Bob Geerts
- Anna Lilli Garai
- Sep 26
- 5 min read
Bob Geerts is a Dutch visual artist and tattooist whose practice focuses on the human body as a site of memory and pressure. His paintings are filled with stretched limbs, heavy forms, and subtle imbalances that echo the emotional weight of daily life. In his recent series "When It All Hangs In The Air," he draws from both personal experience and the quiet intensity of his tattoo work to create figures caught between movement and stillness, strength and strain. The compositions feel close and physical, shaped by years of working skin-deep, but also by a steady need to reflect on what lies underneath.
Q: How did your years as a tattooist shape the way you paint bodies now?
A: Over the years I have seen so many bodies in every shape and condition, and I’ve been in close contact with them. Back then, the body itself was the canvas I had to work with, full of limitations, but also beauty. And that canvas could change from day to day: different skin types, different ages, different levels of care. So many factors influenced the surface I worked on. That experience really shaped the way I see the body, and it made me deeply appreciate its diversity.
At the same time, limbs often restricted me in how I could express my creations. That’s why in my paintings now, you often see bodies broken down into separate parts. That’s how I always perceived them when tattooing, as components that together form a body, divided by lines. And because the body used to be such a limited canvas, I now enjoy playing with its forms, pulling them apart, stretching and reconfiguring them. It’s something that was not possible before, but now it can be, and that freedom excites me.
Q: In "When It All Hangs In The Air," what made you want to turn a juggling act into a visual language?
A: I’m drawn to contemporary things that appear normal but actually aren’t. Juggling feels very much like modern life: we’re all balancing so many things at once. Work, social events, they become a kind of choir. Meanwhile, other truly important things are often pushed into the background. I find it fascinating how everyone has their own kind of struggle, their own juggle, and how differently people deal with that.
Here in the Netherlands, and in Northern Europe in general, there’s a strong culture of working a lot and filling your schedule to the brim. I went through a period myself where I overloaded with responsibilities (mostly ones I placed on myself) until I lost perspective, and with that, control. I think it’s so important to be aware of which balls really need to stay in the air, and which ones you can put down for a while, so you don’t burn out. It’s something a lot of people struggle with in our society, yet we rarely talk about it. We act like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Personally, I believe we should all slow down a little.
Q: You often bend and distort the human figure. What does that distortion give you that realism can’t?
A: As I mentioned before, tattooing often restricted my creative freedom. Despite the body’s versatility, its forms are (apart from exceptions) more or less the same. Tattooing also kept me within a very tradition-bound way of working. And while I still respect those traditions, both in tattooing and in painting, I feel a strong urge to break away from them.
It’s important to me to explore new paths, to try things I don’t know yet. That’s how I want to create a new visual language for the body: still recognizably human, but less obvious, less tied to what I’ve always known.
Q: The chair shows up as both rest and labor in your work. When did that symbol first become important for you?
A: Chairs have always fascinated me. In fact, the very first gift I can clearly remember receiving was a small chair my aunt painted for me with Barbapapa, Super Mario, and all sorts of figures. I don’t even remember sitting on it, but the illustrations pulled me in. I think that memory comes back unconsciously in my work now.
The chair also connects to the daily juggle I spoke about earlier, and to the struggles that cost me so much energy. It gives me rest when I want to relax, but it’s also where my clients sit and suffer through the pain of tattoo sessions. Then there’s the ergonomic chair where I spend hours working in concentration. And after a session, I might collapse into the same chair where my client just endured pain, using it for rest. For me, the chair is multifunctional, almost indispensable, both in my work and in life. It comes in so many forms and meanings, comfort, labor, endurance, that it has become a natural symbol in this body of work.
Q: How do brightness and melancholy play out for you beyond the canvas?
A: Without good there is no bad, without bad there is no good. That idea of contrast fascinates me, and I’m very aware of its power. That’s why I always try to work with strong contrasts visually, in image, in color, in composition. Contrast is what makes things interesting, what gives life its energy.
And I think this balance plays out in everyone’s life. We all have our ups and downs. The key is to see the beauty in both.
Q: Becoming a father entered this series. How did that shift the way you approached the work?
A: I’m not a father yet, our daughter is still in my partner’s belly. But the moment I heard and realized I was going to be a father, everything turned upside down for me. I started thinking much more consciously about how I live, what I want to do with my life, and what, and who really matters. In my painting, I’ve noticed myself working softer, blending more. It feels more like something happening unconsciously. I also find myself wanting to be more present already. There’s even a bit of “nesting instinct”: my studio and home are cleaner than they have ever been.
I think the best word for what fatherhood has brought me so far is awareness. And I’m very curious to see how things will change when she enters the world. Who knows, maybe I will turn her diaper creations into my palette ;).
