Rinus Van de Velde Dreams Big

Cigarettes with David Hockney. Watching television with Willem de Kooning. Dressing up as chess master Bobby Fischer. These are things Rinus Van de Velde imagines in his Antwerp studio.

'As humans, we have been given a powerful gift to fantasise,' says the artist. 'There seems to be a big belief that you have to travel the world to experience things but I think there are many places you can go while sitting in your studio.'

The Belgian artist constructs these fantastical inventions first as cardboard models before realising them as drawings, videos or sculptures, the latest of which are on view at Galerie Max Hetzler in Paris for his France solo debut (7 September–5 October 2024).

Speaking from his studio in Antwerp, Van de Velde tells Ocula how he came to be the protagonist of his work, the conversations he dreamt up with his art heroes, and the time he used his local chess club as pawns for his faux-autobiographical artwork.

What was your first experience of art?

It was on a trip to Paris with a few friends to celebrate the new year at the turn of the millennium. I was about 16 years old. One friend convinced me to go to a show on Fauvism at Musée d'Art Moderne de Paris. There was a two-hour queue to see the show, but he was persistent so we stayed in line.

As we entered, I was completely struck by all these paintings by André Derain, Henri Matisse, Edvard Munch, Kees van Dongen and Maurice de Vlaminck. I wanted to buy the catalogue but had no money, so I bought the cheap exhibition guide instead. When I got back home to Belgium, I went to a bookstore and bought the first book that I came across in the art section. It was Ernst Gombrich's Eternal Beauty, a sort of art history for dummies which is very beautifully written. That's how I started to experience art until I finally found the courage to become an artist myself. I would draw secretly in my parents' house; it was in the confines of my bedroom that I could pretend I was an artist.

Can you introduce your Max Hetzler show?

This is the first large-scale presentation I've had in Paris, so I felt it important to show every aspect of my practice: oil pastel drawings, charcoal drawings, and smaller coloured pencil drawings.

My drawings are based on cardboard sets that I construct in my studio based on parallel universes. I then photograph myself within these sets and make a drawing based off of these photographs. I invent a life that I've never lived. I used to throw away the sets once the drawings were finished, which I always thought was a bit of a shame—that's what prompted my films.

Can you talk a little about your films and A Life in A Day (2021–23), which will be on view in Paris?

When André Breton died, a film crew came to his apartment to capture his collection of 'primitive art'. The camera travelled through this 3D landscape and the result was a 2D video. I thought this would be a great way to preserve the sets that I was building for my drawings.

A Life in A Day is the third film I've made, all shot in the studio. It's about the routine of an artist: waking up, going to my studio, making work, and going back home to sleep. My assistant plays me, wearing a mask of my face, as I wanted to be both in front of and behind the camera.

Does this mask ever come into use outside the studio?

I once had a show in China which I didn't want to go to so my assistant went along with the mask. It's become a useful double for when I don't want to go to events.

How did you become the main character in your works?

It first happened in a video series I made about the chess master Bobby Fischer. A friend had said I looked like Fischer and suggested I watch a documentary on him. I was intrigued and began to make a series about him being me or me being him.

I invited the local chess club to my studio to play fake chess games with me, and I would pretend to beat them all. I always stay inside, and I fantasise about the life I could have had if I were to have gone outside more, or lived another sort of life.

What is it about travel or being outside that you are opposed to?

There are too many obstructions, too many distractions. If I were a plein-air painter, I would be worried about getting sunburnt in the summer, or that my feet would be too cold in the winter. As humans, we have a powerful gift to fantasise and daydream. There seems to be a big belief that you have to travel the world to experience things, but I think you can experience a lot by sitting in your studio as well.

Where have you fantasised about going?

When I was 14 we went on a family holiday to the Grand Canyon. We flew to Las Vegas and drove for hours, but when we arrived I said to my father that I didn't want to get out of the car. My dad agreed because he was nice like that, but ultimately I was just being an annoying kid. I sat in the car for hours while my family went to see it, and when they were back we drove away. I never saw the Grand Canyon that day, but I've fantasised about it a lot since. David Hockney later made some beautiful paintings of the Grand Canyon, and I think there is no better artist to see it through.

You have imaginary conversations with artists both dead and alive. When you fantasise being friends with Hockney, or Willem de Kooning, for example, what do you imagine you'd talk about with them?

I almost met Hockney once. But that near-meeting got me thinking that perhaps I don't want to meet him, because what would I say? I like your work? Would you like to smoke? Here's a cigarette. Most of those dialogues are pretty disappointing. So instead I prefer to fantasise. With de Kooning, I wonder what about him would annoy me, or what we'd watch on television. Or whether we'd fight.

How would you describe your way of working in the studio?

I've always thought that there's a big difference between passion and obsession. Passionate artists are okay artists—a Sunday painter perhaps. I think all great artists are obsessive. However, obsession is not always fun. It's like smoking: you have to smoke—you're addicted—but you don't enjoy every cigarette you have.

You've spoken about how it took you ten years to use colour in your drawings. How did this develop?

For so long, I considered myself a draughtsman. You don't see too many coloured drawings in historical art—it's mostly monochrome pencil or charcoal, or perhaps red crayon for master draughtsmen. I began looking for ways to introduce colour into drawing, at a scale which could compete with painting. Once I found oil pastels, everything clicked.

Tell me how you approach colour.

When I draw, I want to be fully focused on the drawing and not be distracted by colour. I found myself getting frustrated when I couldn't find a specific shade of green. In the end, I rang the factory that supplied the oil pastels and requested every single colour they produced. Now, I have a beautiful display like you see in the shops. Of course, it's limited, but the fact that I know I have all five shades of yellow helps me relax, and so when these colours arrived, the process just clicked. That, and perhaps the fact that my kids were away for the week. These breakthroughs always seem to happen when they're away with their grandparents.

What's the most beautiful thing about being an artist?

I always think about this Franz West quote. When asked why he was an artist, he responded that it gave him something to pass the time. Art gives me a purpose in life. If I didn't draw, I'd be so bored I'd end up running around the city or sitting around in coffee shops. Drawing is a way to spend time in a useful way. —[O]