Petra Schott

Written By Contemporary Art Collectors

Petra Schott is a German abstract painter based in Frankfurt. Working primarily in oil, her art explores the emotional undercurrents of daily life—particularly those shaped by memory, longing, and womanhood. Her paintings invite viewers into spaces of introspection and poetic resonance, blending lyrical abstraction with subtle figurative elements.

After earning her second law degree and serving as a lawyer and judge, Schott pursued a Fine Arts degree at the Art Academy in Kassel, Germany. Since leaving the legal profession in 2014, she has dedicated herself fully to painting. Her work has been widely exhibited across Germany, the UK, the US, France, and Belgium, and is held in numerous private collections worldwide.

Critics and curators have praised the emotional depth and quiet complexity of her paintings. As curator Nell Cardozo writes, “There is a generous intimacy in Schott’s use of color that coaxes out a subtle interplay between comfort and longing. Looking into them is like looking into a dream that belongs to some common consciousness.”

Schott is represented by several international galleries, including Tappan Collective (Los Angeles), Konsum163 (Munich), Mirena Art Gallery (Saint Paul de Vence), Hancock Gallery (Newcastle), Pryor Fine Art Gallery, Atlanta, and BelArt Gallery (Brussels). In 2023, she received the Jackson’s Painting Prize for non-representational art. Her work has been featured in publications such as Create! Magazine and Art Seen. In addition to her studio practice, she teaches an annual workshop at Kunstakademie Eigenart in Bad Heilbrunn, Germany.

Petra, your paintings often arise from intuitive processes that embrace subconscious memory, feminine longing, and lyrical abstraction. In relinquishing control to the left hand and allowing spontaneity to guide form, how do you reconcile this creative surrender with your earlier legal career, where precision, structure, and rational argument governed your professional identity? Do you see echoes of your former self within your artistic practice, or is painting an act of conscious defiance against it?

That is a very interesting question, one I have often asked myself as well. I believe that in painting it is in fact my intuitive side that speaks the strongest. At the same time, I also use language and fragments of language in the form of graphic elements in my works, which for me express the more rational side and logical thinking. The drawing aspect of my practice, which I often carry out with charcoal, is likewise connected to the lines of writing and, more broadly, to a kind of logic. However, much of my drawing I do with my left hand to stay connected to my intuition.

There is also another area where I apply a more analytical judgment, namely at the moment when a work comes to completion. Then I have to decide whether the piece is truly finished, whether something is missing, whether it feels too expressionless, or whether I can still improve it in some way. In that moment, other qualities besides the purely intuitive come into play. But of course, even these qualities are still far removed from my former work as a lawyer. Yet I do draw from the memory of that time and from the tension between that way of working and the wild, unrestrained release of painting a part of my joy in creativity.

You describe your work as a means to rediscover childhood and reconnect with your roots and humanity. Given this emphasis on personal excavation, do you believe abstraction, as opposed to figuration, offers a more honest language for emotional truth? What are the risks and rewards of inviting viewers into such personal psychological spaces without the anchoring clarity of narrative or recognizable forms?

For me, abstract painting is a very open world, and that is precisely why I am drawn to it. Of course, I can only speak for myself. My work is abstract, but very often it also contains figurative elements. In this interplay, I find a way to express my personal truth. My painterly language does not aim to define everything, but rather to create an overall experience in which one can lose oneself.

The danger of abstract painting, of course, lies in its arbitrariness. I believe, however, that I escape this through my connection with figuration. As in poetry, allusion and suggestion is for me a wonderful means of opening up a wider process of thought and feeling. These doors to the spaces behind the visible are the ones I wish to open for the viewer as well.

Arno Geiger’s quote, “Art does not save us from chaos but from order,” appears central to your ethos. In your own words, what role does productive disorder play in accessing deeper emotional or metaphysical realities? And how do you determine when a painting, born from such chaos, has reached its final state of completion?

Indeed, Arno Geiger’s words play an important role for me. They also make it clear once again that in art and painting, something very different matters than what was central in my earlier life as a lawyer. For me, only out of creative chaos can something new emerge: a new language of painting, a new form of expression, a new depth.

When I begin a work, I usually have no idea what will appear on the canvas. Sometimes I simply start by wiping out brushes with leftover paint; sometimes I begin with a particular color that I am drawn to in that moment and want to explore further. I especially love this freedom of beginning. On large canvases in particular—where you cannot fully grasp the whole picture—I feel this freedom in an especially powerful and joyful way.

I want to surprise myself with what emerges on the canvas. As the process unfolds, it becomes charged with what has already appeared and with the thoughts and associations that arise in response. It turns into a dialogue—one that, at a certain point, can no longer be continued. For me, that is the moment when everything on the canvas has reached its highest intensity. That is when I stop.

Color in your work often operates as both an emotive frequency and a conceptual provocation. How do you approach color relationships during the painting process, particularly when conveying states of ambiguity such as longing, melancholy, or intimacy? Do certain hues carry persistent symbolic weight for you across different series, or are they always reinvented by context and emotion?

Indeed, colors play a very important and often dominant role in my work. For example, the color green appears again and again. It can shift toward yellow or toward a more turquoise shade. Green has a deeply satisfying, calming, and uplifting effect on me. I love being out in nature, hiking, enjoying views, and losing myself in them. All of this is something I try to capture on my canvas as well.

Rosé and pink tones also often appear in my work. For me, they symbolize softness, delicacy, and often the feminine body—even if that may sound a little clichéd. This rosé can also transform into a fiery and almost aggressive red. Red is another important, evocative color for me: it refreshes, it asserts itself, it awakens, and it attracts a great deal of attention.

This summer I worked a lot with yellow. I love this carefree, radiant yellow that conveys warmth, brightness, and natural ease. When it comes to more ambivalent feelings or melancholic memories, however, I tend to use more muted tones—such as the many shades between warm and cool grey, or sand colors and light browns.
For me, the palette of colors is immensely rich, and I believe that through it I can find an expression for every emotional state.

There’s a consistent undercurrent of womanhood in your oeuvre, an exploration of the poetic interior life of the feminine experience. How consciously do you engage with feminist or gendered themes in your work? Do you see your paintings as a response to, or liberation from, the historical male-dominated canon of abstraction?

Indeed, in my work the fact that I am a woman – and thus consciously or unconsciously bring a female perspective into my paintings – plays an important role. I see it as a great enrichment that so many female voices are now part of the art world, voices that were absent for far too long. However, I do not paint in order to prove something or to emphasize the female standpoint; it is simply that my way of perceiving the world and giving it  a painterly expression is a female perspective. The more this cacophony of female voices can unfold, the richer our world becomes, and the more diversity becomes visible in art.

Your transition from law to full-time painting was not merely a career change but a radical act of redefinition. How did that existential pivot, leaving a position of institutional authority for a life of creative uncertainty, shape your understanding of risk, identity, and authorship in your artistic journey?

Indeed, the shift from a life as a lawyer to a life as an artist was a major step. I only gradually realized over time just how profound this change truly was. The freedom I have as an artist continues to grow—it expands along with me, with what I dare to attempt, with the risks I am willing to take. I feel as though I had to slowly grow into this world, even though I had always painted and participated in exhibitions during my years as a lawyer and judge. Yet this complete immersion in the artistic world is something entirely different. It opens up a new intensity of painting; I can now surrender to this passion—which borders on obsession—without restraint. That is deeply fulfilling, and the fact that a certain success has also followed makes me very grateful. After eleven years as an artist, I feel that I have become someone else. And I feel more at home in this place than perhaps ever before in my life.

You’ve spoken of scribbling into your paintings, embedding fleeting thoughts and memories into the layers of oil. How do these textual gestures operate are they cathartic, archival, or subversive? Do you view them as messages meant to be read by the viewer, or are they more like private remnants of the process itself?

Yes, indeed, I like to scribble into my paintings, especially in larger works that have a longer process of becoming. These little scribbles are meant as process notes. They capture a fleeting inspiration, a memory, a thought. They are not necessarily intended to be legible; they are more notes to myself. In this way, I bring the layer of reflection on the painting I am working on directly into the work. Even if I later paint over the scribbles, they remain embedded in the image. For me, this act of scribbling small notes into the painting is a gesture connected to language, which I associate with logical thinking and analytical observation, whereas painting itself—immersing in colors and forms—is a process I assign to the other hemisphere of the brain, the one responsible for intuition and sensation.

As someone whose work invites introspection and emotional resonance, how do you navigate the public display of such intimate content, particularly within the commercial gallery context? Has the increasing global visibility of your work ever challenged your sense of artistic vulnerability or personal privacy?

Yes, that’s right, some works feel very private to me. If I feel that they are not suitable for public display, I simply don’t release them. I can also decide to what extent I make the stories behind the works public. Of course, I’m sometimes asked about them, but I only share my personal experiences within a trusted circle of friends. I believe it’s not necessary to know my stories, because the works speak for themselves and allow the viewer to connect them with their own experiences or imagination.

You’ve taught workshops at Kunstakademie Eigenart, cultivating the next generation of painters. How do you guide students to embrace intuition without descending into chaos or cliché? In what ways do you encourage them to access their inner landscapes, especially in an art world often preoccupied with surface, spectacle, and marketability?

Yes, indeed, those are valid questions. I believe that for people working artistically who want to find their own form of expression, the first step is to let go of concerns about marketability and preconceived ideas of what is considered “beautiful.” I think it’s about finding one’s own voice and having the courage to move beyond what is familiar or merely pleasing. It’s about becoming aware of the freedom that painting offers. Artists who come to me often want to learn more about what I call intuitive painting. There are certain techniques that help to step away from beginning a work with too many intentions or preconceived notions of the image. These are techniques that bring you into the flow without focusing on a result. That can be a very helpful approach in the beginning – but of course, the path goes much further from there.

Looking back across your many exhibitions, ranging from urban galleries in Munich to international fairs in Los Angeles and Venice, how has your understanding of place shaped your work? Do you see your paintings as spatial translations of interior states, or as attempts to carve out emotional geographies that transcend location altogether?

I see my works as not tied to a specific place. They usually arise from inner states and memories of certain places and locations. However, through the painterly process, places and inner states become indistinguishably interwoven. I always find it very exciting to see my works in different spatial contexts. In my studio, I can only ever hang one or two pieces on the free wall, so it is always a special joy to encounter them again in a larger context, whether in a gallery or within a collection.

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