Over the years I've become a big fan of Tim Sandow’s paintings and the way he’s been building his ambiguous scenes. Highly cinematic with a healthy dash of cartoonish aesthetics, they appear as dramatic movie stills, purposely left for the viewer to speculate on their “before and after” scenarios. So ever since I saw that Droste Galladé will be starting a new exhibition season with his solo show at their Düsseldorf space, I was keen to see what the Wuppertal-based artist has been up to. And I instantly fell for these murky, dimly lit, moody scenes in which protagonists are pulled from that cartoon aesthetic into an almost caricatured sphere. Plus, Sandow was kind enough to chat about Krefeld for an interview…
Saša Bogojev: The exhibition text states, "Krefeld is the middle child and the piece of furniture that has always been there but has never been noticed." Could you elaborate on this?
Tim Sandow: Most places today want to stand for something. They have a brand, a story, and an almost exhausting need to explain exactly who they are. I like the idea that not everything has to constantly fight for attention. To me, Krefeld sounds a little bit like something that has come to terms with its own fate. Maybe that also has something to do with the constellation of being the middle child. You quickly end up in this state of being overlooked and merely counted along, without much consideration for your individual characteristics. But this disappointment never turns into a reproach. Maybe that is actually the central idea behind the title. Not that Krefeld exists in the shadow of larger cities, but that it has settled there with a certain persistence. It is simply there, like an armchair in a living room set. Nothing particularly exciting, but the perfect place for the dog to sleep.
SB: The scenes from Krefeld are some of your most unlit, most sinister works I've seen over the years. What informed this direction?
TS: I don't actually think they've become darker. They're quieter, with fewer distractions. You used to be able to spend a long time inside the paintings because little things were happening everywhere. Small side stories you could hold onto. A lot of that has disappeared now. That leaves more room for what people might read as darkness. Maybe that's it.
SB: Oh, I was certain there was a deliberate sense of dread and uncertainty in them, due to the lack of light and their general tone. So that wasn't made that way intentionally?
TS: I know these expectations well, and they are probably quite helpful in giving the paintings a certain seriousness in the way they are announced. But that was never my starting point. It was more the logical consequence of the process itself. Imagine you are tidying up your apartment and you create a box for all the loose objects you consider important. The box simply gets fuller and fuller. At first, it feels like a safe place to store things, but somehow it also becomes a place for unresolved problems. Eventually, you throw away the box without reassessing every single object inside. Admittedly, that is not a particularly forward-thinking approach. But in a way, it describes every single step that led to why the paintings do not merely pretend to hide something, but actually do hide something. They have gone through many cycles of correction and countless attempts. What really interests me about painting at the moment is how little a painting actually needs in order to convey an atmosphere.
SB: As an analogy enthusiast, I love what you did there! But can you tell us a bit about what they hide?
TS: There is a different image beneath each layer of paint. There could have been 10, or even 16 other images.
SB: Your previous work was much more specific and defined, whereas these works feel sparser, more ambiguous, and timeless. Was this intentional, and why?
TS: I think several things gradually influenced my work. One major factor was making my video piece, Country Crew. In my head, the film was incredibly clear. I was convinced I could realize those exact images, just like I usually can with my paintings. Then I realized that filmmaking is mostly about compromise. Suddenly, I depended on an incredible number of people. Actors, the weather, locations, equipment. At some point, reality just tells you, "No, your image isn't very interested in you right now.“ In my mind, the film took place in a warm desert, like one I'd seen in Andalusia. In reality, we ended up shooting in a quarry in Wuppertal just before Christmas. That was probably the first time I seriously asked myself what my images actually depend on. Is the idea really that strong, or does it only work because of the right props and the right atmosphere? In the end, I had to let go of a lot, simply because time, money, and resources were limited. But I wanted to make that film anyway. Shortly afterward, I started teaching painting at the University of Wuppertal. I often ask my students the same question: What exactly do you want to investigate through your painting? At some point, I realized I needed to ask myself that same question. I think that's when I became less interested in making definitive statements. I don't feel the need to fill every surface with information anymore. Sometimes it's enough for a painting to simply suggest that something is there, or might be.
SB: Suggestion is definitely a powerful tool, and I noticed that part of this is achieved through a looser, gestural painterly approach. Were you consciously going towards that, or did it just happen?
TS: More than anything, I wanted to keep myself from getting bored. I reached a point where I realized I was starting to rely on my own visual language, the very thing that had probably defined my work for a long time. Or, to put it more bluntly, I had started repeating it. That's probably perfectly normal, but somehow it bothered me anyway. So now I'm looking for new solutions, even if that means getting in my own way from time to time. In practical terms, that means I plan my paintings much less. At the same time, switching to oil painting introduced a new technique that constantly confuses and overwhelms me. So it's a lot all at once. I simply wanted to get back to a place where I sometimes don't know whether I'm making a painting better or worse, just so I can figure out which parts of my control are actually necessary.
SB: This approach seems much more uncertain and risky. What led you to switch to oils, and how difficult was it to adjust to these new dynamics?
TS: I’d love to say, "The cool kids talked me into using that stuff." But the truth is, the acrylic paint felt a bit like the “10th veggie schnitzel” option at the supermarket. While I was working on the Krefeld paintings, I naturally created many acrylic versions as well, none of which satisfied me. I think the most important realization was that as soon as I changed how I applied the paint, the new medium presented new demands and requirements that didn’t necessarily take my old habits into account.
SB: The palette is extremely limited in this body of work too, with only light glow breaking the lush murkiness. Where is this stark limitation coming from?
TS: I think limitations are often more productive than endless possibilities. Maybe it already starts with simply preferring certain paint tubes over others. For me, it also has to do with creating new problems. When almost everything is dark, every small bright area suddenly carries enormous weight, even though it doesn't actually have to do much more than before. All of a sudden, the paint itself and its surface become much more important, because every single decision becomes more visible.
SB: Am I wrong if I think of Goya's Black Paintings when looking at these? The dog piece in particular.
TS: Not at all. The dog and I probably know we have this problem. But if someone immediately shouts “Goya” every time they see a dark picture, maybe they should take a look out the window at night. I mean, of course, these kinds of images are part of our visual memory. We all probably carry much more art history with us than we are aware of, and every now and then it simply resurfaces without warning. But I would never claim that I sat down and thought, "Today I'm going to paint a little Goya." That would be a pretty bad idea.
SB: I figured it would be a more intuitive act rather than a calculated move. The images are much sparser in terms of the protagonists involved in the scene. They feel like cinematic crescendos, with the main character as the last man standing. What's the idea behind painting mostly solitary scenes?
TS: People are just incredibly exhausting. The moment you paint two people together, you've already created a marriage crisis. Viewers can't help themselves. Two figures stand side by side, and suddenly everyone wants to know: are they together? Do they hate each other? Who left whom? Maybe they're simply standing next to each other. But we don't accept that. A single person can simply exist. I find that surprisingly comforting right now. Almost radical.
SB: Oh, that's a great way of looking at that. But what about each of them becoming a main character with a grand mission? You're ok with viewers (me), assuming that?
TS: I wouldn’t find that problematic at all, because I can understand this desire very well. Ultimately, we want to create a connection with the figures. But I think following a mission, having a task to fulfill, also has a lot to do with a longing for every action to have meaning, perhaps even a comprehensible, purposeful action that we, as viewers, can categorize and judge.
SB: So, what would be your "ideal" way in which viewers look and think of Krefeld?
TS: I don't know why I'd have to choose. If people leave thinking differently about the city, that's fine. If they leave thinking differently about the paintings, that's fine too. What's less interesting to me is when they leave with exactly the same opinion they arrived with.
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