13 january 2026, Yves Joris
Doubt as not a flaw, but a direction: Tosja van Lieshout
It was snowing the afternoon I met with Tosja van Lieshout in Antwerp. Not the spectacular kind of snow that immediately results in photographs and superlatives, but the soft, quiet kind that briefly puts the city on pause. Inside, tea was brewing. Outside, footsteps were muffled. The conversation that followed didn’t need to go anywhere. It could simply linger, return, contradict itself.
Tosja van Lieshout currently lives in Antwerp with her French partner. She finds herself at a turning point familiar to many young artists: no longer a student, not yet fully defined, but undeniably evolving. The conversation circled around painting, doubt, intuition, music, landscapes, economics, social media and above all, the question of how, as an artist, you can remain faithful to what emerges, even when it has not yet taken on a clear form.
When did you know that you wanted to become an artist?
I never really had another plan. That might sound a bit odd, but it was just always there. From a very young age, I knew this was what I wanted to do. My mother is also an artist, so I grew up with it. Art wasn’t a separate world. It was simply part of everyday life. I also never really imagined myself in any other profession. I never thought, maybe I’ll become this or that. It was more a given, without me putting it clearly into words at any time.
Was that kind of certainty ever frightening?
Not really. Of course, there were moments of doubt, but not about the fact that I am an artist. The doubt was always more about how to relate to the world. How do you make a living from art, how do you continue after your studies, how do you stay true to what you do without losing yourself? Those kinds of questions. But I never questioned being an artist itself.
How did that path progress exactly?
I took extra art classes in secondary school, which felt like a natural place to express myself and explore what painting could mean. After that, I continued my education at the academy, which again seemed logical in relation to how I thought my path would progress.
I earned a Bachelor of Fine Art from AKV|St. Joost in 2020. The first years there, I learned a lot about materials, techniques and how to create your own voice within an academic context. After that, I continued with a Master in Painting at the Frank Mohr Institute in Groningen, which I completed in 2024. That master’s programme mainly gave me time and space to dig deeper into my way of working, without immediately having to produce results. It felt logical, but in hindsight I realise that I still had a rather romantic image of how everything would go: you graduate and then… well, then you’re suddenly ‘there’.
Tosja van Lieshout, Take a dive, 2025, guest artist NQ Gallery / Yellow Gallery
You graduated at a time when the world literally came to a standstill.
Yes, that was a strange experience. You finish something and think that it all starts now and then something completely unexpected happens. The pandemic made everything uncertain, but also gave me focus. I didn’t really have a clear idea of what ‘life after the academy’ was supposed to look like, so I didn’t feel like something had been taken away from me. It was more as if the world was saying: wait a moment. And that waiting gave me the opportunity to work.
But that wasn’t the end of your education. You completed another Master in Painting at the Frank Mohr Institute (2024) and also did residencies in places like Zundert and Kyoto. What role did those play in your artistic development?
Both the programmes and residencies were very formative, though not always in a comfortable way. I think it was during the residencies that I really began to feel how vulnerable an artist really is. You are removed from your familiar environment and suddenly everything has to gain meaning again: your work, your rhythm, your conviction.
While doing my master’s, this was different of course. At first, it mostly felt like pressure. You are surrounded by other artists who are all working intensely, showing a lot, saying a lot. That can be motivating, but it can also make you doubt your own voice. I noticed that I was sometimes so focused on what was happening around me that I briefly lost touch with my own work.
That’s why those residencies were necessary. They forced me to get past that doubt. To not react immediately, not produce immediately, but to stay with the discomfort for a little while longer. In hindsight, I see it was a turning point: that’s where I began to let go of expectations, both my own and those of others.
What stayed with me most was how intense it can be to work with such focus, without escape routes. You can’t hide behind routines or distractions. Everything becomes visible: what works, what doesn’t, what you don’t have words for yet. That was sometimes confronting, but also formative.
I think that’s where I learned that my work doesn’t become stronger through certainty, but through allowing doubt. That wasn’t an immediate conclusion, but something that developed slowly.
Did you ever lose track of your direction because of that?
Yes, sometimes. Especially in the beginning, I felt that I was seeing so much new art, so many possibilities, that I almost no longer knew where my own place was. That took time. Only later did I understand that confusion is also part of the process.
When did your work begin to feel more personal?
In the final year of my master’s, I think. That was the first time I really felt that I needed my work to process things. Not as an illustration of feelings, but as a way to deal with them. It was no longer about meeting expectations, but about something that had to be expressed.
You often speak about necessity. What do you mean by that exactly?
I mean not being able to do otherwise, the feeling that I have to do this, even when I doubt, even when I don’t understand it. Sometimes, while working, I don’t know where I’m going. That can be frightening, but also liberating. Music plays a big role in your studio.
Music plays a big role in your studio.
Yes, music is often the first thing I think of when it comes to inspiration. I almost always work to music. It determines my tempo, my movements. It’s not background noise, but a kind of co-creator. But I can’t spend all my time in my studio. I need to go outside, see people, drink coffee, experience something. Otherwise, I feel like I’m suffocating.
Tosja van Lieshout, I love you again, 2025, guest artist NQ Gallery / Yellow Gallery
I don’t start with landscape as a subject. I’m more interested in texture, in movement, in something that grows. A landscape implies overview, perspective, a system. My work is more fragmentary. It arises from below, from layers, from what presents itself.
How do you begin a painting?
Very physically. I work quickly. I need resistance from the material. The canvas has to push back. I leave earlier layers visible. Previous work is allowed to keep playing a role. I find it important that you can see what has been there.
Is doubt part of that process?
Always. Doubt is constantly present. But I no longer see it as something negative. I used to try to eliminate doubt, but now I see that there is strength in it. It keeps the work accessible.
How do you deal with the economic side of being an artist?
That remains difficult. You have to recognise opportunities, but also know when something isn’t right for you. Not every opportunity is the right one. I try to enter into collaborations based on trust, where I can remain true to myself.
And social media?
It’s exhausting, but also useful. It’s a way to make contact. I’ve been able to arrange studio visits via Instagram. Social media is not enough in itself, but a part of being an artist.
Where do you see yourself in ten years?
I find that a difficult question because I don’t like to pin myself down. I do feel that movement will remain important to me. That may be geographical or mental. Right now, I’m living in Antwerp with my French partner and that feels right. At the same time, I also am considering Paris as a possible future base. Not as a break, but rather as the next layer. Paris doesn’t feel like an escape to me, but as a place where different lines come together. The history, the painting, the intensity of the city. I don’t know if it would be permanent, but I feel that the idea gives me a sense of space, as if I am giving myself permission to think beyond the now. What matters to me is that a place feeds my work, not confines it. That I can move somewhere, look, get lost. Paris carries that possibility within it, without it having to be a fixed plan yet.
For my final question, I asked her about her role models and which artist she would ask which question. In the silence, I sensed dozens of names passing by.
I wouldn’t want to ask Edvard Munch how he painted or why exactly. That doesn’t really interest me. I think I would ask him how he endured it, how he kept working without compromising himself, without losing himself. Whether he ever felt he went too far and what that meant. Not technically, but emotionally. Where, for him, the boundary lay between being honest and destroying himself—and whether he considered that boundary important at all. Maybe I would also ask him whether he was ever afraid that his work would consume him. And whether he saw that as a danger or as something necessary.
She smiles briefly, almost apologetically, as if she realises that those questions are ultimately less about him and more about herself.
Tosja van Lieshout, Every morning I forget, 2025, guestartist NQ Gallery / Yellow Gallery
