Introduction English
My Journey Through Art, Philosophy, and the Language of Freedom
As a young boy, my Saturdays were often spent at Pulchri Studio in The Hague, a place that would quietly yet powerfully shape the course of my life. These weekends with my grandfather were more than just family visits; they were the birthplace of my fascination with art, a fascination that quickly grew into a lifelong passion. Inside those halls I discovered what I can only describe as a “dream world”—a space where colors, shapes, and ideas merged into something larger than life, something that made me feel truly alive. Art gave me an experience of freedom, a sense of liberation that no other activity could provide. That early discovery of freedom through art became a guiding thread in my life—one I would continue to follow, eventually finding it again through philosophy and through painting.
My grandfather, Machiel (“Mac”) Roest (1889–1973), was a well-known figure in The Hague’s art world. He was not only a dedicated art collector himself but also an honorary member of Pulchri Studio, where his circle of friends included some of the most prominent names of his generation—Willem Hussem, Sierk Schroeder, Jan van Heel, and Co Westerik. These artists introduced him, and through him me, to the vibrant artistic culture of The Hague during the 1930s to 1960s. Their conversations, their works, and their ideas created an atmosphere of artistic curiosity that I absorbed almost unconsciously as a child. Art was not something abstract in our family—it was lived, shared, and celebrated. My parents, too, carried this passion for art, and it became a natural inheritance for me, shaping not only my interests but also my identity.
As I grew older and entered high school, my curiosity expanded beyond art into philosophy. I was searching for answers to questions I couldn’t even fully articulate, questions about truth, existence, freedom, and the structures of thought itself.
It was during these years that I discovered Ludwig von Wittgenstein, a philosopher whose work would leave a lasting mark on my thinking. Reading Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus was nothing short of revelatory. Wittgenstein’s central claim—that the limits of our language are the limits of our world, and that many so-called philosophical problems arise not from thought itself but from the constraints of language—resonated deeply with me.
I immersed myself in the Tractatus, reading it not once but repeatedly, and in multiple languages: German, English, French, and Dutch. To my surprise, each translation felt like a new book. The nuances, the shifts in meaning, and the interpretative choices of each translator often seemed to alter the essence of what Wittgenstein was attempting to convey. I began to suspect that no translation could fully capture his intentions, that something essential was always lost or transformed in the passage from one language to another. This realization planted in me a lifelong awareness of the fragility and power of language—a theme that would return later when I sought new, non-verbal ways of engaging with philosophy.
Beyond Wittgenstein, I was also profoundly influenced by other great thinkers: Friedrich Nietzsche, Hannah Arendt, Martin Heidegger, and Arthur Schopenhauer. Each of them opened new horizons of thought. Nietzsche’s radical questioning of morality, Arendt’s reflections on politics and human action, Heidegger’s inquiry into being, and Schopenhauer’s exploration of suffering and will—all became part of the intellectual fabric of my life.
Over time, their ideas ceased to be merely academic studies. They became companions, lenses through which I observed the world, and sometimes even obsessions. I found myself wandering through society searching for manifestations of their concepts
Could Nietzsche’s will to power be seen in politics? Was Heidegger’s notion of “being-towards-death” present in everyday life? Could Arendt’s ideas about totalitarianism be found in modern institutions?
And when I failed to find clear answers, I was left with unsettling questions: What, then, is the purpose of philosophy if its concepts cannot be observed or tested against reality?
In search of stability, I briefly turned to the study of economics. Yet instead of grounding me, it led me down an entirely different path. I eventually found myself working in the financial world as a market-maker and risk manager. At first, I experienced moments of success, but these were soon overshadowed by setbacks, disillusionment, and a growing sense of alienation. The world of finance was one in which I never truly felt at home. By the mid-1990s, these internal conflicts culminated in a period of severe depression.
Paradoxically, that dark period also marked a turning point. I realized that philosophy confined to language—to books, arguments, and written words—was incomplete, perhaps even one-sided. Reading Wittgenstein, Nietzsche, or Heidegger in text alone seemed increasingly insufficient. Philosophy had to be lived, experienced, and, in my case, visualized. Out of this realization grew a new need: to express philosophy not through the limitations of language but through the universal language of art
In 2009, I began a new journey: translating Wittgenstein’s Tractatus into painting. I wanted to take his aphoristic, numbered, and mathematically structured propositions and transform them into a “drawn reality.” For me, this was not merely an artistic exercise but an act of philosophical interpretation. I sought to express what words could not capture—the deeper essence of Wittgenstein’s thought—through forms, colors, and textures.
The result was a series of 65 paintings, each one corresponding to a specific aphorism from the Tractatus. To emphasize the connection between philosophy and its written form, I chose to paint on paper—the same material on which philosophy is traditionally recorded.
The visible seams between sheets of paper became part of the artwork, symbolizing the duality of life. Nothing flows seamlessly; there are always boundaries. Yet unlike linguistic boundaries, these visual ones could be experienced directly, without mediation, without the distortions of translation.
I titled this body of work
Machiel Meets Ludwig von Wittgenstein (1975–2018),
a tribute not only to Wittgenstein but also to my grandfather, Machiel, who first introduced me to the world of art and to my father, Franciscus, who offered me my first Tractatus.
In these works, two legacies—art and philosophy—come together. The series represents my personal attempt to bridge the gap between language and vision, between thought and form, between inherited tradition and individual creation.
This book includes selections from that series, offering both visual interpretations and reflections on a lifelong journey—a journey that began with childhood Saturdays in Pulchri Studio, continued through years of philosophical exploration, detoured into the world of finance, and eventually returned, with greater depth, to the language of art. For me, it is a journey toward freedom—the same freedom I once glimpsed as a boy surrounded by paintings, and which I continue to seek through the merging of art and philosophy.