Inside the Studio: Torsten Trantow
- Art Dealer Street
- 2 days ago
- 8 min read
After decades working in graphic design, illustration, and comics, his hands deeply trained in structure and clarity, Trantow turned toward abstraction as a necessary act of release. Where design demanded answers, painting allowed questions. Where concepts once led, intuition now takes the first step.
His abstract works unfold slowly and deliberately — layers of color, scarred textures, and moments of tension that feel less composed than discovered. Each canvas becomes a quiet terrain shaped by emotion, memory, and risk, inviting the viewer into a space that is both deeply personal and intentionally open.
Rooted in long experience but driven by curiosity, Trantow’s practice lives in the space between control and surrender. His paintings don’t rush. They breathe, pause, and wait — asking only that you do the same.
In this Inside the Studio conversation, Torsten Trantow reflects on freedom after structure, the beauty of doubt, and how abstraction became both a refuge and a form of hope.
Read on to learn more in an exclusive interview with Torsten Trantow :
Your artistic path began in graphic design and illustration, fields built on precision and structure. What was the turning point when you realized abstraction offered you something design could not?
After my training as a graphic designer, I worked freelance for over twenty years in the fields of illustration, graphic design, and comics. I primarily worked for publishers, newspapers, and advertising agencies—mostly based on clearly defined concepts and scripts. These commissions demand precision, visual thinking, and the ability to translate ideas into reality for the client. This creative work continues to fulfill me and enrich my life.
At the same time, my desire for greater creative freedom grew—especially in my use of color. For me, color is not just a design element, but an expression of mood, movement, and inner experience. To engage with it more intensely and directly, I turned to abstract painting a few years ago. This step marked a significant turning point in my artistic development.
Painting has been a passion of mine since my youth, but only gradually did I feel the inner calling to give it its own independent space. The direct dialogue with paint on canvas or paper is fundamentally different from digital work on a screen. While graphic design and illustration are often concept-driven, abstract painting offers me a personal, free, and intuitive approach. Here, works emerge without guidelines, without a script—driven by emotion, spontaneity, and inner impulses.
Working on the canvas is, for me, a process of letting go and, at the same time, of discovery. I allow myself to be guided by the color, reacting to structures, layers, and contrasts. Thoughts, moods, and experiences flow directly into the composition. Painting thus becomes a space for reflection and, simultaneously, a form of inner liberation—a kind of therapy for mind and soul.
In my abstract work, my many years of experience as an illustrator and graphic designer combine with an open, experimental approach. I explore new paths, play with form, rhythm, and color dynamics, and consciously give free rein to my imagination. Abstraction allows me to transcend the visible and make emotions visible. For me, painting is an expression of freedom—a counterpoint to conceptual commissions and, at the same time, an extension of them. It allows me to grow, both artistically and personally.
In your paintings, colors, textures, and surfaces seem to behave like independent forces in conversation with one another. How do you know when a canvas has reached harmony—or when it’s asking you to push it further into risk and tension?
Before every new piece, I initially feel a great deal of respect for the empty space. I approach it slowly, taking tentative steps until my tension eases and an adventurous journey into the unknown begins. This is what makes abstract painting so exciting. It’s working without a concept—a tightrope walk without a net.
You have nothing in mind: no person, no model, no object, no scene. Only thoughts and feelings guide me in creating what should ultimately become recognizable. It’s like a long hike through the wilderness without knowing the path. With the first brushstrokes, I decide roughly in which direction the colors and areas might go. Then my eye decides where I can find balance in the work.
I often use different materials or tools for this. I add small accents and discard others. In this way, I continue step by step along the path, observing contrasts in color, creating textures, and searching for the focal point that will guide me further in the work. When I reach a point where the path becomes very narrow and uncertain, I let the work rest and contemplate it for a while. This allows me to better understand the work and slowly discover how we—the canvas and I—can arrive at a result without pushing it too far.
This creative process usually demands strength and also the ability to make the right decision at the right moment. That’s exciting.
You’ve spoken about consciously breaking the rules of perspective to unlock new spaces of abstraction. What does that act of transgression feel like in the studio—liberating, unsettling, or both?
Why do we create art? Perhaps to question rules. To not only recognize boundaries, but to consciously transgress them.
In painting, there are guidelines—perspectives, principles of composition, color theory. They provide support, orientation, and structure. But for me, that’s precisely where the excitement begins: in the moment of letting go, in consciously abandoning what seems “right.”
As an artist, I seek the freedom to engage with my own thoughts—beyond expectation and convention. I want to be able to make decisions that feel good and right to me. Intuitive. Unfiltered. Sometimes contradictory.
I dare to experiment with different materials, techniques, and tools. I combine, discard, rework, scratch, tear, and liquefy. I follow my gut feeling—even at the risk of failure. I recognize progress in failure.
Sometimes I stop mid-work, put my hand to my head, and ask myself:“What are you actually doing? Is this even a painting anymore?”
These moments are honest for me—and often surprisingly entertaining. They show me that I’m venturing into uncharted territory. That’s precisely where the right thing emerges for me: in the in-between, in the doubt, in the experimentation. It can go wrong—yes. But something can also emerge that was meant to exist exactly as it is.
And perhaps that’s the real reason we create art: to discover what’s possible when we allow ourselves to simply try.
Your Espoir series centers on hope emerging from uncertainty. How do emotion and intuition guide your decisions while layering paint, and how do those feelings physically translate into texture and form?
Thank you for mentioning the Espoir series, which I worked on in 2025. With this series, I wanted to express my feelings and thoughts abstractly on the canvas, because the current state of the world deeply affected me. The uncertainty, the wars, the suffering—these are things that concern people. Fragile peace, so much being questioned. People long for security and love. I feel the same way, and that’s why I created my works that year with these thoughts in mind.
I sought personal support in colors and textures and explored the question of hope—how it can arise and be found in abstract painting. I deliberately applied dark, gray, earthy underpaintings to the first works in the series. The textures were intense, harsh, and wounding. Rough and deep grooves, like scars on the skin.
Hope then emerged only as a tiny, luminous hue—fragile, reserved, and yet of profound significance within the work. A beacon. Over the course of several months, works emerged in which the dark color spaces lost their power and vibrant, saturated colors took over.
Working on these abstract pieces was an intense experience. Creating the rough textures, in particular, was deeply emotional and liberating. It meant a great deal to me to realize how deeply one can immerse oneself in art—how it helps us understand and perceive things better, and how it can unleash emotion.
Having spent decades mastering color theory and composition through design work, how do you balance that technical knowledge with instinct? Do you ever have to “unlearn” what you know to stay spontaneous?
Working with colors and shapes every day trains the eye. It develops a sense of how colors harmonize and interact, and this has become ingrained in my subconscious over time. However, I try not to be overly influenced by learned knowledge.
A feel for harmonious color composition is helpful, but I make sure that my painting doesn’t appear too graphic. During my design training, I took courses in typography, photography, advertising graphics, and free painting. The experience of breaking free from rigid design rules in the free painting course was invaluable, and I still apply that today.
In abstract painting, my personal feelings guide me more strongly than rules. Unlike commercial graphics or logos, which must meet client expectations, I can approach my canvases emotionally. I enjoy this freedom and consciously neglect graphic design—though it often creeps back in. That interplay is something I find exciting.
Many of your works feel immersive and atmospheric. Do you think of your paintings as environments the viewer enters, or as mirrors reflecting their inner state?
I find it a beautiful thought that a painting enters into a silent dialogue with the person standing before it. For a moment, two worlds meet—that of the painting and that of the viewer.
The painting introduces itself. It opens up, allows a glimpse into its depths, and invites immersion. It demands nothing. And yet something happens: thoughts arise, feelings are touched, memories awakened.
I hope my works take the viewer by the hand and lead them on a journey—not loudly or spectacularly, but inwardly and mindfully. This invisible exchange, which needs no words yet can say so much, is where art’s fascination lies for me.
What a person sees or feels is entirely up to them. This personal space between artwork and viewer is precious to me and gives my work meaning.
You exhibited with Clio Art Fair during its 20th edition in New York. How did that context shape your perspective?
The exhibition at the Clio Art Fair in autumn 2025 was a major highlight. Being surrounded by so many talented artists was incredibly exciting. Presenting my two paintings from the Face series in such a vibrant metropolis was a dream come true.
The insights I gained—from the fair and from audience reactions—continue to motivate me. I see Clio Art Fair as a wonderful opportunity for artists who want to present their work independently in an engaging environment.
Looking ahead, you’ve mentioned exploring larger formats and nature. How do you imagine this influencing your next chapter?
Since the beginning of 2026, I’ve been working on a new series titled Forest, focusing on large-format canvases. This project explores nature and the forest and draws from my hikes and pilgrimages along the Camino de Santiago in Spain.
Through abstract mixed-media techniques, I process memories and impressions from these journeys. The early results have been encouraging, and I look forward to seeing where this new path leads.
Torsten Trantow’s work doesn’t demand interpretation — it invites presence. His paintings unfold slowly, asking the viewer to pause, to look again, and to feel rather than define. Shaped by decades of discipline and released through abstraction, his practice exists in the quiet space between control and surrender.
What makes his work resonate is its honesty. The textures carry doubt, the colors hold emotion, and the surfaces remember the act of making. There is no spectacle here — only attention, patience, and trust in the process. Trantow allows uncertainty to remain visible, and in doing so, gives it meaning.
In a time when clarity is often forced and speed is rewarded, his paintings offer something else entirely: permission to slow down. To enter a dialogue without words. To find hope not as a declaration, but as something that gradually emerges — layer by layer, moment by moment.
You can learn more about MarcusGlitteriS Chae and his work via these links:
Website: Torsten Trantow Instagram: @torstentrantow Artsy: Torsten Trantow THOTRA
Comments