IN CONVERSATION WITH HETTIE INNISS
interview by AÏCHA PILMEYER
Some might recognise the feeling of being stuck in the waiting room of their own life. Suspended between where you are and where you want to be. It’s a space charged with anticipation, restlessness and discomfort, but also with a delicate sense of becoming. So maybe that waiting room is not such a bad place. Instead of rejecting that feeling or rushing to escape it, Hettie Inniss invites us to sit with it.
In her first solo exhibition, The Waiting Room at GRIMM Amsterdam, Inniss translates the emotional texture of memory into vivid, atmospheric paintings. These works don’t try to recall moments precisely; they recreate the sensation of remembering: unstable, warm, fragmented, and deeply felt.
Born in 1999 and based in London, Inniss is known for architectural abstraction and colour fields that seem to hum with presence. Her work explores how identity forms through the shifting terrain of memory.
How would you describe your work?
Coming from the experience of making it, the best way I can describe it is like a deep breath, which I know sounds really abstract. But to me, it feels like you’re at the top of your breath, waiting or anticipating something. There’s a lot of movement, and you’re unsure where it’s all going to collide. The works almost have a sound to them; there’s a rhythm with each painting, and they’re all coming to a point somewhere.
They are full of movement and life. There aren’t figures, but there’s a lot of shifting and changing, elements moving against or around each other. A lot of the time, they come from memories, and that can feel quite scary. We naturally gravitate toward what we understand, and when we don’t, it can be unsettling. I think I enjoy putting myself in those situations, constantly dealing with that instability and learning to be okay with it.
Do you remember a work of art that first triggered your senses?
Yes, I remember going to Tate Modern with my mum and seeing Cy Twombly’s Untitled (Bacchus). Those big red swirls looked like he had thrown a bucket of paint and let it move freely. The motion of it really struck me. I’m naturally very sensitive, and seeing that work was a full-body experience.
The echo of the space, the sound of feet on the floor as people walked through the gallery, all contributed to the feeling. I’ve always been drawn to textured work; it almost feels edible, like food. It’s hard to describe in words, which is why I paint – to express that feeling physically.
You mentioned that working from memory can feel unsettling. How does that sense of instability influence the way you make your paintings?
What I love about basing the paintings on memory is that out-of-control feeling of these moments surfacing spontaneously. Like a kind of no man’s land, it feels lawless and expansive. I find it fascinating how we look to memory for definitive truth, even though it is always in flux. It’s nice to revel in that instability.
That irony is a great space to make work from because when you paint, you’re performing memory. It’s not about representing it accurately, but performing what it feels like to remember while you’re making.
What do you mean by performing memory?
I’m interested in how a sensory trigger creates a reaction in your brain and how that translates onto the canvas. I’m painting, but I’m also listening to the canvas, seeing what it needs to do; that’s what performing memory means to me.
When we remember something, we’re constantly filling in and adjusting. We don’t recall everything; we rebuild it each time. My process is similar. I might begin with a sketch or a sense of a space, but once I’m working, I’m responding to the painting more than following a plan. I’m listening to where it wants to go, what needs to be emphasised, and what needs to fade. The painting becomes a conversation. The memory is only the starting point.
My memories don’t appear in such vivid colours as your paintings do. Are these colours inspired by the way you recall things?
It started during my Master’s, when I was thinking about how our minds recall past moments in general. Sometimes I’d close my eyes and notice the light coming through my eyelids and everything tinged with orange and heat. That became a part of my work.
I’m not clear on figures and faces when I remember people; it’s more about energy or feeling. So, I play with fleshy undertones, warmth, and the sense of a body without showing the body itself. You become the person in these worlds.
Do you want your works to be open for anyone to interpret, or do you have a clear idea of what they should evoke?
For me, when I’m in the studio, I’m the governor of my own world, entirely focused on what I’m doing, quite self-absorbed naturally. But once the work leaves the studio, my hands are off the wheel, and the work becomes collaborative. I love that. People bring in perspectives I could never have predicted; it shifts and gathers new meanings depending on who is looking at it. That’s what keeps art alive, and I think that’s essential. For me, that’s the fun of it too.
Would you say your work celebrates uncertainty?
I think it’s more about experiencing it. I’ve spent a lot of time feeling like I need to fully understand what’s going on, or even understand myself, before I can really sit with that uncertainty. But having a space where you can abandon that instinct is really freeing. It’s a helpful exercise for me personally to let go of that need for explanation. It’s fun to lean into those insecurities, but also to explore the beauty that can come from that process. That’s what excites me most.
See Hettie Inniss – The Waiting Room, on view October 24 – December 6, 2025, at GRIMM, Keizersgracht 241, Amsterdam (NL).
