Theodor Schokker

Over the past few weeks, we’ve had the privilege of working on a special tribute to Theodor Schokker—an Amsterdam-born artist whose life and work span nearly a century of Dutch history. Now 92, Schokker is one of the last living artists of his generation, shaped by a lifetime of hands-on craftsmanship and unwavering artistic vision.
Together with Keith White, San Ming, Thomas Moody, and the Schokker family, we curated a small yet meaningful exhibition that offers a rare overview of his sculptural practice. Alongside it, we created a publication and a companion website to shed light on his remarkable story and body of work—much of which has quietly endured outside the spotlight. The exhibition is still open (by appointment only) to see in Amsterdam.

After the click, you’ll find an intimate interview Christoph had with Theodor, offering insight into the making of a singular artist—and the man behind the metal and stone.

Christoph van Veghel: Hello Theodor, thank you for receiving me here in your studio in Amsterdam.
Theodor Schokker: You are welcome.

CVV: Let’s go back to the very beginning. What are your earliest memories of your childhood?
TS: It was a good, carefree time. I grew up in the Staatsliedenbuurt, which was then called the “Koperknoopbuurt” — the “copper button neighborhood” — because so many civil servants lived there. And they wore those buttons. My father had steady work — which wasn’t something to take for granted back then. My mother also worked outside the home at one point. We never really lacked anything. So yes, it was quite a carefree time for me as a child.

CVV: Did your parents have any ideological interests?
TS: Yes, they were socialists, and therefore other socialists would also visit our home regularly. And as a child, you’d just be there for those conversations. You’d look around and listen. That’s how you’re shaped, really, by what you see and what you take in. You hear from your parents what’s right and wrong. That’s really where your first encounter with those ideas happens — with the language and the thinking. The identity of the proletariat was presented as a given. And capital — that was the opposing force, the one that exploits.
You’d also read about it in the papers we were subscribed to. That was still possible back then; there was no censorship yet. You could read De Waarheid, or De Vrije Socialist.
From 1940 on, when the war began, it all became forbidden. Just like how wearing the yellow star was forced upon people — everyone was being put in their place.

CVV: How did you perceive that downward spiral?
TS: As a kid, I was also curious about what was happening. You sensed: these are things you’ll need to understand later in life.

CVV: So, you were open to what was going on in the world around you?
TS: Yes, I was. The Staatsliedenbuurt was similar to the Kinkerbuurt or the Dapperbuurt. I mean, working-class people dominated it. And that, of course, was also a source of information. Everyone was more or less in the same situation, so we would share amongst us what was going on.

CVV: Then the Hunger Winter began. Do you have specific memories of that time?
TS: Yes, it happened gradually. There was less and less food. My mother would go out on her bicycle to look for food. She would head out with neighbors — into the countryside, into North Holland, to see if they could find anything.
What I remember myself, I wandered the city with friends. Sometimes a baker’s cart would be raided for bread.
There’s one moment I remember very clearly. It was the end of the day, everyone had gone home. I was walking alone through the city. And in the Willemstraat, I saw something lying in the gutter. An onion. I remember it exactly. I picked it up and brought it home. My mother cooked that onion. And that was our dinner.
It was six o’clock — dinner time. We had nothing — just that one onion. And what struck me so deeply: we had an acquaintance who wandered the streets. He’d go from one household to the next, asking if anyone had anything to eat. So he came to us too.
My mother had cooked that onion on an emergency stove. We were sitting at the table, my parents, my little sister, and me. Everyone got a quarter of that onion.
And that acquaintance saw how a little piece of onion skin fell off. He looked at it and he asked me: “Can I have that piece of skin?”
That was such a moment of total desperation. Even today, it still hits me hard. It’s a very deep memory.

CVV: You really registered that, even as a child?
TS: Yes. That someone had so little, that they asked for a bit of onion skin… Nowadays you’d just throw it away. But back then…
And I didn’t give it to him, because we were extremely hungry too. Everyone had their share of that one onion. It’s almost unimaginable now, within the framework of today, how literal the shortage of food was back then.
CVV: And that helps you really understand what hunger means — also in today’s world?
TS: Yes, absolutely. In Palestine, for example. If you have known it, you can truly feel that.

CVV: You also left Amsterdam for a while during the Hunger Winter.
TS: Yes. My sister went to Drenthe, to Assen, to a foster family. And I went to Groningen, to Appingedam, to foster parents. I was very well taken care of there. I have very good memories of that. I also kept seeing them after the war.

CVV: To leave Amsterdam, as a child, that must have been frightening?
TS: Yes, maybe. But the message was clear, there things were better. There would be more food. Our parents told us, you’re going to the farmers.
That kind of message also circulated in the neighborhood — everyone knew it was happening. So, I knew, we’re going to the farms. There would be more food there.
But in the end, I didn’t end up on a farm. I went to Piet Buurma’s family, who was a spray painter.

CVV: And that’s where you spent the winter, so to speak?
TS: Yes, until the winter was over.

CVV: Right up until the end of the war?
TS: Yes. My parents picked me up again after that. What I still remember well — maybe I already mentioned it — is that at one point we were walking down the Damrak.
The weather was beautiful, I remember that very clearly, because we were liberated. And there was someone squatting in the middle of the street, with a pot of kale.
How he got it, I don’t know — maybe through the public kitchens — but there he was, just sitting in the street, squatting, eating kale.
And as a child, you see that. Because it’s so unusual, it sticks. That image has always stayed with me.

CVV: And after that, you went back to school? What was that postwar time like?
TS: Yes, gradually you went back to school. I don’t really remember exactly how that happened. But what I do remember: sometimes a little dish would be brought out — extra food or rations. But not everyone got that.
The teacher barely had any food himself. Every day, one child — a different one each day — would get that dish.

CVV: Yes, it is often forgotten that the postwar years were also full of poverty.
TS: Yes, definitely. For many people, it stayed that way for a long time. There were huge shortages, there was still poverty. Even employment — for workers, but also for women — had to slowly get going again. Everyone had to find their place again.

CVV: And your parents? Did they remain ideologically tied to socialist ideas? Maybe more than ever?
TS: Yes, that actually became more visible. My parents read De Vrije Socialist. I remember that I delivered papers too, on the Jacob Catskade. Later, everything became more free again. Papers like De Waarheid and Het Parool came back into the open.
What had gone underground during the war became visible again.

CVV: And the struggle of the working class simply continued?
TS: Yes, definitely. My parents immediately joined the EVC — the Unified Trade Union Federation. That group also worked again with other trade unions.
That whole worker’s network became visible again, and also more accepted. And the same went for socialist thought.

CVV: How did your adult life begin? What came after primary school?
TS: I hadn’t fully finished sixth grade during the war. So after, I completed it. And then a seventh year was added as well.

CVV: And after that?
TS: Then I went to the MULO. That was unusual, because normally you’d go straight to MULO after sixth grade. But of course, these were wartime years. So maybe that seventh year was also meant as some kind of preparation.
The MULO was a secondary school that followed primary education. You had the ULO — “extended primary education” — and the MULO was a more advanced version of that. The ULO lasted three years, the MULO four. A bit more theoretical, with more depth.

CVV: What did you do after that?
TS: I started working. I learned welding — not at school, but at a company.

CVV: Which company was that?
TS: At Eland Brand, a metalworking company on the Elandsgracht. They also had a branch in Amsterdam-Noord. One day I was walking through the city with my mother and she said, “You should start working now.”
We walked past that company, and there was a sign saying they were looking for someone for metalwork. She said, “Go work there, it’s close by.”
But yeah, I had to go to Asterweg in the North of Amsterdam — that was actually quite far.

CVV: By bike?
TS: Yes, by bike. And sometimes you’d get a flat tire along the way.

CVV: What was it like for you to start working?
TS: I probably had a technical knack from a young age. I made a good impression on the supervisors, precisely because of those skills. I got that from my father too. I just naturally took to metalwork.

CVV: You developed further as a person there?
TS: Yes, absolutely. And looking back, that work
really laid the groundwork for my later art. You could say it was almost a kind of prelude. It really contributed to my artistic development.

CVV: What did that do for you? Did the work also make you more independent? Did you feel: I want to chart my own course?
TS: No, I didn’t feel that way at first. In the beginning, you just worked. You earned some money, shared it with your family, and you did what you could.
But later, I really started to develop more of a mind of my own. Thanks to people around me who were involved in art. They encouraged me and said: “You should join that art group.” Or, “Become a member there.”

CVV: They inspired you?
TS: Yes, exactly. And that’s how I eventually got involved with the government’s Artists’ Grant Scheme.

CVV: You were encouraged to go that route?
TS: Yes, that’s how I started down that path.

CVV: Can you mention a specific influence, movement, or person that inspired you?
TS: Nothing in particular. I know I just had the urge to start exploring this interest.

CVV: You started your family fairly soon too?
TS: Yes. During that time, I was mainly focused on work. On developing myself in metalwork. And indeed, the family came fairly quickly. Life just carried on. And slowly art presented itself as something that I was interested in.

CVV: Could you elaborate on the role of the acquaintances in your first encounters with art?
TS: Colleagues of mine started talking about art. And it was during that time they urged me to join certain art groups, which put everything in motion. It opened up my world to what art is and what it could be.
And that’s how I started. First at home, in the attic, I made my first pieces.

CVV: It all started at home?
TS: Yes, in the attic. And thanks to those acquaintances, I learned that you could submit work through the city. They would review it. And fortunately, they bought something from me right away.
That didn’t just bring recognition, but also financial breathing space.

CVV: That made further development possible?
TS: Exactly. Those purchases allowed me to continue. Later, the Visual Arts Scheme (Beeldende Kunstregeling) came along too — that gave me the space to really work as an artist.

CVV: And those schemes, like the BKR — were they, in a way, also a kind of right that you believed in? That as a citizen, one was entitled to them?
TS: Yes, you’re right about that. In a sense, it was also acknowledged by the municipality. They opened certain opportunities — including that wing of the Stedelijk Museum, which no longer exists — to exhibit work there.

CVV: The Stedelijk Museum also bought work from artists through the BKR?
TS: Yes, they bought some of my work. How did they come across it? Well, the municipality organized exhibitions, including in that new wing of the Stedelijk. From there, they purchased pieces — mine and others’.

CVV: What did it mean to you that the Stedelijk acquired your work?
TS: It gave me the opportunity to create new work again, so yes — I was very pleased.

CVV: You also continued to exhibit during those years — within associations, and wherever else it was possible?
TS: Yes, definitely.

CVV: In the late ’70s you also became increasingly active in protests. Alongside that, did you feel a drive to say something about the Netherlands through your art?
TS: No. My activism was mostly reflected in my memberships in certain associations. Not in my art directly. I had this idea that what I find beautiful, the viewer might also find beautiful.

CVV: A kind of enriching motivation, then?
TS: Yes, exactly what you said.

CVV: Do you remember when you first used the term physioplastic for your practice?
TS: I don’t know when I first used it, and it only applies to those pieces where I try to depict something that, in a way, isn’t really possible. Physioplastic means: “based on the observed.”
They are the works that evoke a feeling of “this shouldn’t really be possible.”

CVV: Your practice is a search between what is and isn’t possible? What “makes sense” and what doesn’t?
TS: Yes, that’s pretty much what it’s aiming for.

CVV: A kind of alternative reality being suggested.
TS: Yes. I’m trying to create form that makes people think: “Wow, that looks interesting. I’ve never seen that before.”

CVV: And if we talk about context again — we’re now in the late 1970s. Amsterdam has changed tremendously?
TS: Yes, those were very turbulent years. Looking back, it was exciting to witness what was happening. Not only socially, but also in the art world. There was an enormous development — new artists emerging.
Older artists were being rediscovered. A whole group of artists came to light doing entirely new things. Classical art, in a way — which is also what I make, more or less — but then in new forms and approaches.

CVV: The different associations, social institutions, and circles you were part of — would you say that Amsterdam at that time, on a broad scale, had this immense drive to explore, and maybe even a broader interest in art?
TS: Provo, the Lieverdje, all that — there was so much going on. The “anti-smoking magician” and things like that. It was also still the tail end of the hippie era. Everything was allowed again, in a way. There was more tolerance — the police didn’t beat you up for everything anymore. Let’s put it this way: society was becoming more democratic. And it couldn’t really be stopped anymore, you know?

CVV: But many of those protest movements were of a younger generation than you, right?
TS: Yes, but you felt it across the entire city. It went through all the generations.

CVV: If we zoom in again on those associations — especially the BBK — you fairly quickly took on a kind of leadership role there. Did that add an extra dimension to your art practice? Or maybe to the socially engaged spirit of the time?
TS: Yes, more the second one. It was mainly focused on the artist’s income. That’s been a struggle throughout the centuries.
That’s what attracted me, of course. The social aspect. But I also got that from home. It carried through. I already had that when I was in metalwork, in terms of being part of unions.

CVV: The insights and experiences you had — did they have any impact on the moments you created art? What you wanted to show as an artist?
TS: Well, I did look around me in those times. I saw what was happening, both culturally and socially. But I can’t say it consciously influenced my art. I didn’t paint a Guernica. So, in that sense, my art practice was done in isolation.

CVV: There is no direct connection at all between your activism — for instance, as chairman of the BBK.
TS: No, in my experience those things were completely separate.

CVV: How do you look back at the 1980s in terms of your art practice?
TS: At a certain point, I withdrew more. I still made work, but it became less public.

A lot of things declined in the 1980’s. Fewer exhibitions. I still made works, like any artist, but it remained in the studio.

CVV: Perhaps that also reflects the changing sentiment — the energy of the 1970s slowly fading during the 1980s?
TS: That sense of freedom, experimentation, did disappear. And now, of course, it’s completely gone. But it already started back then, especially with the recession in the 1980s. That’s when today’s form of capitalism really began, I think.
Starting in the ’80s there’s been a trajectory that continues to this day. Capitalism doesn’t stop at exploitation — it’s built on it. And that’s never changed.

CVV: Have you seen changes in the city in the decades since?
TS: Yes, on different levels. First in traffic — that’s a whole topic on its own. But also violence has increased. And tensions among the population.

CVV: You mean that social cohesion declined?
TS: Yes, I think so. You used to see that through associations or neighborhood groups — there was still work being done on the human aspect. That’s diminished.

CVV: We live in individualistic times. And in that light, it’s all the more interesting how your artistry came out of a social network, a connected community. That atmosphere where people found each other and created things together… it stands in contrast with now, where you’re mainly encouraged to do it all alone as an artist, without being overly connected to what’s happening around you.
TS: Yes, I agree.

CVV: Stone eventually entered your practice, next to aluminum. Do you remember when that was?
TS: That was much later, about 20 years ago. So actually quite recently. Through an architect I got in touch with a stone workshop. He said: “You should go check that out.”

CVV: Looking at those most recent works — with the last works dated to 2016— you’ve essentially always continued making?
TS: Yes. Until I no longer had the technical means or the space. If I still had those, I’d probably still be working—even now, sitting here with you.

CVV: That maybe also says something about the development of the city — that it became increasingly difficult to find a place.
TS: That’s always been the case. But in my time, people still put up a fight for it. Now it’s become a personal matter.

CVV: When that ending came, did it take on a different meaning, or did you look back differently?
TS: No. The guiding principle of my work has always been technically connected to my workspace. If I can’t work anymore, it stops. The end had no symbolic meaning for me. It was just: I can’t create work anymore.

CVV: So, if you’d still been able to, you would’ve kept going?
TS: Yes, definitely.

CVV: And when you look back like this, do you see anything over the years? Do these different phases of your life bring back memories? Do you see certain developments?
TS: Yes, I do. It helps you to put things into perspective, to bring them together. I do see developments, but what I’ve always wanted to do is make things — physioplastic work. Constructing objects you don’t see in everyday life. That’s basically what I’ve always done.

CVV: So, there’s no real desire to see the work as a kind of summary of a life phase?
TS: Not really. Look, I started somewhere, and at a certain point I got the idea to start making other things. Where that impulse came from exactly, I don’t know.

CVV: The work doesn’t really take you back to the time in which it was made?
TS: No, not really. For me, they are objects that stand on their own. They are separate from the time in which they were created.

CVV: No reflection of society?
TS: Nor of my personal life. I can’t say that a better or worse income, or certain events, had any influence on the work. They stand on their own.

CVV: You wouldn’t have done anything differently?
TS: No. I know plenty of artists who switched to something. I didn’t, and I wouldn’t. This is where I ended up in my art practice.

CVV: This is what you had to say, in this way?
TS: Yes, this is it.

CVV: In many ways, it feels that it was meant to be like this, in terms of your work. It represents a sense of certainty.
TS: Yes, I feel fully connected to it. But I can’t predict how it might have gone differently. I already said, it’s impossible to say how the development would’ve
continued if I still had a studio.

CVV: No, and maybe that’s the interesting part — that the development and growth has now, in a physical sense, come to a stop. But perhaps it’s up to this “body” of work to continue evolving on its own. Even beyond your lifetime.
TS: The body of work will carry on, yes — because my own body won’t be able to anymore.

—
Interview conducted on April 28, 2025 in the artist’s studio. 
This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.