09 april 2025, Wouter van den Eijkel
The studio of... Joncquil
According to Joncquil, absurdism will have to give way soon, as reality has overtaken it. Until then, he believes there is nothing stranger than the ‘everyday’. His work is currently part of a duo exhibition with Swedish artist Michael Johansson at Galerie Ramakers, titled 'potato tomato'. The title refers to the phonetic joke of tomāto – tomato and potāto – potato, referring to the different pronunciation between British and American English and essentially mean ‘same difference’. “The title reflects the multi-interpretability of our work and by extension, of reality.”
Joncquil’s collaboration and friendship with Johansson dates back nearly 20 years. They met at a fair in Stockholm and have worked together regularly since. “When I saw his work, I had this odd thought: ‘Hey, that could’ve been my work, too.’” They have bonded over details that most would overlook—like the German actor who provides the voice for Bruce Willis. “What is he doing now that Bruce Willis is suffering from dementia?”
'potato tomato' can be seen until 4 May at Galerie Ramakers in The Hague.
Where is your studio and what does it look like?
My studio is in the Broedplaats de DCR on De Constant Rebecqueplein, the studio complex in the Stroomkwartier in The Hague. The municipality has offered a space to artists from various creative hubs that had disappeared around the early 2000s. The building was completely stripped and renovated for years. When I moved in back in 2007, it was nearly finished. My own studio was still a bare shell at the time. It has high ceilings and large windows. I work in the front area. In the back, there’s a sitting area and storage for work and materials. Along one long wall, I’ve mounted numerous lamps from the 1950s — a collection that is slowly becoming a work in itself. Mid-century design often plays a role in my work.
There was a communal space in the middle of the building with no clear function. The entrance had been transformed into a museum-like area. Eelco van der Lingen (director of the Mondriaan Fund, ed.) and I brainstormed on how to make good use of the space. After a successful exhibition, it felt natural to create a programme. We wanted to combine the flair of a museum, the focus of a gallery and the creativity of an artist-run initiative. This led to the founding of the NEST Foundation, through which we curated exhibitions together. He’s great with words, while I focus on building and setting up exhibitions.
potato tomato, Galerie Ramakers
What makes a good studio space for you?
Over the years, I’ve had lots of different studios in all shapes and sizes. I quickly realised that a studio with high ceilings works best for me. The height of the space is more important to me than, for instance, the length — perhaps so my thoughts can rise and fall freely.
Suppose I were to intern with you — what might I experience on an average day at your studio?
I don’t really have average studio days. I’m not a believer in early starts, so you wouldn’t need to show up at 8 a.m. We’d talk a lot and marvel together as we work. With an intern, I’d place a lot of emphasis on lunch — it’s something I sometimes forget personally. Practically speaking, my days lack routine. The madness (or absurdity) of the day can result in a dozen works or it might mean I spend most of the day ‘drowning’ in thought and producing inwardly.
Someone once suggested that given that I seem to have lots of free time, I should take up studying alongside my art practice to use my days more effectively. I did that for a while and really enjoyed it — I studied philosophy and humanistic studies. Initially, they were right: I gained lots of ideas and could apply them directly to my work. But eventually, it became too much: I found myself painting while thinking about preparing for lectures or reading Camus and envisioning artwork. I need that literal (tall) mental space and an empty wall, the time and headspace to allow ideas to emerge. For me, staring at a wall for eight hours can be incredibly useful. The ideal studio? Maybe a church building in the Bossche School style. It would consist of two parts: one filled with context and materials and one empty, where nothing can distract from focus.
Joncquil, la dolce vita / nothing to declare, 2025, Galerie Ramakers
Your current show at Galerie Ramakers with Michael Johansson is called 'potato tomato', a blend of the phonetic joke of tomāto – tomato and potāto – potato, which highlights the minute pronunciation difference between British and American English and essentially means ‘same difference’. How did you come up with that title?
Michael and I thought long and hard about how to best express our kinship and arrived at this layered ‘pun’ that becomes a philosophical statement. Due to a printing error, the invitation said Tomato potato, and just like ‘same difference’, we ironically agreed it suddenly meant something entirely different. The title refers to the multiple interpretations of our work and by extension, of reality.
How did the collaboration with Michael Johansson come about?
I met him years ago in Stockholm. We were there in the founding year of Nest and thought it would be a good idea to go international right away. I first saw his work at Market, the Scandinavian version of Art Rotterdam, and then met him at Supermarket, a fair for artist-run initiatives. When I saw his work, I had this odd thought: “Hey, that could be my work, too.” And since he also had an artist-run initiative, it turned into a déjà vu-like conversation.
It’s not like I’m looking at a copy of myself, but had I grown up in Sweden, there’s a chance I might have become a kind of Michael Johansson. We share a sense of wonder about reality — this perceived absurdity is at the core of both our art. For example, we both latched onto the idea that there’s a German actor who lends his voice to Bruce Willis and only has work when Bruce does a new film. I imagine people’s faces at the bakery when he orders bread. Or what is he doing now that Bruce Willis is suffering from dementia? That gives me endless inspiration. To me, there’s nothing stranger than the ‘everyday’.
What does your collaboration look like?
That depends on what we’re working on. In the case of bringing together our individual work, it’s like going through different options in your head and eventually making a choice: only it’s a kind of mumbling between two people. That natural understanding shows itself in moments when he speaks Swedish to me and I respond in Dutch, and we only notice it afterward.
We both use objects in our work that were originally made for something else, but in a potato tomato kind of way. Michael’s work is usually more structured than mine, but he uses rather random materials. My work appears looser, but actually involves a lot more specific preparation time. The images often come to me before I have the actual objects I need. I think that’s why he asks me to collaborate on his larger projects. I’m not the most skilled with a saw or drill, but I understand what needs to happen conceptually and might suggest solutions that he wouldn’t allow himself — and vice versa.
We had our first exhibition together 15 years ago. Back then, I made lots of monochrome figurative paintings that I grouped geometrically in balance with his sculptures. This time, I’m also showing more of my own sculptures, which often deal with duality, making our work appear more similar.
A peek into the studio of Joncquil
What project would you pursue if time and money were no object?
I might not be able to make any work at all actually, because time and money are often key components of my art. Value and meaning are subject to the era and context we’re in. Still, I would like to create a piece about the megalomania of the self and consumer society — about assigning value to things and how we interpret that value.
In the 17th century, people in London used to walk around with a pineapple under their arm to show how wealthy they were. I think time has diluted that meaning to such a degree that we still have the strange phenomenon of golden pineapples, which show up bedazzled in fashion, for example. Without realising it, you’re carrying around a piece of fruit as a symbol of free spirit and love.
In that same vein, I imagine a strawberry department store at an exclusive location where you can buy strawberries individually at normal market prices. The prettier the strawberry, the more exclusive the presentation. The store is open year-round, but only has stock for six months, because, of course, strawberries are seasonal. The rest of the time, the store enthusiastically sells nothing at all, only ‘longing’ — a chicly curated mirror image of communism.
I’m overflowing with ideas and can’t possibly carry them all out in one lifetime. So, with unlimited resources, I would want to start a studio full of specialised staff: a whole army of doers who can create work faster than I can.
potato tomato, Galerie Ramakers
What are you currently working on?
Now that the exhibition is open, it’s time to recalibrate. While setting up, you really see your own work in context for the first time, so I often walk through it with people to reflect on what’s actually being presented.
It’s actually a bad time to have a show based on absurdism, because reality has caught up with it. The Surrealists declared their movement dead after the incomprehensibility of World War II. Now that potato and tomato are running the U.S., I fear absurdism is next. It no longer feels like an interpretation. It’s the new reality. The best thing now might be to become a biographer and just write down the ‘truth’, resulting in a novel with Kafkaesque qualities.
Besides that, I soon have to temporarily pack up and move my studio because of the building’s sustainability renovations. So, I’m literally going through my entire personal history. Talk about recalibrating. And I’m still looking for an intern to assist me…
