There’s a tenderness in Errol Theunissen’s work that’s hard to describe but instantly felt. You don’t just see the figures, curled under blankets, stretched across blue sofas, you feel the atmosphere they’re held in. The texture of the paint mirrors the texture of the moment, the soft fur of the dog, the fabric of the blanket, the shared warmth between them. It’s not illustrative. It’s embodied.
These are paintings that honour the body, not as something posed, but lived in. The children aren’t performing for us. The dog isn’t symbolic. They’re simply there, inside a moment of closeness, where nothing needs to be explained.
The pleasure in these works is quiet and physical. Crisps. Cartoons. A dog pressed against your ribs. The kind of domestic safety that builds slowly, day after day, until it becomes a world. The emotional density of being safe, where the body is supported, and nothing has to be said.
This is work that doesn’t push itself forward, but stays exactly where it is, and invites you to come closer. Not to look, but to feel.
It’s exactly this quality, this rare ability to hold something so daily, so unguarded, that makes Theunissen’s work feel quietly extraordinary.
The work isn’t just true, it’s felt, held, rarely named, and rarely made visible without distortion.
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Guest Curator - What Artists Like 2
Notable Achievements 2023
Read Errol's guest curation for What Artists Like #2