In an age defined by overstimulation, Hans Op de Beeck builds quiet worlds that ask us to slow down. Through sculpture, installation, video, watercolor and theater, he creates monochrome dreamscapes where time feels suspended—immersive environments that hover between dream and memory that invite viewers to linger, reflect and lose themselves in silence. A storyteller of the unspectacular, he finds beauty in the overlooked and profundity in the everyday, translating memory, melancholy and humor into whimsical visual fictions, often rendered in his signature velvety grays. This fall, he returns to Templon Gallery in Paris to present “On Vanishing”, on view through October 31, 2025, a two-venue solo exhibition exploring disappearance, transformation and the elusive nature of being. His new works—spanning life-size sculptures, watercolors and a black-and-white animated film—beckon viewers into a meditative space where reality dissolves into fiction and the familiar becomes strange. Whether depicting a girl in her mother’s oversized shoes or a deserted fairground under a starry sky, he reminds us of life’s quiet poetry. In conversation, he reflects on his humble beginnings, the balance between intuition and craft and the emotional power of art to console.
You were born in Turnhout, Belgium, in 1969. Tell me about your background and how you became an artist.
My social background is very ordinary, completely unspectacular. Naturally, what seem banal to outsiders—the smallest events—are often the things that shape you most. You are still the child you once were, and those stories and perceptions live on inside you. I come from a very average Western European, middle-class family. Both my parents were teachers, raising four children in a difficult marriage. My father, who is no longer with us, struggled with bipolar disorder, and my mother had to raise us largely on her own. From an early age, my artistic inclinations were clear. I was always drawing, writing, acting and making music—it came naturally. I drew comic strips, played the violin, wrote stories, composed songs, acted in youth theater. Scientific subjects were a disaster for me, mainly because I didn’t see the point. I was the nerdy child who’d be chosen last for the soccer team, the one always caught daydreaming. I left home young and had to learn to survive on my own, which delayed finding my path. After trying various trades and drama school, I finally made the leap into the visual arts.
Did you always know that art was your calling?
Becoming an artist was never a plan or an ambition—it was something that gradually took hold of me. You don’t choose the work; it chooses you, along with the scale and intensity it requires. I learned that it’s important to work of your own volition, to mold your weaknesses into something constructive, to work from what you know—from the inside out—and make it universal so that it transcends the anecdotal and becomes recognizable to others. Today, I employ six assistants, do about 30 exhibitions and a theater, opera or dance production each year. That’s not meant to sound conceited—it’s just the reality of being a rather prolific maker. Whether you produce a lot or a little, that says nothing about the quality. For me, unconditional dedication is key. Louise Bourgeois once said her work “saves” her. As a student, I found that statement pathetic, but now I understand she was right. For a creative soul, if you can’t make your work, life simply ceases.
How did your early experiences influence your artistic language and philosophy?
I think you inevitably work from what you know. The emotional landscape of your childhood and youth always resonates. I work from the inside out, transforming personal observations into universal reflections. Art, for me, isn’t about grand gestures or self-reference—it’s about life, its difficulties, its absurdities and its incredible beauty.
What is the most important aspect when you begin a new artwork?
When I start a new work, the most important consideration is the balance between form and content. The subject alone is never the artwork, nor is it merely its form. It’s the oscillation between the two that allows a work to truly exist. Even something as simple as a few empty bottles on a table can, in the hands of someone like Giorgio Morandi, become a profound representation of the world. Through light, tone and concentration, he turned a non-event into something essential. That, to me, is art.
Where do you find inspiration for your work?
Inspiration comes to me from everyday life: the way the world reveals itself, what stirs people and what moves me. I’ve been asked many times about influences, but I don’t have direct artistic models. Of course, I admire many artists and filmmakers: the tragicomic world of the Coen brothers, the economy in Raymond Carver’s short stories, the mysterious beauty of Peter Doig’s paintings. But I don’t mirror myself in their talent. Being the best Hans Op de Beeck is more the point. I like to find the universal in what’s small and seemingly banal. If an artist works too literally or too close to current affairs, the work risks becoming a mere document. Subtlety allows art to endure and remain open. My goal is to create work that resonates on multiple levels—a deceptively simple image that reveals layers of meaning to those who take the time to look.
How do you balance rational planning with intuition in your creative process?
Intuition is everything. Of course, there’s always some structure and planning—especially in large installations—but I believe strongly in improvisation, in following side roads and impulsive detours. You must trust the process, let the work breathe and surprise you. There’s no way to rationalize intuition. It’s a dialog between the conscious and the unconscious, between form and feeling.
Your works often feel meditative and melancholic yet also comforting. What emotional experience do you hope to offer viewers?
When I’m a viewer, I like to find solace, peace and an invitation to contemplation in an artwork. That’s what I hope to trigger in others. My works often touch on aspects of the tragic, alongside lightness and humor. I do that from a conviction that representations of the tragic can be healing. It’s the age-old idea of catharsis—the identification that flows from the suffering and struggles of others, even fictional ones. A novel in which everything is fine is a boring book. We need to be moved by depth, to see how people deal with obstacles and suffering. When I leave a cinema, I want to look at the world with different eyes, to have had the carpet pulled from under my feet for a moment. You know you’re not alone when an artwork gives you the feeling that others have also struggled. The artwork becomes a loving embrace—a consoling hand on your shoulder.
After so many years and exhibitions, what does art mean to you today?
I see art not as a profession but as a calling—an attitude towards life, a way of being. I’m proud of a portion of my work, but I also acknowledge that much doesn’t hit the mark. Failure is a great teacher—it helps you develop. To dare to fail and keep questioning yourself is vital. I make my work with the attitude of someone who makes theater—for the here and now. I couldn’t care less what happens to it after I’m gone. My goal is to create a direct dialog with the audience in this brief portion of time we share. Eternal fame doesn’t interest me. Modesty—the ability not to take oneself too seriously—is a noble goal. I think that’s where authenticity resides.