Pablo Picasso once stated that “every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.” For Dutch fashion and portrait photographer Wikkie Hermkens, this challenge is not just an artistic hurdle—it is an unrelenting practice. His debut solo exhibition INNER CHILD, held in the Lower East Side of Manhattan at 140 Essex Street reminds us that the blue flame of childhood artistry doesn’t have to dim. The concept of an “INNER CHILD” — the title of Hermkens show is one that deeply resonates. There’s something redemptive about that unpretentious youthful impulse to create which is felt through the work—about choosing beauty for its own sake. That fluidity of artistry, uninhibited by the concrete demands of “adulting” is something that each of us, no matter the age, attempts to maintain in some way, shape, or form. Each image in the exhibition feels like a question asked silently across time: Can you be brave enough to be seen as you once were? In a contemporary culture often obsessed with the next best thing, Hermkens presents something braver—an invitation back to the most essential self. In many ways, the work is not just about inner children—it’s also about the power of chosen family and queer embodiment. The portraits reveal what can result when both photographer and talent consent to honest vulnerability. This exhibition, and Hermkens’ subtle direction of its themes, is less about nostalgia and more about radical presence.

Hermkens story is one that reminds us of the inevitable beauty of reconnecting with one’s inner youth, and what can result from that sacred presence. It can evolve, flicker, and reappear—if we dare to sit with it. The series unfolds as a quiet rebellion against time, structure, and the pressure to perform flawlessly. For adults, creativity often becomes commodified or abandoned in favor of “supply and demand.” But Hermkens' work returns us to the emotional textures of being young and sensitive in a world that too often demands hardness. The portraits in INNER CHILD do not glamorize youth—they honor the fragments of it that still reside in us. Through reflective silver balloons, soft gazes, sporadic adornments, and stark black-and-white photography, the observer is invited to remember not just who we were, but who we might still be beneath the complex layers of experience. This exhibition, and Hermkens’ gentle direction of its themes, is less about nostalgia and more about radical presence. What does it mean to hold space for our past selves and future selves simultaneously? What does softness look like when it is fully seen? In the following conversation, Wikkie opens up about their creative origins, the healing practice of photography, and the courage it takes to show up—in front of the lens, behind it, and within it.

***Your personal rhythm of collaborating photographically with stylist and creative*** ***Sonny Groo*** ***feels like a dynamic dream duo. How did this begin?***
We actually met in a bar in Amsterdam about 14 years ago. I had just started my photography studies, and Sonny was already working in fashion. Our collaboration grew quite organically from there, though not always without its challenges. Over the years, we had to learn how to balance being in a relationship while also building a creative partnership. It took time, communication, and growth, but it’s only made us stronger. At this point, it really feels like we can read and write in the same language, both in life and in our work.

How are you inspired by the electric underground creative community of NYC versus your own homeland?

In Amsterdam, I really developed on a personal level. That’s where I found my community through nightlife, through friendships and where my love for photography began. I had the chance to show my work in various magazines, and it was the place where I first explored who I was creatively and personally. But it wasn’t until I came to New York that I truly started to find my own visual signature. The casting here is unlike anywhere else. It is so diverse, so expressive, so unapologetically cool. I’m deeply inspired by that underground scene. There’s a rawness and freedom to it that constantly challenges and energizes me. It keeps me curious and pushes my work into new directions.

Was there an initial spark or moment that gave birth to Inner Child? How do you come up with ideas for a shoot?

Inner Child really came to life around the time of the pandemic. Everything slowed down, and like many people, I turned inward. I started reflecting more deeply, on my work, on connection, on what really lasts. I also felt frustrated by how quickly images disappear on social media. You can pour so much energy and emotion into a shoot, and then it’s gone in a second. With Inner Child, I wanted to create something more considered, something that invites people to pause and engage with the work in a more lasting way.

***How did your personal journey of self-acceptance and identity influence the tone and direction of this body of work?***
My journey of self acceptance has shaped everything, not just this work, but the way I move through the world. For a long time, I struggled with how I saw myself, how I fit into things. Photography became a way for me to explore those questions without always needing answers. With Inner Child, I was drawn to moments of softness, of play, of vulnerability. Things I didn’t always allow myself to feel growing up. The tone of the work reflects that search for freedom and honesty. It’s about unlearning shame, and embracing a part of yourself that was always there, but maybe hidden. In a way, the camera gave me permission to meet that part again, and to share that meeting with others.

The exhibition speaks deeply to themes of vulnerability, reflection, and softness especially among LGBTQIA+ and underrepresented voices. How do you approach creating space for subjects to feel safe expressing that on camera?

I feel like it’s always a dance together an energy you share. That exchange is what creates the safe space. It’s never just me directing someone, it’s a mutual rhythm we find. I come in with care, presence, and openness, and in return, the person in front of the camera feels that they can bring their full self. Especially when working with LGBTQIA+ and underrepresented voices, I’m very aware that being photographed can be vulnerable. So I focus on trust not just in what I’m doing with the camera, but in how I hold the space. It’s that shared energy, that dance, that allows something real to come through.

You’ve mentioned this work is a reflection of how we “process growth and memory.” Can you share what part of your own memory or inner child you felt reconnected with while making this series?

I grew up in a creative but often chaotic environment, and as a sensitive, observant kid, I didn’t always feel like there was space for the way I saw the world. I felt different, more emotional, more curious, a little softer and for a long time, that made me feel out of place. Like I had to toughen up or hide parts of myself just to fit in. It took years to realize that those qualities the ones I once saw as weaknesses were actually my strengths. Photography gave me a language for that. A way to connect, to express, and to create space for others who’ve felt the same. When I photograph people I truly see and who see me in return there’s this quiet, honest exchange. That’s what Inner Child is really about: recognizing the parts of ourselves we once buried, and allowing them to be present again.

Many of the subjects are longtime collaborators. How did your existing relationships with them shape the outcome of these portraits?

Many of the people in this series are close friends or longtime collaborators, and that history definitely shaped the portraits. There’s a shared language and trust that builds over time. A kind of ease that allows people to show up more fully, without having to perform. That depth lets me go further emotionally with the camera, because there’s already a foundation to build on. I think that familiarity brings a certain honesty to the images. We weren’t trying to impress each other. We were just being, together. That sense of mutual understanding is what I hope people feel when they look at the work.

Can you speak about the symbolism of the reflective silver balloons — why did you choose that specific visual metaphor, and what did it unlock in the portraits?

The silver balloons in INNER CHILD carry a lot of layered meaning for me.

At first, they might feel playful or decorative, but they were never just about aesthetics. They act as a kind of emotional mirror, reflecting light and shadow, just like our memories do. They’re soft, reflective, and temporary, all qualities that echo the vulnerability and sensitivity of our younger selves. I chose them specifically for this series because they create a tension between protection and exposure, innocence and self-awareness. In wrapping each subject in these reflective forms, I wanted to explore how we hold our younger selves not with nostalgia, but with recognition. INNER CHILD is about that inner conversation, the ongoing process of becoming, of revisiting who we were, and embracing who we are now. The balloons became both shield and spotlight. They helped each portrait speak not just to identity, but to the courage it takes to show up with softness and pride. What surprised me most is how much they unlocked emotionally. People didn’t pose with them they responded to them, interacted with them. And in that space, something honest could happen.

How has your own experience as a twin influenced your understanding of identity, especially in the context of visibility and representation?

Being a twin had a huge impact on how I understand identity especially when it comes to visibility. Growing up, people constantly confused us. We were always seen as a pair, not as individuals. And while there was a closeness in that, it also made me feel invisible at times. I was craving to be seen for who I really was not just “one of the twins.” That experience made me hyper-aware of the need to define myself, and it sharpened how I see others too. I became very observant, sensitive to how people express themselves and how they’re perceived or overlooked. That definitely carries into my work. In INNER CHILD, I’m interested in showing people in a way that feels honest and full not just how they look, but how they feel. Especially for those who’ve often been unseen, misread, or put into boxes, I want the portrait to be a moment of full presence. So in a way, being a twin taught me how deeply we all want to be recognized not just looked at, but seen.

The use of cinematic black-and-white photography gives this work a timeless tone. What draws you to this aesthetic, and how do you see it evolving in your future projects?

Black-and-white photography has always drawn me in. It feels timeless, and it lets you focus fully on the person. No distractions, just emotion. Without color, the image becomes more honest, more raw. You really feel the presence of the subject. For Inner Child, it allowed the portraits to be soft and strong at the same time. It helped me show vulnerability in a pure, quiet way. In future projects, I’d love to focus even more deeply on themes like these exploring identity, vulnerability, and personal growth in an honest way. There’s so much richness in those stories, and I want to keep diving into that space, pushing myself and the work further each time.

This is your debut solo exhibition. How has this experience reshaped your understanding of your own artistic legacy or direction?

This being my first solo show and having it in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, the city that gave me my voice has been incredibly emotional and grounding. It made me pause and really look at the work as a whole not just as photographs, but as a reflection of my story, my values, and the people who shaped it. It’s helped me realize that my artistic direction isn’t only about style, but about intention, about creating space for honesty, identity, and connection. I feel more rooted in what I want to say, and more sure of how I want to grow. This is just the beginning, but it already feels like a turning point.

What do you hope viewers walk away with after experiencing Inner Child — either emotionally, spiritually, or intellectually?

The exhibition was open for a full month, right here in the Lower East Side, and every Friday we hosted something special ways to expand the conversation beyond the photographs. The week after the opening, we had a beautiful talk with Model Aariana Rose Philip and creative director/Fashion Stylist Sonny Groo. We also hosted a poetry night with Finlay Mangan that was intimate and moving. What I really hope is that people walked out of the gallery feeling something especially hope. Inner Child is about softness, strength, and being honest with yourself. If even one person left feeling more connected to who they are, or a little less alone in their story, then the work has done what it was meant to do.

What stories are you currently yearning to tell next — and are there any upcoming themes or collaborations you’re especially excited about?

Like I said, I want to keep going deeper into stories about identity, self-discovery, and how we hold space for ourselves and others. There’s still so much to say, especially within queer and underrepresented communities. I’m drawn to the quieter stories - the everyday moments that carry deep emotion and strength. At the same time, I also know that making this kind of work takes time and it costs money. It’s not something you rush. So while I have themes and collaborations I’m excited to explore, I also want to give myself the space to build them with care, honesty, and the right support. That’s how Inner Child came to life, and that’s how I want to keep working.

If you could speak to your younger self — the one behind the lens before this all began — what would you tell him?

I think I’d tell him, You don’t have to be like anyone else. Your softness is not a weakness. The way you see the world, the way you feel things deeply? That’s your power. It might not always feel easy, and there will be moments when you doubt yourself, but stay close to that instinct. Keep creating, even when no one’s watching. The right people will find you. And one day, this part of you: the part you once tried to hide will be the thing that connects you to others.

Wikkie Hermkens’ Inner Child

If you could speak to your younger self — the one behind the lens before this all began — what would you tell him?

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