After graduating cum laude from Amsterdam’s Gerrit Rietveld Academy with a degree in painting and graphics, Dutch visual artist Jasper Krabbé (b. 1970, Amsterdam) continued his studies at The Cooper Union in New York. His paintings capture memories of places, events and people vividly, drawing inspiration from his travels to Cuba, the South Pacific, New Zealand and beyond.

Krabbé's artistic journey began on the streets as a graffiti writer. Known as 'JAZ', he was a key member of the Amsterdam collective USA (United Street Artists). His early experience in graffiti is still palpable, infusing his current work with a dynamic, urban energy.

In his drawings, Krabbé often incorporates existing materials like envelopes, wrapping paper and pages from books or encyclopedias. He repurposes these items, seamlessly incorporating workhorse materials into personal imagery and creating works that are both nostalgic and innovative. A master of mixed media with a unique approach, Jasper Krabbé is a compelling voice in contemporary art.

The 1605 team chatted with Krabbé to discover more about his inspiring aesthetic exploration.

Your family has a strong artistic legacy. How has growing up in such an environment influenced your artistic journey and style?

There are five generations of painters in my family, so I suppose I didn’t know any better…I remember growing up with the smell of drying oil paint, as my father used to have his studio at home. When he first made some money, instead of spending it on a new car, he would buy a Bonnard! That's how important art was at home. Visiting my grandfather’s studio, I remember it being scattered with canvases and him as a stark silhouette in front of a very large window—on the north of course. Towards the end of his life, my grandfather devoted himself solely to painting dreamlike gardens. My daughter, Lotus is the first woman in our family to pick up the brush, and she creates truly powerful work.

Abstraction and figurative elements often blend and bounce off one another in your work. Can you tell us more about your process and approach?

Yes, this aspect of my work is quite intricate and, I guess, deeply personal. When I start a painting, I usually begin with a foundation of a concrete experience or preliminary sketches. These initial elements often come from real-life observations, photographs or memories that have lingered in my mind. They provide a structural basis, a sort of anchor, from which the rest of the piece can evolve.

However, as I go deeper into the painting process, I tend to shift into a more intuitive mode. This is where abstraction begins to play a significant role. Abstraction, for me, represents the less tangible aspects of reality—the emotions, the fleeting thoughts and the subconscious mind. It's about capturing the essence of an experience or feeling without being confined to literal representation.

The interplay between abstraction and figuration in my work is crucial. The figurative elements often serve as a narrative thread, providing a sense of continuity and a reference point for the viewer. This narrative is typically non-linear, reflecting the way our minds process stories and memories—fragmented, layered, and sometimes disjointed. It's like piecing together a dream where each element holds meaning but doesn't necessarily follow a conventional storyline.

Abstraction, on the other hand, allows me to explore the spaces between these figurative anchors. It opens the canvas up to interpretation and invites the viewer to engage with the work on a more personal level. Through abstraction, I can evoke moods, atmospheres and emotions that are not easily expressed through figurative imagery alone. It's about creating a dialogue between the seen and the unseen, the known and the unknown.

Art is often a conduit for complex concepts, memory and identity chief amongst them for you. How do you use art as a medium to convey or unravel your ideas?

I think art, and specifically painting, is the last stronghold for true freedom. And it’s very direct, a visceral experience. Through it, you can explore what it means to be alive in this moment. I try to convey a sense of how memory operates and seek this sense of loss through colour and the materials I choose. They will mostly always have a certain age to them and, with that, a sadness about the passage of time. It’s almost embedded in the material. I found these great theatre backdrops from a dwindling opera house that now inform my painting, as they are with huge fields of dry, matte colour.

Colour is crucial for you. Could you share how you approach colour choices and how they contribute to the overall narrative?

I love colour, especially colours that have faded, the sun extracting some of the pigment. For that reason, I first painted with water colour on cardboard, as the paint tends to sink into the material quite a bit, taking on the appearance of an old movie poster. I make elaborate studies from photos I take of crumbling advertisements or sun-wretched awnings. I am currently producing a line of oil colours with Old Holland, one of the oldest paint makers in the Netherlands; these are forgotten colours, you could say, with names like Angel Blush, New York Awning or Sunstroke Poster. As I tend to sign my work only on the back of the canvas, people often say they recognise my work from the specific use of colour alone.

What are some of the challenges you've faced as an artist, and how have you overcome them?

The more steps you take, the more new challenges appear. One of the most persistent challenges is maintaining a sense of balance in my work. This means aligning the image, content, material presence of the object, vibe, intention and execution. Each of these elements needs to harmonise for the artwork to resonate both inwardly and outwardly. Achieving this alignment is a complex process that requires constant adjustment and introspection. And a letting go…

Another significant challenge for many artists, including myself, might be the struggle to stay true to my artistic vision while also adapting to external pressures. This includes expectations from galleries, collectors and the broader art market. It can be easy to get swayed by trends or the desire for commercial success, but I’ve found that remaining true to myself is crucial for my growth and satisfaction as an artist.

Historically, art has been a strong reflection of society as a whole. Does that remain true today?

Art holds a transformative power. It can free us from the confines of our daily routines, lift our spirits and offer a beacon of hope in challenging times. Most importantly, truly impactful art provides us with a profound sense of belonging and a reason to exist. This might sound lofty, but I genuinely believe that one of the artist's primary tasks is to touch upon or, at times, reveal the great mystery into which we are born.

At its best, it connects us to something larger than ourselves. It can evoke emotions, provoke thought and foster empathy. Through my work, I aim to create a space where viewers can experience this sense of wonder and introspection. I hope to capture the beauty and complexity of the human experience, highlighting that the extraordinary often lies within the ordinary.

In What is Art?, Tolstoy posited that art’s purpose was to transmit feeling from maker to viewer. What message or emotions do you hope to evoke through your work?

The message I strive to convey is multifaceted. On one level, I want to inspire viewers to see the world with fresh eyes, to find beauty in the mundane and to appreciate the subtle nuances of everyday life. On another level, my work seeks to explore deeper themes such as identity, memory and the passage of time. By blending abstraction with figuration, I create a dialogue between the tangible and intangible aspects of existence.

I want my art to resonate on a personal level with each viewer. I hope to evoke a range of feelings—from joy and nostalgia to contemplation and introspection. By engaging with my work, I want people to feel a connection to their own experiences and emotions, as well as to the broader human condition.

Your artistic journey began as a graffiti artist operating under the nickname JAZ. How did this early experience with graffiti shape your artistic style and influence your current approach? Are there any elements or techniques from your graffiti days that you still incorporate into your work today?

Totally! Graffiti still permeates what I do—scale, colour, material and, I suppose, attitude. My approach has a classical element somewhere, but the basic tone and a lot of the subject matter still hail from the early graffiti days. For instance, I recently finished an ode to Dr. Rat, one of the early graffiti pioneers in Amsterdam. He, and later ‘Shoe’, were among the reasons I wanted to become an artist. The freedom of it…Graffiti was something we did together to have fun; it was dangerous and thrilling. I escaped police chases many times and had my fair share of getting caught. Like a cat, I think I used up at least eight of my nine lives in those days. The greatest, craziest time.

There is an ongoing debate about the importance of formal art education for artists. Considering your own experience, how do you see its role in shaping an artist's development?

You know what? I don’t believe you necessarily need an education. If you see the number of superb ‘self-taught’ artists like Bill Traylor or Martin Ramirez, you wouldn’t say one needs a formal art education at all. For me, it was a struggle at Gerrit Rietveld Academy. I had to prove myself doubly, as I hailed from this famous family.

Tell us about your time at The Cooper Union. Are there any specific lessons or experiences from your time in New York that have had a lasting impact on your artistic practice?

I had developed against the system more than because of it. Until I came to The Cooper Union.  An absolute art heaven, it taught me one essential lesson: you can't teach art. The late great painter Jack Whitten (may he rest in peace) showed the way by just being an incredible artist himself. At the beginning of the semester, he challenged us: “OK, so you want to be an artist? Then be it. By the end of this, I want to see 10 works. Title them, install them, do the lighting, invites, pricing, everything.” So inspiring!

In an interview, Marilyn Manson once said, “I was in a drug rehab program once, but they kicked me out. That bored me to death. I asked the therapist if he could name a single artist who made more exciting art after rehab. He then sent me to a psychiatrist, who told me he didn’t treat artists, that was hopeless: they needed the ups and downs for their art, I should just make sure that I had more ups. It’s a constant struggle. Many great musicians, actors, painters, or writers have suffered throughout their lives – and great art has emerged from their pain.” As an artist, what are your thoughts on this notion? Do you believe that personal struggles and challenges are essential for creating profound and impactful art, or do you find that creativity can thrive equally in moments of joy and contentment?

There are those who create from joy like, say, Matisse (although he juggled major setbacks and struggle too!) and those who maybe create from pain. I think it’s safe to say all great artists have known their share of true suffering. If you go through hardship and pain, you can see the value of the joyous elements of life better. I created some of the most personal work after a major breakup. It was as if I had had open-heart surgery and they forgot to close me up. I already have relatively open nerves, but through this loss, things were amplified. I remember seeing a small child on the street reaching to grab his mother’s hand and missing it…That small gesture would kill me. I was in a state of extraordinary awareness.  

I made a series then, titled Japanese Paintings, in which reversed paintings showed the image of Maria Callas in her role as Madame Butterfly. One day, I came to the studio and saw the backside… it was more beautiful than the front! I un-stretched the canvas and used the mirror image that had seeped through to the back of the unprimed canvas and then showed it as the front—a painting that had made itself through chance. They were paintings that dealt with loss in a less literal way, figuring Maria Callas fading from sight. It also suggested the ritual the Japanese have when blossoms start falling and they sit under the trees to watch them decay, enhancing the sense of beauty in impermanence. You could say that impermanent beauty is at the core of my work.

There has been a long-standing association between drug use and the creative process, with some artists believing that substances enhance artistic inspiration or facilitate a certain state of mind. However, there are also concerns about the potential negative effects on mental and physical well-being. What are your thoughts?

Drugs can certainly open your perception to a wider field of knowledge, but I have seldom had an experience where it directly produced a good work. I recall scribbling down some idea I once deemed brilliant during a magic mushroom trip that made absolutely no sense to me when I came out of it. I think one can access that state through meditation or being totally immersed in the making process as well. Challenging your own beliefs with a clear head and, more importantly, without fear brings to me the openness to expand my own boundaries. It requires extraordinary faith to leap over the fire. If you do, you will be rewarded with a feeling of total transcendence.

The process of creating your art book dedicated to your daughter June, together with your partner Annemarieke van Drimmelen, was a unique union of photography and painting. Hybrid images blend captured moments with an added otherworldly layer. What was the experience of creating this project like?

Following a shoot Annemarieke had on the island during the pandemic that, special permits were issued so that we were able to stay on the then totally deserted island of Hydra in Greece, solely inhabited by the locals, their donkeys and cats. Absolutely no tourists. It was as if we had time-traveled to the 50s! We stayed for two months. During our strolls through the empty harbour, the beaches and the surrounding villages, June, then 3, pointed out things that were remarkable to her, like a tree that had been painted blue or a piece of wire that she took for a horse. Her playful gaze, the halting of time and the incredible nature of Hydra made us want to honour those moments. Together with her, but mainly through her eyes, we started documenting what she saw. Annemarieke taking photos and me painting. It came about very naturally, but as we progressed, it became apparent that our methods of creating are very different! We had some big arguments over the autonomy of our own input, haha. When we came back to Amsterdam and had the prints, I remember cutting one of them up to use as a collage, much to Annemarieke’s dismay. But so much magic happened during the making process! We introduced each other to elements from our own practice—a certain way of framing, overpainting with poems I had written or leaving out unnecessary elements. The collaboration taught me to open up to other possibilities in my own work. We learned a lot from each other.