Paul Kooiker Tries To Break Perfection

How did your artistic journey begin?

I don’t come from an artistic background, but even when I was in school I always thought I wanted to be an artist. From early on I had this feeling that I wanted to draw, to paint. But I also felt that maybe paint wasn’t quite my thing. When I discovered photography, it just clicked. I still remember the exact feeling I had walking home in the dark after my first time in the darkroom, it really was kind of mind-blowing. Maybe that sounds a bit dramatic or cliché, but it’s true. When I was 17 I went to art school; I didn’t finish my regular education because I wanted to go to art school as soon as possible. I was lucky that my parents supported me. Their attitude was, “If he’s happy, we’re happy.” 

One of the things that always strikes me about your work is the presence of unsettling elements, which seem to come from surrealism.

When you’re eager to learn, you study everything. When I started practicing, photography was only about 150 years old, so its history felt relatively short. But of course, it is also deeply connected to the entire history of art. In the beginning I wasn’t really drawn to surrealism. To me, it felt a bit detached. But in 1986, everything changed. I was in London and went to the Hayward Gallery for an exhibition, L’Amour Fou: Photography & Surrealism. That’s where I saw Hans Bellmer’s work for the first time, and it really struck me. It was like, “Wow… there are others like me.” You recognise something familiar, it’s like discovering people who could be your friends; people who see the world in a similar way. I still have the catalogue I bought for the exhibition, with my last bit of money at the time, and I cherish it. Feeling seen, feeling understood in your way of looking at the world—that’s really important. Especially at the beginning, when you’re a young artist and often feel very alone. You finish art school and then what? Seeing that exhibition gave me a sense of belonging and direction.

When I look at your imagery, I always wonder—do you know exactly when you have reached the right level of discomfort or ambiguity? Do you instinctively know when to stop? Or do you ever think you could push it even further? 

Especially in the beginning of my career, I was often really surprised by the reactions to my work. For me the images that I was making weren’t uncomfortable at all, but I’d forgotten that everybody feels things differently. Now I understand it a bit better, but back then, I was shocked by the intensity of people’s responses to my work. 

I often look at things from an angle that others might not – I like to turn things around, to look at the other side of things, at what you almost can't see. That kind of tension, that’s where the intrigue lies. Maybe it’s also related to voyeurism, the idea of watching something you’re not supposed to, but you still want to. That moment is really close to the core of photography for me. It’s not unlike the act of hiding behind the camera itself. Are you allowed to capture this? Is it beautiful? Is it not? That kind of questioning, that’s where I find the essence of what I do. All this tension, it’s different because you’re not a painter, you’re not a sculptor. You’re working with this strange camera, hiding behind it. It’s a different kind of relationship to the subject, to the world.

How do you balance your need to stay true to your artistic freedom with the more practical realities involved when you're working with a major fashion brand? 

I’ve only been working in fashion for about six years now. In the beginning, I did it just a couple of times a year; two or three projects maybe. But now, it’s much more frequent. And what I found is that it didn’t limit me. It didn’t change my process creatively. I always had carte blanche and I still feel like I do. Of course, when you’re doing a big campaign, it’s a different kind of carte blanche – there are boundaries. But brands usually come to me because they want my work, not just any photographer. They come for my taste, my way of seeing. So I have never had to do something that didn’t feel like mine. 

When I first started working in fashion, I was much stricter. I had very clear boundaries, for example, initially I never focused on faces, and I mostly worked with plus-size models. The brands that came to me were fine with that, they accepted those terms. But you grow, you evolve. Now I do like working with faces, for instance. So, things change, but it never felt like I was compromising myself creatively. And sometimes, to be honest, I even wish there were more restrictions. Often you get approached with so many open questions, and people expect you to bring the whole vision. That’s exciting, but it can also be overwhelming. Sometimes you want a bit of structure, a constraint to push against.

What was the first fashion job you did?

It was with Rick Owens. He said he wanted to make a lookbook; I didn’t even know what a lookbook was at the time! But he told me, “Do your own thing, just be sure to include a shoe in the image once in a while.”

I quickly realised that he doesn’t advertise in the traditional sense. He’s not concerned with what other fashion brands are doing. He prefers working with artists, and that’s how it all started for me. I thought, ‘Wow, there are more people like me.’ But there aren't many like him. He’s special. What makes him so remarkable is how brave he is – he gives you total freedom.

How did you start using an iPhone in your work? 

I’ve always been drawn to mistakes in photography. I’ve always used materials and tools that have a kind of built-in imperfection – like Polaroids, especially black-and-white Polaroids. They were often too light, too dark, out of focus… but I loved that. That element of coincidence or unpredictability. I think that’s an essential part of photography; the beauty of mistakes.

Photography can be such a perfect medium and that’s the part I don’t like. I’m always trying to break that sense of perfection, to keep it more open and flawed. The iPhone fits perfectly into that mindset. It’s limited, yes, but in a good way. It’s spontaneous. Things can go wrong, and that makes it interesting. And it’s incredibly freeing. It’s like an extension of my hand. I don’t need a tripod, I don’t need a setup. I can go anywhere and shoot anything.

Initially I didn’t even tell people I was using an iPhone. But then, in the fashion world, people started talking about it, as if it were some kind of branding move. That was never my intention, but I realised over time that it became something people fixated on. Everyone has an iPhone in their pocket, but no one sees or captures the same way.

And not everyone can do what you do with it.
Exactly. That’s why I think the camera itself isn't so important. It’s your eye that does the work, not the device.

The fashion industry is so driven by trends—it's about the fleeting, the ephemeral. But when I look at your images, they feel completely detached from that. 

Yes, I realised early on that my work had a certain timeless quality, and once I recognised that, I embraced it. I actually really like using fashion in that way – almost as a tool, not the main subject. For me, photography comes first and fashion is secondary. I don’t know how other photographers see it, but my priority is always to create a strong image in my own visual language. If fashion fits into that, great—but it’s not the core purpose. When I shoot, I’m always thinking that the photograph should be able to hang in a museum one day. 

In the beginning, when I decided not to show faces, I was surprised by how powerful that choice became. It shifted all the attention to the clothing. Without the distraction of a face, the viewer has to engage with the form, the pose, the fabric. It felt like a radical move, especially in a world like fashion where every magazine is filled with faces.

Of course, I understand the logic of using beautiful faces to sell products, but that’s not my focus. When I cast models, I either choose amateurs – because there’s something raw and real there – or I work with top models – the ones who have already established themselves, who are open to experimentation. There's a certain confidence and freedom in both extremes that I really respond to.

I’ve noticed you often use sepia tones in your work, where does your interest in that aesthetic come from? 

Back in 2014 I was asked to do a retrospective. I felt too young for that, so instead I proposed to create an entirely new body of work that would reflect on the very idea of a retrospective. I wanted to engage with the most kitsch, over-used element in the history of photography. That’s when I landed on sepia. Sepia was really the first kind of filter—almost the original Photoshop. It was used to make things feel more melancholic, more beautiful, more timeless. It added a layer beyond just black and white. 

I realised it had this kitschy potential that I could work with critically and aesthetically. That idea became the foundation of a series – Nude, Animal, Cigars – a title that reflected the surreal and layered nature of the work, and the tension between image, narrative, and nostalgia. At first I thought that would be it, that I’d made my sepia project. But I couldn’t stop—new works kept coming, and sepia stayed with me. It’s a strange marriage, I both love and hate it. I know how it works; I know it creates a kind of false sense of nostalgia or attraction. People associate it with the 1920s or 1970s, so it shifts the work into another time. 

There are so many different shades and nuances within sepia—it’s become my palette, my set of colours, in the same way painters have their own. I think that’s why I keep using it. 

Do you think art and photography can be taught?

That's an interesting question. As a teacher, what you can do is accelerate a student's development; you can speed up their progress so that what they could have done in a few years, they can achieve much quicker. Talking about photography is very important. But someone who is talented has that talent innately, and someone who doesn’t, doesn’t. As a teacher, I can't change that. Helping someone build trust in themselves and their self-esteem is really vital, especially when you're young and in art school. I would say that art school is crucial for anyone wanting to become a photographer, painter, or pursue any other art form. But it won’t change your talent. Either you have it, or you don’t.

I read somewhere that you're interested in medical photography?

Yes, medical photography and also police photography. I'm really drawn to these professional uses of photography. What I find fascinating is that, through my research, I discovered so many beautiful images that were never intended to be artistic. These photographs were taken to document illness, death, or crime scenes – they are purely functional. But when you look at them over time, they reveal something else. You begin to see how unintentionally striking they are. Of course, that doesn’t mean they become art, but they do show how photography operates beyond artistic intention. As someone deeply interested in the medium itself, I find it compelling to explore what emerges from archives like these.

I also work a lot with my own archive. Whenever I start a new art project, I look back at the last ten years—photos of my family, holidays, little still lives in my studio. And through that process of looking back, I often build something entirely new.