don’t depict the reality that surrounds me, but rather draw from an inner reservoir. I absorb the outer world—a season, for example, or a particular situation—and then add my own personal color, my experience, my imagination. So my works are very personal; they reflect my inner world.
To what extent is memory a conscious part of your creative process? Memory can be a conscious process in my work, especially when I incorporate certain shapes, colors, or human outlines. Sometimes these memories surface unintentionally, and sometimes I work with them deliberately. I find both approaches fascinating, because I’m also interested in what isn’t yet conscious—what lies beneath the surface and can sometimes be brought to light through the act of painting.
Would you say your paintings are autobiographical, or do they aim to tap into something more universal? My work is certainly autobiographical, but I also believe that every person, in their own time, brings something universal to light—whether in music, literature, or painting.
Your use of color is delicate but resonant. How do you approach your palette? That’s a difficult question for me to answer, because my use of color unfolds during the process. I don’t usually think consciously about which color I want to use—it just happens, as if in a state of flow. There’s also a lot of experimentation involved: adding, removing, painting over, continuing with another color, building up layers. But it all happens very quickly, without too much thinking. In the best case, the whole painting comes together this way. But sometimes I need to step back and ask myself what colors or forms the painting still needs. That decision, however, usually only comes at the very end.
There’s a beautiful tension between gesture and stillness in your work. How do you find that balance? I’m very happy about this description—it certainly reflects my intention to find a balance between the wild, unruly aspects of one’s personality and the longing for calm, harmony, and equilibrium. I believe this balance can’t really be forced; it also needs to exist in one’s life itself. For me, leisure, contemplation, and meditation are essential parts of life. I find great beauty in stillness and slowness—but perhaps, to truly see it, one also needs the excitement and vibrancy of life.
Texture and layering play a key role in your paintings. Are these formal choices, or do they carry emotional or symbolic weight? Indeed, I love textures and layers in my painting. I enjoy applying oil paint thickly in certain areas of a work—with my fingers or a brush—so that the marks and traces are clearly visible. That’s one of the reasons I keep coming back to oil paint: I love the quality of the color, the texture, and the wide range of application techniques—from watercolor-like transparency to rich, impasto surfaces. For me, the paint has a tactile quality—but whether that correlates with a certain deeper emotion apart from this pleasure, I couldn’t really say.
Your titles often read like fragments of poetry. How do you arrive at them, and what role do they play? I love being inspired by poetry and lyrical writing. For instance, I’m deeply fascinated by the poetry of Mary Oliver—I’ve often made lines from her poems the titles of my works. Poetry, music, and painting have a lot in common: they evoke visions and emotions, they open a door to an inner world that is often otherwise closed.
How much ambiguity is intentional in your work? Do you encourage open interpretation from viewers? Since I work intuitively, there is no single “correct” interpretation of my work. Interpretation is always very subjective, and even I, although I created the painting, often can’t see everything that is contained within it. Everyone has their own inner filters that block out certain things. In that sense, I’m always open to the interpretations of others.
Is there a particular piece that remains especially meaningful or challenging to you? There are many works that are especially close to my heart. Among them are the pieces from the Venus series—particularly "Venus Needs a Break." The "Carpets of Life" also hold a special place for me; they are like an oversized diary, very personal and direct. The piece "Where the Spirit Meets the Bone" is also very special to me—in its intensity and strength, it stands out as a particularly powerful work.
Living and working in Germany, particularly near Kassel, how does your environment influence your painting? I’ve been living in Frankfurt for about ten years now—a big city, yet still manageable in scale. I enjoy urban life and the many opportunities it offers to see art and engage in meaningful dialogue. I also love the mountains, which are of course limited here, but even in the city, I try to set aside one day a week for a long walk in nature. All of these experiences shape my life here.
Are there artists—historical or contemporary—who have profoundly shaped your vision? There are many artists who have influenced me in different ways and at different times. Among those whose work I return to again and again are Claude Monet, Pierre Bonnard, Cy Twombly, Willem de Kooning, Martha Jungwirth, Marlene Dumas, Leiko Ikemura, Joan Mitchell, Catherine Goodman, and Cecily Brown. But this list is by no means complete. These artists continue to inspire and excite me.
Beyond visual art, are there other creative influences—music, poetry, literature—that inform your process? I love listening to music in my studio. My taste is very diverse—from Indian ragas and African music to classical, jazz, rock, and blues. Poetry has always fascinated me because it isn’t one-dimensional or confined; it opens up spaces and allows imagination to unfold. Literature has also always been a source of inspiration for me—especially myths, which have influenced my painting at various times.
Are you currently exploring any new directions, themes, or formats in your work? I have some ideas that relate to both materials and themes—but it’s still too early to talk about them.
How do you maintain creative energy between bodies of work? From time to time, I take short breaks, sometimes simply because I’m on holiday. I’ll bring along different materials—small sheets of paper, a few pencils, and some watercolors—so I can continue working in a different format. These breaks are often beneficial, even though I do miss my studio. And even when I don’t feel particularly energetic or inspired, I still like going to the studio—there’s always something to do. Often, new ideas and impulses arise once I’m there. So for me, it’s important to go to the studio, no matter how I’m feeling..
Do you ever return to older paintings with new insight, or is each piece a moment sealed in time? I return to older works when they seem to call to me, so to speak. Some pieces simply want to grow further—they ask for an addition, for more depth or intensity. I then continue working on these older paintings and often arrive at new results.
What do you hope viewers feel or reflect on when they engage with your work? I want the viewer to feel a certain sense of excitement—without necessarily knowing why. I aim to create a direct experience of color and form that speaks as an image to something deep within, to pre-verbal sensations, the soul, the unconscious, and the half-conscious. Especially in my larger works, there is a way to immerse oneself that makes this kind of experience possible.
What has painting taught you—about yourself, or about the world around you? Art constantly reminds me that there is more than what can be expressed in words. It’s a wonderful experience to immerse myself in all that opens up when the limitations of definitions and labels fall away. To experience this freedom and this flow of the inner world is a great joy.
How would someone find you on social media? Instagram: @petra.schott.art
