I work in mixed media, on paper and other surfaces. My images begin without a plan; I only discover what they become along the way. My graduation piece, the triptych junk dna, is the exception: it grew out of long and deliberate reflection.

Every time I finish a piece, it whispers something to me. A title, a sentence, sometimes more.

That whispering has grown. What began as titles for my work became my debut novel Omaria: magical realism that emerged from four of my images, and the first book of The Night Travellers. For me, drawing and writing turn out to be the same work in a different form.

A regional newspaper wrote about it (in Dutch), and the story of the second book is nearly finished.

My words are a way to open a piece, not to pin it down. There is always more than meets the eye. Feel free to choose your own perspective, even if it differs from what my words tell you.

Every week I write a column. It always starts close to home — a puddle full of broken glass in the hallway, a conversation at the table where words fall short, the question of whether every pot really finds its lid — and ends with a question larger than my own life: what language can and cannot do, why time sometimes flies and sometimes stands still, whether one and one together might make three.

I don’t have the answers. I think out loud, honestly and often with a smile. Each column comes with one of my works.

Read them in English on my reflections page — new translations are added regularly.

Take your time — I do too, with every piece and every chapter. And thank you for visiting.