“Imperfection remains the most beautiful form of perfection”
- Henriette HellsternFreedom, Imperfection and Subtle Jabs at Narrow-Mindedness. Meet visual artist Henriette Hellstern and discover what the entire artSIStra network was most eager to ask in this special collective interview.
artSIStra Interview // Lene Winther, Tina Menore, Freja Niemann-Lundrup, Maria Engholm, Nina K. Ekman, Lolita Pelegrime, Bolatta Silis-Høegh, Gitte Svendsen and Mia-Nelle Drøschler.
Woven together by Henriette Hellstern // June 26. 2026 // Amager
This time, there is no single interviewer. Instead, the entire community of artSIStra´s has supplied the questions. Following a hot, sun-drenched afternoon in my studio on Amager, each question was folded into an old summer hat. Now they are drawn, one by one.
I've always been fascinated by transitions. They are everywhere, even when we convince ourselves we've finally landed. They simply feel a little louder these days, now that I've entered what language, rather unimaginatively, insists on calling menopause. Honestly, couldn't we promote it to the Guru Era instead? It would be kinder to both women and language.
You may enter II, by Henriette Hellstern, 2026
Overture & Rituals
"What is a painting?"
I believe a painting is both a channel and a mirror. A place where something deeply internal leaves the body and becomes colour, form, and force. I often describe my work as abject art, though, to me, it is really the transformation of emotion into images that resonate within another human being.
Painting is also my most vulnerable voice. It is where I can give shape to life's cracks and quirks as well as society's deeper ruptures. I genuinely feel a responsibility to create work that matters, work that speaks to the world we inhabit. And perhaps most of all, I cherish the freedom of making my own rules, of reinventing the wheel over and over again, simply because I can.
"Do you have any rituals before entering your studio, before you begin working, or during the process itself, music, tidying up, or anything else?"
Before I begin, I often have a quiet conversation with myself. Not because I expect definitive answers, but because I need to check in. How does my body feel today? Where is my energy? My paintings are deeply intuitive, and if I begin from an inner frequency that is slightly out of tune, the entire work may end up resisting me. But when body, mind, and sensation suddenly begin playing the same melody, a painting can emerge almost within a single breath.
If I'm working towards a particular exhibition or exploring a specific theme, I usually find a musical landscape that belongs to it and let it play on repeat. Again and again, until the music seeps into the painting itself. Long after the work has left the studio and found its place on a gallery wall, I can still hear those notes echoing through it.
You may enter IV, by Henriette Hellstern, 2026
Processes & Intuition
"Do you work best at full speed, or do you prefer to build a painting gradually as each layer dries?"
Both. Works that begin with sketches often call for patience, contemplation, and layers accumulated over time. Intuition-led paintings demand the exact opposite. In those moments, there is no room for polite brushstrokes. Everything happens at full force from the very first second.
"Do you always begin with a fixed idea?"
Sometimes it begins with a theme. Other times, with an emotion that refuses to be ignored. Right now, the most challenging, and the most exhilarating, part of my practice is standing before a blank canvas and allowing whatever wants to emerge to arrive without resistance.
"How do you know when an abstract painting is finished? Is it simply intuition?"
The short answer is yes.
The longer answer is that I've learned to spend more time simply looking, to sit with a painting rather than rushing to resolve it. If that intuitive sensation remains, I know I can let it go. If it disappears, I either paint over the work or abandon it altogether. I never exhibit or sell anything that I don't wholeheartedly believe in.
"When does a work feel truly alive or emotionally present to you, whether it's your own or someone else's?"
When I can sense the human being behind it. The vulnerability. Not the perfection.
My own paintings come alive when I manage to preserve that presence from the first gesture to the very last.
"Can you remember a moment when someone truly understood your work? What made that possible?"
Yes. Thankfully, more than once.
There is something extraordinary about the moment another person doesn't simply look at a painting, but allows it to become a mirror. That is where the connection between artist and viewer begins.
That possibility is always there. But it asks something of us. It asks that we look beyond the image itself, that we allow ourselves to truly feel.
You may enter V, by Henriette Hellstern, 2026
Anything but Beige
"What does your palette represent to you?"
Life. Contrast. Movement.
A visitor to my studio recently remarked, "What you make feels very un-Danish." I took it as a compliment.
My colours and compositions probably owe more to German and American Expressionism than to the muted comfort of Nordic earth tones. I have yet to fall hopelessly in love with beige, and I suspect I never will.
"What does the scale of your canvases mean to you?"
Large canvases invite the body to think less and move more. My arm lets go of control, my pulse quickens, and my entire body becomes a collaborator in the making of the work.
Action painting on a canvas the size of a postage stamp seems, quite honestly, a touch optimistic.
"When do you feel most free while painting?"
At the beginning. And somewhere in the middle.
Towards the end, decisions begin to take over.
But when the process truly unfolds the way it should, I lose all awareness of time, place, and even my own body. It's the same state I seek through meditation, or the feeling of an unforgettable dinner party, when the conversation flows so effortlessly that no one notices the night quietly turning into morning.
"What did you think when some of your paintings were rejected from an exhibition because of their subject matter, even though they appeared light and inviting?"
I think the art world occasionally lacks courage.
The paintings dealt with hate crimes against LGBTQ+ people. Their stories carried far more weight than their colours initially revealed. But art doesn't have to be easy to sell in order to be necessary.
I would have painted them anyway.
Meaningful change has always come before commercial success.
"How does a single figurative element enrich an abstract painting?"
It behaves like a mischievous little troublemaker.
A subtle disruption.
Perhaps an art historical version of Where's Wally?
Something that nudges the balance ever so slightly and invites the viewer to look one more time.
"How can energy move between the figurative and the abstract?"
Because I do.
I move between stillness and wild defiance. Between the introverted and the extroverted. Between the desire to belong and the irresistible urge to raise my middle finger towards everything.
"Your practice has evolved from figurative painting towards a more dissolved, abstract language. What drew you in that direction? What are you exploring?"
I went through a period marked by closed doors and countless rejections.
Eventually, the past came knocking and reminded me why I had started painting in the first place: because it was necessary. Not strategic.
That's why I often paint with my hands now. Bare-handed. With paint between my fingers. Playfully. Curiously.
As though the body knows something the mind only comes to understand afterwards.
Transitions & Raised Middle Fingers
"How do the changing seasons affect you?"
Light is probably my greatest collaborator. It is both a working tool and a source of mental energy.
The trees just outside my studio door quietly remind me of the passing seasons whenever I've stopped noticing them, usually because I've left the house wearing entirely the wrong clothes. The birds matter just as much. I feed them (a lot) whenever they visit the garden, and every summer a lively colony of different species settles outside my window. My heart sinks a little each autumn when they lift off and begin their journey south.
"You mentioned transitions and how they have become part of your work. Could you tell us more about that?"
I experience life as a continuum. We are always becoming; always in motion.
The middle path is probably the healthiest to walk, yet I possess a remarkable talent for landing at the extremes. Perhaps that's simply an occupational hazard of being an artist.
I've always been fascinated by transitions. They are everywhere, even when we convince ourselves we've finally landed. They simply feel a little louder these days, now that I've entered what language, rather unimaginatively, insists on calling menopause. Honestly, couldn't we promote it to the Guru Era instead? It would be kinder to both women and language.
Untitled, by Henriette Hellstern, 2026
The Crystal Ball Speaks
"Where do you feel your practice is heading in the coming years?"
MoMA, obviously. It's about time they had their turn.
Beyond that, I simply hope to find myself wherever I can continue to grow. I'm still chasing the next painting, the one that vibrates a little deeper, dares a little more, and feels just a little more alive than the last.
"What would you say to your younger self?"
First, I would give her a long embrace.
Then I would tell her that all the unconventional ideas, the homemade instruments, the poems, the song lyrics, the drawings of fleeting clouds drifting above the bay, and the broad wingspan of the Eurasian Sparrowhawk were never detours.
They were the beginning.
And then I would simply say:
Keep going.
Believe in love.
Never make yourself smaller to fit someone else's expectations.
Sometimes, being wrong is the only way to be right.
Imperfection remains the most beautiful form of perfection.