A Decorated Purism: The Protestant Origins of My Work

“...nearly all aesthetic theory, of whatever kind, is a sort of secularised theology.”

— David Brett, The Plain Style: Protestant Theology in the History of Design

The Protestant Reformation introduced not only a new theology but also a new aesthetic order. Among its most enduring cultural legacies is what came to be known as The Plain Style—a visual and moral sensibility based on clarity and restraint. Developed in opposition to the Catholic display of images in worship, The Plain Style emphasizes modesty over grandeur, function over ornament, and moral intention over decorative flourish. It is not that beauty—or art, for that matter—is rejected outright. Outside the context of worship, beauty has its place. The understanding is that it should arise from the honest use of materials, from careful workmanship, from purpose made visible.

I am no stranger to the influence of The Plain Style. Raised within a strict denomination of Protestantism—the Brethren, originally known as Darbyists—I inherited the Protestant ideal of self-discipline over self-display. The Brethren reject visual imagery in worship altogether, taking the concept of restraint even further than mainstream Calvinism, whose aesthetic principles have profoundly shaped the cultural identity of the Low Countries. What in religious life manifests as iconoclasm finds a close analogy in art, where Calvinist aesthetics might be said to correspond to pure minimalism, and the Brethren’s even stricter verbal devotion to the domain of text-based art. Within this framework, my own work comes as a visual jolt: richly adorned, filled with ornamented surfaces, exotic materials, and elaborate techniques—elements that appear radically at odds with the aesthetic purism of my upbringing.

From any perspective, the sight of an exotic motif like the Feng Huang bird or dainty objets de vertu, placed alongside stark black-and-white compositions rendered as half-timbered constructions—plus the occasional reference to Pierrot—can seem perplexing in its variety. Paradoxically, it may be the Brethren—of all people—who are best positioned to grasp the deeper rationale behind my engagement with such varied motifs. They may even approve, upon learning that my engagement with visual complexity does not arise from personal indulgence or decorative pleasure, but from a philosophical conviction grounded in the Protestant belief in spiritual equality. That belief was forged in dissent from the top-down structure through which the Catholic Church claimed to control access to truth and salvation. The Brethren took this as a radical mandate: to reject all hierarchy in religious life—so thoroughly that they refuse even to identify as a church. In a similar spirit, I question the authority of canonical structures in art—those that determine what is included and valued, and what is excluded or marginalized. In this, I consider myself a purist of another kind.

To me, art is a domain where the value of all traditions—whether rooted in the West or East, past or present—should be recognized and honored. In other words, material culture at large is my sphere of worship—one to which I feel bound to extend the ethos of equality. From this perspective, my turn toward ornament has nothing to do with the conventional opposition between ornamentation and plainness; I take no side in such debates. While I embrace the motifs with empathy, I do not dissolve into them. My insistence on ornament is a form of dissent—an act of resistance against the impositions of the canon in art.

One of the most telling aspects of my work—one that both reflects and deepens the theological spirit behind it—is my commitment to just two forms, which I return to time and again. Their constancy recalls that of liturgical vessels: objects made for ritual use. In fact, the only visual objects tolerated in Brethren worship are the plate, beaker, and pitcher used in the breaking of bread—in remembrance of Christ’s body and blood. During communion, the plate and the beaker are passed from person to person, in complete silence. This ritual remains one of my most formative experiences—its essence lying in repetition and focused attention. It offered me a model for how to use form and repetition as the basis for work. It helped me transform my limited formal vocabulary into a disciplined space in which the variables of process, material, and context can be fully explored and made legible.

The combination of formal restraint and an emphasis on comprehensible creative method points to a central tendency in my practice: a desire to clarify, to explain. Like a believer returning to scripture in search of deeper understanding, I approach each work as a search for justification—not to assert authority, but to remain faithful to a principle of moral intent: that meaning—like grace—must be patiently, precisely, prepared for.