Peter Boersma
- Anna Lilli Garai
- Nov 11, 2025
- 3 min read
Peter Boersma is a Dutch artist who has been working with tape transfers since 1999. Using strips of masking tape, he lifts bits of ink and paper from old books and magazines to create his collages. It’s a slow process where each pull changes the work. Sometimes the paper barely transfers, leaving thin, transparent layers that reveal what’s underneath. Boersma often works with printed material from the early 20th century. When the piece is finished, he seals it with epoxy, marking the end of the process.
Q: You’ve been working with tape transfers since 1999. What keeps the process fresh for you after all these years?
A: With every piece I make, I learn something new about my materials. Since I work with printed matter, I’m constantly discovering how ink behaves — how it releases from the surface, how the top layer of paper lifts off, or sometimes tears instead. I never really know what will stick to the tape until I try it. Material from the 1920s reacts completely differently than something from the 1980s. Sometimes I press the tape down very firmly before pulling it back up, other times I barely let it touch the paper.
At times, so little ink or fiber transfers that the tape becomes almost transparent, allowing me to layer multiple pieces and still see what’s underneath. It’s this constant variation — all these unpredictable variables — that keep the technique fresh and rewarding for me.
Q: When you start tearing and layering tape, do you have a plan, or do you let the paper guide you?
A: Aside from the size of the panel, I rarely have a fixed plan in mind. I’m often guided by whatever piece I’ve just finished or am still working on — I usually have several works going at once. If I make a discovery in how the materials behave, I try to repeat it, to understand what happened, and then carry that forward into a new work. That said, there are times when I do work with a concept or limitation. For example, I’ve created large pieces using only white paper. I might challenge myself by using a single book or magazine as the source, or by combining white paper spanning a hundred years from different origins.
Q: You often use pages from century-old books and magazines. What kind of stories do those materials bring into your work?
A: Those old materials bring a certain atmosphere to the work that I really connect with. I find it difficult to work with modern paper — I recognize too much of the present in it. I actually love playing with that tension by, say, combining something from 1915 with a fragment from 1970. There’s also something about the limitations of early printing techniques — one- or two-color prints evoke a different mood than modern full-color. All of that contributes to the tone and texture of the final piece.
Q: There’s a tactile element to your process — tearing fibers, feeling textures. How important is that physical connection for you?
A: It’s incredibly satisfying to make something with my hands. The process is also quite decisive: once the tape is down, it’s down. I’m essentially destroying something, then trying to turn it into something beautiful — which doesn’t always work. And I can’t undo anything. No matter how much I regret covering something, once it’s gone, it’s gone. That tension is part of the work.
Q: Your works are ultimately sealed under a layer of epoxy. What does that final layer mean to you?
A: That final layer is essential to preserve the work over time. By sealing it, I cut off oxygen, so the tape won’t discolor or peel. It also marks the moment when the work is truly finished. The glossy surface creates a physical and emotional distance between me as the maker and the final result — it’s no longer mine to change.
Q: You’ve said the results still surprise you. What’s one of the last surprises the tape gave you?
A: I think the real surprise lies in how a piece evolves while I’m working. It begins with a blank panel, and with every strip of tape I apply, I move a little closer to the final image. Sometimes twenty strips are enough — other times, I need more than a hundred. That unpredictability is something I’ve learned to embrace.
