Astrid Moors She is a visual artist (ABK Maastricht, 1986–1991), studied philosophy in Utrecht (1992), and completed the second phase of her studies at St. Joost in Breda (1999). She has had her studio in Rotterdam since 2000.
Trees have been a source of inspiration for her work for years: often paintings, sometimes incorporating projections or digital elements, usually in combination with architecture to provide a counterbalance. A slight activist undertone naturally creeps into her work. Save the trees, the more trees, the better—don’t turn it into a climbing forest. Her work revolves around rhythm, structure, and layering, both in technique and meaning.
Artist in Residence at the former Emmen Zoo: Your title is ‘ZOOkeeper’—a well-chosen name. I responded to an open call with the thought-provoking theme “the mind must wander.” In the summer, I was invited for an interview on the hottest, almost longest day of the year.
On the day of the appointment, the trains weren't running; the next day, everything had to take a detour. It turned out to be typical of the winter that was to follow. So my visit began with the question of whether it would be okay if I arrived a little later. Fortunately, another candidate was able to get there earlier.
I was going to be the winter zookeeper
On the train ride back, I already got a phone call: I was going to be the ZOOkeeper for the winter. I had no idea exactly what I was getting myself into, but I did plan to focus more on *BlauwBosBad*, an installation that had already been shown in two versions. Version three would be created here, in a peculiar white cube in the middle of a winter park. When I went for my interview, that park was still lush and full of leaves. I could hardly imagine what it would look like in December.
The residency lasted three months and was part-time: three days a week in Emmen, two nights at a B&B, since Studio ZOOkeeper itself doesn’t offer overnight accommodations. After some searching, I found a place a five-kilometer bike ride away. It was a good deal, since my budget was limited, and it even had the Van Gogh Room. Yes, he had also been a resident here once, in the nearby village of Nieuw-Amsterdam.
In practice, the distance turned out to be shorter than the one from my house to my studio in Rotterdam. So it was doable. The only thing that made me a little uneasy was the ‘caution: icy conditions’ sign by a section of the bike path.
My AiR began with a copper theft along the railroad tracks near Zwolle, which meant I had to take a detour via Apeldoorn and Deventer on the very first day. Many roads lead to Emmen.
It turned out to be a quiet December. Not cold. The park and the studio soon felt like a gift, a peaceful respite during the week. How do you describe what it was like to ‘own’ a park, so to speak—to be a ZOOkeeper among oak trees that were more than two hundred years old? It felt almost sacred.
The park hadn't been a zoo for ten years. The new Wildlands is located a kilometer away. Yet you can still see traces of its past everywhere. Large boulders—very typical of the Drenthe region. Ponds with little islands where, in your mind's eye, you can still see the monkeys hanging from the scaffolding. And the elephant rock right out front.
The park hadn't been a zoo for ten years
My workspace was an octagonal room measuring about nine by nine meters, with a ceiling two and a half meters high and a square section in the center that was higher. It was a strange space, but that’s precisely what made it interesting. Ultimately, I incorporated that shape into the installation.
The studio was like a cocoon; it had no windows on any side, just a glass door and narrow windows high up in the ceiling through which you could see the oak branches. During the first few days, I kept hearing a kind of saxophone music—atmospheric and repetitive—somewhere in the background, almost sacred. For a moment, I thought it was coming from the Tibetan museum down the street, but during the Christmas break it became clear: it was the escape room. It turned out to be located beneath the octagonal structures of the former reptile house, of which my studio was a part.
January started with snow. During the first week, I tried twice to travel from Rotterdam to Emmen. It’s usually a nearly four-hour trip, but that week it just wasn’t possible. After waiting two hours in Gouda, an NS employee said, “Emmen? No, you’d better go home.” So I decided to record a video about the AiR residency in my studio instead.
Every day I walked through ‘my park’—it was especially beautiful after five, when the park was already closed
Once the trains started running again, the park became more and more beautiful. Snow all around and on my thick old oak tree. Every day I walked through ‘my park’—it was especially beautiful after five o’clock, when the park was already closed to visitors, and I’d take one more lap. And every day I’d pick a tree to identify.
In early December, I started an online course on tree identification. At the end of December, I took the tests and turned in my handwritten exams, which included drawings of trees. The examiner complimented me, saying they rarely saw that.
The certificate was there at the final presentation, along with my notebook containing notes on ‘the trees of the day.’ I learned that a pine has paired needles and a spruce has single needles, and that the needles of a Douglas fir smell like oranges.
Those Monday mornings to Emmen became a regular routine. Three days a week, it was like a retreat, away from home and the routines of everyday life. Close the door, hop on the train.
In early December, I started an online course on tree knowledge
It’s quiet in Emmen. Wonderfully quiet. It was warm everywhere—except outside. The studio was well-heated, and at the B&B I had a workspace right next to the radiator. That came in handy when I woke up early in the morning to a NL-Alert Code Red warning for freezing rain. Until noon, I was able to edit the ’tak” video for BBB3 in the Vincent Room; by then, the roads were already passable by bike again.
BlauwBosBad3 (blessed)
And the work itself? I took my time with it.
During the first week, I used yogurt to paint straight lines on the windows. On the floor, I laid out a square piece of carpet and used crepe tape to create root-like patterns—those characteristic branching twigs, an equilateral trident. Darwin’s “tree of life” diagram.
In the second week, I removed the yogurt again and created a different tree structure. In the third week, I removed the tape and put different tree structures on the window, assuming this would become a weekly routine. But no. The third yogurt painting stayed put and was still there at the end of February.
I emphasized the square central form with life-size paper tree structures. For the large projection, I initially used the animation from earlier versions of *BlauwBosBad*, in which candelabra-like trees slowly glide by. But that didn’t work in this space. It called for stillness.
The oak tree turned out to be the solution. The whimsical shapes of the branches, the way they kept splitting off again and again. The flat paper was crumpled and dented, as if it were bark.
Tree Stories
I put out a call for stories about trees on Radio Drenthe. People could send in a story about a tree—whether it was very special or just very ordinary. Maybe I could incorporate them into my work.
It's often the same with trees. As soon as there's a story behind them, you see them differently
The beauty of a call for submissions like this is that it adds a personal touch. People have their own stories about trees and love to share them. One of the contributors, Bjorn de Leeuw, began his story about a crooked willow with: “The Netherlands is beautiful. There’s so much to see. But the best parts are the places where there’s not much to see. That’s when you have to look more closely. The northern provinces really stand out in that regard.”
It's often the same with trees. As soon as there's a story behind them, you see them differently. And whatever you pay attention to grows.
Visual treehugger
I’ve embraced the oak tree in this work. I sometimes call myself a visual treehugger.
During the residency, I looked for software to further develop my projected animations and adapted it to my needs. In the end, the residency was just as much about the process—observing, traveling, and slowly settling into a place—as it was about the final result.
Still, I was pleasantly surprised by that result. They were impressed and fell silent when they stepped into BlauwBosBad. They moved more slowly, read the tree stories, and sometimes just stood or sat there for a moment, as if they were truly basking in the tranquility of the space. By standing within the projection, the visitors cast shadows and became part of it: the projection also appeared on their backs, creating a beautiful additional layer.
Blessed
And the subtitle of BBB3? Blessed.
In forestry, marking trees involves placing dots on them. White indicates ecological importance—for example, because a tree is home to a woodpecker or a bat. Blue marks a tree that will be preserved and allowed to grow. Red or orange means the tree must be cut down. A red cross means the tree should be cut down and left on the ground.
Blessed, in two ways.
I felt so privileged to have been a ZOOkeeper for three months that winter.
And blue dots.
Want to read more articles like this?
Subscribe now and get a 25% discount for the first year
Your support enables us to continue publishing this trade journal for visual artists. Thanks to our loyal subscribers and advertisers, BK-informatie is able to publish eight issues a year—both in print and online—filled with information that supports artists in their professional practice.
Important for everyone working in the visual arts sector!
Subscribe now and get a 25% discount for the first year
English 
Dutch