The Second Chapter : Interview with Ellen Essen (English ver.)

Presented as the sixth interview in Chapter Two, “The Artist’s Muse: What Inspires You,” this conversation introduces the evocative practice of Ellen Essen.

For Essen, the act of painting is not merely a representation of a subject, but a profound reclamation of self. After a thirty-year hiatus spent in the theoretical shadows of art history and the demands of daily life, her creativity was reawakened by an unexpected cinematic encounter. What began as a visceral resonance with the "angelic yet dark" presence of Korean actor Song Joong-ki has evolved into a sophisticated artistic language—one that bridges the gap between a small medieval town in Germany and the vibrant cultural landscapes of East Asia.

Throughout this interview, Essen reflects on a practice that views the portrait as a "map of the soul." She describes her muse not as an object of fandom, but as a vital medium—a vessel through which she explores the universal dualities of human existence: strength and vulnerability, light and shadow, silence and outcry. Her journey is one of "unmediated force," akin to the intensity of childbirth, where the canvas becomes a space for a long-dormant creativity to finally surface and breathe.

This sensibility is powerfully materialized in her work, [The Fighter]. Inspired by both the gritty realism of modern film noir and the classical weight of the Boxer of the Quirinal, the piece serves as a visual testament to her process. It is a negotiation between intuition and courage, where bold strokes and "painterly violence" are required to capture the true essence of a moment. For Essen, every portrait is ultimately a self-portrait—a reflection of the artist’s own "sensitive soul" mirrored in the eyes of another.

Edited with deep appreciation for her journey, this conversation invites us to witness a transformation that transcends borders and time. It is an invitation to see how a singular inspiration can ignite a universal dialogue, proving that art is, above all, about the courage to find one's own voice again. We invite you to step into Ellen Essen’s vision, where the gaze of the muse leads us back to the most intimate fragments of ourselves.

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Q. Thank you for joining us today—it's wonderful to meet you. I'd love to begin by hearing about you and your practice. How would you introduce yourself as an artist, and what work are you currently engaged with?

A. Let me begin with a line from a German poet: “There is magic in a human face, waiting to be discovered.” As an artist, I try to uncover this hidden magic and make it visible. To me, faces are landscapes of the soul.

I am not interested in portraying faces with photographic precision — photography can do that more quickly and accurately. What I seek instead is to make emotions visible. My portraits invite the viewer to discover these emotions and, perhaps, to enter into a dialogue with them.
In this sense, I see myself in the tradition of German Expressionism, which I deeply admire: the autonomy of colour, the freedom of expression, liberated from mere appearances.

At the same time, my creative roots lie in the late Baroque of the 18th century. I grew up in a small village in southern Germany, centered around a vast monastic cathedral. During my youth and later in my studies, I spent countless hours there — observing, sketching, absorbing. That dramatic world of architecture, light, and ornamentation has profoundly shaped my artistic eye.

Most recently, I completed Fragments of Self, a male portrait that embodies both vulnerability and strength. Simple brushstrokes suggest hidden layers beneath the surface, echoing the title: fragments — shifting, unfinished, yet resilient. The deep blue background conveys youthful energy, contrasted with the purity of the white shirt. Subtle greys and golden tones, accented by cyan and magenta, weave together into delicate, luminous layers.

Fragments of Self

Q. What is the main source of inspiration for your current work? When did this particular muse first become meaningful to you, and can you describe that initial encounter?

A. “Fragments of Self” is inspired by the Korean actor Song Joong-Ki, based on a photograph from Elle Korea (September 2025).

He first became meaningful to me and my art in April 2021, during the pandemic, when I began watching Korean dramas on Netflix. One evening, the platform suggested a new series — Vincenzo. The first episode opened with a close-up of a face and a monologue — immediately gripping. Then comes a cut to Rome: Vincenzo awakens, rises, and, as the curtain draws back, gazes out across the rooftops that stretch toward St. Peter’s. The light is exquisite — a soft Roman morning glow, suffused like a Renaissance painting, almost sfumato. At its center appears this face, rendered almost angelically, mild and luminous. In that instant, countless memories and associations surfaced within me.

As the episode unfolded, it became clear that this character was no angel at all, but a dark and morally complex figure. Yet it was precisely that tension — between the beauty of the cinematic image and the ambiguity of the persona — that resonated so deeply and became the spark for my artistic journey.

Q. When you first discovered this source of inspiration, what emotions did you experience? How did it change your artistic direction or working methods afterward?

A. When I first encountered this source of inspiration, I felt a profound resonance — something that recalled the physical and emotional intensity of childbirth. I brought five children into the world naturally, without intervention or medication, and that experience of unmediated force and presence remains deeply imprinted in me.

The warm colours, the surge of energy, the voice speaking in Italian, the soundtrack — every frame carried a sense of immersion, as if sinking into a warm bath. I watched the scene repeatedly, absorbing it as one might a familiar touch or a long-remembered melody. At the time, I had no idea what was unfolding within me.

Not long after, I spent a few days on Naxos. Sitting on the beach, gazing at the endless blue of the Mediterranean and feeling the sun on my skin, the inner sensation within me deepened and finally culminated in a spontaneous yet clearly rational decision: once back home, I would begin to paint.

I had loved painting as a child and young adult, and even considered studying art. But I lacked the confidence to trust my own talent. Instead, I chose art history — a more theoretical path that muted my creativity. Surrounded by the greatness of the masters, I always felt too small, too inadequate. After university, I worked in administration, raised my children, and for many years there was no time — and no muse. Yet beneath all that, creativity was still waiting. Suddenly, it surfaced.

When I returned home, I kept my promise and bought oil crayons — the medium I had loved as a teenager. To my surprise, images and scenes immediately rushed into my mind, ready to be made visible. That was June 2021. After a break of thirty years, I began to paint again — and I haven’t stopped since.

The Kiss

Q. How does your muse typically appear to you—as visual images, sounds, spatial feelings, or particular emotions? Could you describe its specific characteristics or qualities in detail?

A. My muse typically appears through visual images — often photographs or film stills of Song Joong-ki. Although countless images circulate online, only certain ones truly resonate. They spark an inner dialogue, a reflection. His eyes are especially important: their dark hue and shape often carry a bittersweet, melancholic tension — sadness intertwined with strength, vulnerability with determination.

If I describe a portrait as a landscape of the soul, then the initial photo or screenshot is like a map — something to study closely in order to find the way. The muse becomes a medium, a guide that helps me to express myself. Not something to follow blindly, as a fan might copy, but a source from which I set my own direction.

Q. Could you walk us through one specific work that you feel most powerfully embodies your muse? What was the journey from initial inspiration to finished piece, and what challenges or discoveries emerged along the way?

A. I would like to introduce “The Fighter”: here, too, the tension is at the center — strength and vulnerability, danger and reconciliation. Two eyes, as different as day and night. The left appears weary, hardly able to stay open, while the right stares directly at the viewer, wide awake, almost in warning. The gesture of the arms reinforces this duality: the left arm tense, fist clenched, while the right hand almost casually holds the bandage, unwinding loosely from the left. The fight is over — but who has won remains uncertain.

The impulse for this painting came in early December 2023. In October, the Korean film “Hwaran” had been released, a film noir in which Song Joong-ki plays the supporting role of Chi Geon, the leader of a small gang. Short scenes circulated on Instagram and YouTube, among them a brief clip that triggered as previously described an inner dialogue within me.  Usually there are appearing images that arise — stored impressions that suddenly take shape. Out of this came the image of a boxer, at first envisioned with thick red gloves. I started to look for pictures showing red boxing gloves on pinterest, saving some for this project as well as the screenshot of the clip. In any case, I knew it had to be realized on a large canvas. But in early December I lacked both the materials and the time — the year’s end left no space to pursue the idea. Instead as I was fascinated by the character of Chi Geon, I created a small portrait (which, in keeping with the season, I titled “Shepherd”, 40 x 50 cm, 2023).

At the end of the year I fell ill and spent two weeks recovering. During this time, I was also preparing for a journey to Rome planned for May. Leafing through a guidebook, I came across the famous Boxer of the Quirinal— and suddenly it became clear: my fighter should not wear gloves, but bandages. From then on, the image was very much alive in me. To preserve it, I made a small sketch. At the end of January, the ordered canvas finally arrived, and I was able to begin. For several days, every spare moment, I devoted myself to the painting. I do not work with precise preliminary drawings — the painting evolves freely and intuitively. After a week, the boxer stood before me, almost finished, and yet something was missing.

In such moments, I often turn to art books. That was when I came across Max Beckmann’s Self-Portrait in Black. I realized then that my boxer needed more energy, more force, a stronger painterly gesture. It took a lot of courage to pick up the broad brush, to give the figure contours with bold black strokes, to unify the background, and to strike the face again with spatula and white paint. It felt almost as if I had to inflict violence on the painting. But it was exactly what the work needed.

I was especially pleased that the work inspired a poet friend to write a poem and that it was also warmly received by critics.

Fighter

Q. Has your relationship with your muse evolved over time? Are there aspects that have deepened or new dimensions you've discovered that you'd like to share?

A. At first, I needed to make sense of what had happened to me. I had first encountered the concept of a “muse” during my art history studies — we often think of Salvador Dalí’s famous muse, Gala, or of Rembrandt’s. At the time, I dismissed it as a somewhat poetic label for a girlfriend.

Now, through my own experience, I have come to understand that inspiration can take many forms. My relationship with my muse has evolved from fascination to a deeper, ongoing dialogue. A muse is not necessarily tied to a personal relationship, but can embody a presence, an idea, or even an atmosphere that ignites creativity. Over time, I’ve learned to trust this presence, follow its guidance, and allow it to shape both my artistic process and my understanding of myself as an artist.

Q. Do you have any intentional activities or routines for connecting with inspiration? Conversely, when inspiration doesn't come easily, how do you handle those periods?

A. Through my muse, I’ve learned to gather impressions as deeply as possible — to feel them rather than analyze them. When I visit exhibitions, I don’t chase “must-see” works; instead, I pause where something stirs within me. Sometimes I sketch, always I take notes. These moments become a quiet reservoir that I return to when inspiration feels distant.

When no new ideas arise, I revisit earlier works, curious to see how they might unfold through who I have become since. Earlier this year, two collectors were drawn to my painting Rome. I offered to recreate it, knowing the result would inevitably differ.

The new version became Siena, its tones and atmosphere evoking Tuscany more vividly. To my delight, it resonated once again and found its way to a joyful collector. Repainting Rome led me to Siena — the image had shifted, because I had shifted. That is the quiet dialogue between muse, artist, and time.

Rome

Q. Can you tell us about a moment when your muse led you somewhere unexpected or challenging? What did you discover about yourself or your practice through that experience?

A. As you may have noticed, my muse didn’t appear in a single moment — it reshaped my life and daily rhythm. What began as an unexpected encounter evolved into a long, transformative journey that I had to learn to navigate.

From the beginning, I felt confident in my art and wanted it to be seen — to communicate through my work, and ideally, with my muse himself. Still, I wondered: how could an artist from a small medieval town in Germany ever reach a renowned Korean actor? It seemed absurd.

Yet I didn’t let this discourage me. Through Instagram I began to share my work, connect with other artists, and gain visibility — even securing sponsorships and exhibitions. Naturally, the wish to travel to Korea grew stronger. The opportunity came unexpectedly in spring 2023, when I was in Taipei with my family. From there, I arranged a weekend trip to Seoul, where I met an artist I’d first encountered online. At his exhibition, I was introduced to Seoyoung, a gallery staff member who became a close friend. I told her about my muse and asked if she might deliver a catalogue of my works to Song Joong-ki’s agency. She agreed — though at first, no reply came.

Then, in October, something remarkable happened. Seoyoung attended a screening of Hwaran with a fan greeting and brought my catalogue, hoping to hand it to him personally. She even connected me via video call from the cinema — and suddenly, the “impossible” became real. She waved my catalogue, and he came over. There he was, before me — even if only digitally — smiling, signing an autograph, and accepting my catalogue.

That moment was extraordinary. Encountering him, even virtually, revealed that my muse is not confined to the real person but exists as a presence — an energy, an inspiration of its own. Around the same time, I received my first real recognition as an artist: exhibition space at Miami Art Week, an award in Milan, and an offer for a solo show in Rome. Despite moments of doubt and exhaustion, I found resilience, confidence, and above all, gratitude for the journey my muse had begun.

Q. How does your audience's response to your work affect your relationship with your muse? Have viewers ever helped you see new aspects of your inspiration that you hadn't noticed before?

A. In Europe, many viewers don’t know my muse, Song Joong-ki, and often interpret my portraits—especially “Saya” (arthdal chronicles) with his long hair—as female. I find this fascinating, because for me these works are not about gender but about expressing my inner self. A curator in Taipei once explained that through Song Joong-ki, I recognize parts of myself, allowing me to perceive and express my inner thoughts. In a similar way, Alberto Moioli described my paintings as, in reality, self-portraits of a sensitive soul. It took me some time to accept that perspective, but now I see it as both a compliment and a reassurance. As Oscar Wilde once said, “Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter”.

The first time I truly confronted this question was in beginning of 2023, when a gallerist asked which direction I wanted to grow, particularly if I continued focusing on portraits. He advised me to leave my comfort zone, to work with different faces, and to ensure that my subjects remained recognizable. I took his words seriously, and he soon offered me my first commission — a family portrait of a couple with a baby, which challenged me to bring all my technical skill and sensitivity to the work. I completed the portrait successfully and felt proud and more confident. Yet at the same time, the process felt restrictive — as if I were painting with handcuffs. The joy and lightness I usually feel when choosing my own subjects were missing.

When the commission was finished, I felt an overwhelming urge to paint my muse. It was late in the evening, and I had no blank canvas left. So I wiped out a painting I no longer cared for and began immediately. What followed was a rare flow: within a short time, the image in my mind had taken form. The next morning, when I returned to the studio, I was astonished. There was nothing to correct — it seemed fully alive on the easel. The result, Behind the Window, is a portrait I cannot sell.

The same gallerist later cautioned me not to become “addicted” to my art, advising me to keep distance from my work — like a dealer who sells but never consumes. Perhaps he was right in his own way, but I chose not to renew my contract with him.

That experience taught me something essential: if I accept a commission, I must preserve as much artistic freedom as possible. From the beginning, I make clear to the client that I do not paint photo-realistically, but rather create my own reflection of the person portrayed. I need to sense a connection — to choose from several photos or impressions in order to find my own “map,” and then fill it with inspiration. Without that sense of resonance, a true portrait cannot emerge.

Since I don’t depend on commissioned work to live, I can afford this honesty. If ever faced with the choice, I will always follow my muse — and walk my own path.

Behind the window

Wisdom of Age

Q. Thank you so much for sharing such thoughtful insights with us today. As we conclude our conversation, Looking ahead, in what direction do you think your muse will develop or expand? Are there new territories of inspiration you're eager to explore, and what draws you to them?

A. This is something I cannot predict. My muse — a Korean actor — first spoke from another cultural context, through a way of expressing emotion that was unfamiliar to me yet deeply inspiring. From this encounter, I began to develop my own artistic language.

Now, I wish to use that language to enter into dialogue — with my muse, with my viewers, and with cultures beyond my own. Art, for me, is about touching, opening, and connecting. I have received so much; now I want to give something back.

Perhaps one day I may exhibit in Korea and even meet my muse in person. But for now, I trust the process — and I am deeply grateful to u1 Gallery (Tokyo / Seoul) for offering me this opportunity to share my journey, to speak about my muse, and to connect with audiences in Japan and Korea through my European perspective.

Contact

Artist : Ellen Essen 

Instagram : @eexpressionista, @arttangens