ARTIST INTERVIEW WITH ELKE FOLTZ

Can you take us back to your early creative roots—what first drew you to visual expression, and how did your childhood in the suburbs of Paris shape that? 

As far back as I can remember, Iʼve always been drawing. Itʼs always been my way of expressing emotions. From a young age, I would sketch characters with different facial expressions as a way to communicate how I felt. 

I grew up in Seine-et-Marne until I was nine. After that, my family –my parents, my brother, and I– moved to Luanda, Angola for a year, and then to Poitou-Charentes. Each place brought a different social environment, so I had to learn to adapt every time. My father, who drew and painted as a hobby, taught me how to draw. My mother, passed on her love of art and color to me. She is a creative soul. But I truly began to explore my creativity when I left home at 15 to study applied arts at a boarding school in Creuse. 

How did your transition from graphic design and illustration into abstract painting come about, and what felt different in that shift? 

The transition from graphic design and illustration to abstract painting happened gradually, step by step.
My illustrations were already very organic and full of details — much like my abstract compositions today. I started incorporating abstract shapes and vibrant ink colors into my illustrations, and over time, the drawing itself became more anecdotal. 

It was during the Covid time that I began exploring colors and abstraction by itself. As I began to do so, I felt the natural continuity of who I was becoming. Making that shift felt like a leap toward something more authentic, more essential. 

Berlin has been an important place for your development—what has the city offered you as an artist and as a person? 

Berlin gave me the time to get to know myself as an artist but above all as an individual. This city can be quite raw in some ways and sometimes lonely. But it was for me the perfect opportunity to heal past wounds and become what I wanted to be at my own pace. 

Much of your work seems to explore themes like harmony, roots, and renewal. Where do those themes come from in your life and experiences? 

My search for harmony began as a way to bring peace into my life. In a way, it was through that quest that I found a sense of safety. Throughout the process, I realised that harmony itʼs not only about smoothness or satisfaction. In my paintings, I often find harmony only at the very end, and not always the kind I imagined at the beginning. Itʼs a balance that emerges through contrast — the elements cooperate, but they also sometimes overlap with each other or push against each other. 

And then thereʼs the question of roots, which carries so many layers. Iʼm mixed race, and I didnʼt grow up in either Germany or Senegal. I grew up in France, so for many years, my connection to my roots existed only through the prism of my parents. Over time, I began learning more — from my mother, from my family — about my Senegalese roots. Coming to Germany, perhaps unconsciously, was also a way of seeking answers to questions my father couldnʼt answer. With time, I came to affirm that I am not half this or half that — I am whole. 

The theme of renewal came through the realisation that I didnʼt have to be ashamed of my path. Every failure, every pain, every experience became an opportunity for something new. In a way, that gave me back a sense of power over things I couldnʼt change. I could simply accept them, without shame. Things need to unfold in their own time, just like in painting. You canʼt rush them. 

You often talk about “balance in chaos.” How does that concept play out in the way you build a painting? 

I first began by questioning where to find balance in chaos. Somehow, painting helps me explore that, finding harmony through composition, playing with elements until the result feels functional, as if it works on its own. 

This idea is deeply connected to nature. In nature, thereʼs harmony, even within apparent chaos. And that, for me, is about connection. I believe weʼre all linked, as human beings, as part of nature, the universe, and maybe even something beyond that. 

Music is another example. There are overtones that create the texture of a note but also the harmony of a sound — subtle layers that shape how we feel a piece. In a similar way, I think Iʼm searching for those resonances in my work — trying to transpose a sense of balance, connection, and belonging. 

Can you describe the materials and textures youʼre most drawn to—and what role they play in conveying emotion or memory? 

Iʼm especially drawn to ink and pigments, which come from my earlier work on paper. I love this medium because it holds a kind of duality — itʼs both fragile and bold. Ink and dry pigment donʼt leave much room for mistakes; once applied, they canʼt be erased or corrected. One movement, and itʼs there. That immediacy is powerful. It conveys emotion and memory through its instantaneity. Because of that, I have to be fully present — really focused on the emotion I want to express from the very first gesture. 

Your process includes layering, collaging, and reusing fragments—what do these acts of recomposition mean to you creatively or symbolically? 

For me, itʼs a way of remembering the creative process. These fragments carry traces of a moment, a story. When I first started collaging fragments, it became a way to accept that painting isnʼt about performance or proving I can make something beautiful. 

It was about facing the discomfort of moments when I felt I had failed a painting. Reusing those pieces helped me move past that self-criticism and realize that what needs to exist in the end isnʼt really about me — itʼs about capturing a moment of life. 

Do you begin your pieces with a fixed idea, or do you let the work unfold more intuitively?

I usually begin a painting with a few key elements: the main colours, some precise initial shapes, and an emotion or reflection on life that Iʼm exploring. I sketch the first impulse fairly quickly, and at the same time, I write notes alongside the process. 

A painting often responds to questions Iʼm not fully conscious of. Once those first shapes and colours are on the canvas, the work starts to unfold more intuitively. From there, I have to feel whether the composition works on its own. 

How do color and shape function in your visual language? Are they emotional, symbolic, instinctive—or all of the above? 

I think itʼs all of the above. Over the years, Iʼve developed a personal vocabulary of shapes, mostly inspired by nature — but also deeply connected to instinct, movement, and rhythm. I also paint colors and shapes that make me feel good. 

What rituals or routines anchor your studio practice, especially when navigating the emotional depth of your themes? 

I mostly need a lot of quiet and time alone. I usually start by drawing, it helps me to get into the movement, feel comfortable and free when I start to paint on canvas. Most of the time, I write down my impressions in the evening, when everything is calm. 

In what ways does your French-Senegalese heritage inform your sense of visual storytelling or rhythm on the canvas? / What artists, writers, or thinkers have been most pivotal in shaping your outlook or inspiring your practice? 

The artist who first made me think, “Ok, I can also be an artist one day” was the Senegalese painter Ndoye Douts. My mother introduced me to his work when I was around 15, after she visited his studio in Senegal. I was amazed by his bold use of colour and the way he integrated different materials into his canvases. But more than that, it was about representation — I felt connected to his art, and also, through him, to my roots. 

Other artists who have shaped me include Helen Frankenthaler, Julie Mehretu, and Mary Lovelace OʼNeal — all powerful in their use of abstraction, gesture, and scale. 

The writer Mariama Bâ has also been important to me. I had the chance to create the cover for her book Un Chant écarlate, which was deeply meaningful — especially as it came at a time when I was starting to read more books from Senegalese writers, it was also a way to connect with that part of my heritage. 

Last year, I saw Le Sacre by choreographer Sasha Waltz and Guests. It moved me so much — the way she expressed the cycle of life was soft and intense, poetic and raw at the same time. That stayed with me. 

More recently, Iʼve been inspired by the work of Shirley Jaffe and Bob Thompson, and I enjoy reading the conversations and reflections of jazz musician Steve Lacy. 

Youʼve worked on collaborations across fashion and publishing—how do those creative intersections feed back into your painting? 

Fashion and publishing gave me a space to express my creativity from a different angle — through drawing, colour, and texture. Looking back, I see how these experiences have influenced my painting by helping me feel freer in my creative process.
They showed me that there are no limits to creativity. That sense of openness has allowed me to imagine in the future my work beyond the flat surface — for example, thinking in terms of volume — and to reintegrate drawing more intentionally into my practice. 

What kinds of conversations or feelings do you hope people carry with them after engaging with your work? 

I hope people connect with my work on an emotional level first — and then begin to notice the details, the elements that sometimes disrupt the composition, and ask themselves: “Why is that there? I canʼt explain it, but somehow it works.” 

I also hope they feel joy and a sense of hope in the work — that nothing is fixed or stagnant. Life is violent, our societies are violent, so I sincerely wish for my work to offer a space of peace. A quiet place to pause, to feel, and maybe to reconnect. 

You say that human evolution is based on mistakes. How do you point out failure as part of your artistic process? 

I often ask myself, “How can we see mistakes as opportunities to grow within the creative process?” For me, Iʼve come to realize that what I once called mistakes are actually experiences. Today, mistakes donʼt really exist as failures in my work. Instead, theyʼre moments that redirect me toward what suits me or doesnʼt. I see them as chances to better understand what I want in my art, and to clarify the direction I want to take — or avoid. Once a painting is finished, whether I fully appreciate it or not, it feels complete and no longer truly belongs to me. 

Where do you see positivity and light in the circle of life? Where do you see the dark side to it and where does it manifest inside your work? 

The circle of life is beautiful because it represents life in its essence. To me, we are all connected — as human beings linked to each other, to nature, to the universe, and even to other realms. I see a lot of light and beauty in that interconnectedness. 

But the dark side comes from the way our societies and social systems — at least those Iʼve lived in — often fail to support and respect the dignity of humanity and the natural rhythms of life. Social justice and the struggles we face are deeply intersectional. I believe this tension manifests in my work through a desire to create, hopefully, a feeling of belonging.