André P. Winter | AtomotA
I was born in Helmstedt in 1979 and grew up in Beierstedt am Heeseberg, in southeastern Lower Saxony, which was then a border zone. A region on the periphery, between open spaces and the border, between fields, meadows, and a horizon that left plenty of room for thought.
Those who grow up on the periphery see things from the side. Perhaps that is precisely why one recognizes connections that remain hidden when viewed from the center. The periphery is not a disadvantage. It is a perspective.
This is where my love for nature began. The Heeseberg, the landscape, the seasons, and the quiet, independent life of things have shaped my perception. Today, I find much of this reflected in my garden: in growth and decay, in the order of nature, and in its wonderful disorder.
In the beginning, there were lines.
Even as a child, I used to doodle-at first unconsciously, mainly to calm myself down. It wasn’t until I started school that this quiet pastime gave me a glimpse of what lay within me. In biology class, I drew animals and insects; in art class, I carved animals and designed bowls. Shapes weren’t just meant to be looked at-they were meant to be understood, transformed, and brought to life with my own hands.
I took art as an exam subject for my high school diploma. For the first time, what I did was recognized as an achievement in its own right. A small moment that meant a lot: Perhaps what I took for granted was more than just a way to pass the time. Perhaps it was my own path.
After that, life initially took me in other directions. Following my alternative civilian service, I began studying mechanical engineering in Wolfenbüttel. An internship at a mechanical engineering firm introduced me to metalworking-from files to welding machines, from manual labor to the basics of CNC programming. Precision became something tangible: understanding materials, assessing forces, creating forms.
This was followed by a degree program in geoecology, which I pursued until shortly before my intermediate exams. Exam anxiety ultimately reached a point where a change of direction became necessary. In Rheinhessen, I began an apprenticeship as a winemaker, which I had to abandon due to a serious illness.
What followed was a slow return to normalcy. In Wolfsburg and Braunschweig, I began to regain my footing. Jobs and internships in information technology led me to 3D modeling and, through that, to my first exposure to visual programming. Later, I completed a retraining program to become an IT specialist in application development, passing the IHK exam.
Looking back, it wasn’t a straight path. Rather, it was a collection of different tools that gradually came together in a shared toolbox. Technology, materials, structure, and form-they would accompany me, even to places I couldn’t foresee at the time.
When your own rhythm is different.
Back at my parents’ half-timbered farmhouse, I began working in information technology. There, where a new chapter of my life had begun, it eventually came to a halt. My work wouldn’t let me go. Burnout forced me to take a break from that path.
Today, I don’t view this turning point as merely a loss. Illness and neurodivergence are part of my story. They made me confront my limits, but they also taught me to take my own perceptions and my own rhythm more seriously.
I perceive things with a particular sensitivity: their structure, color, shape, their details, and the whole that connects them. Much of this happens simultaneously. What may at first seem like a gift can also be overwhelming in everyday life. In a work environment that often demands speed, uniformity, and constant availability, this way of perceiving things has increasingly become a burden for me.
Drawing was my source of calm even as a child. Today, it has become a more conscious practice. An unconscious movement became an intention; a retreat became a practice. For me, creativity is balance, meditation, and a daily engagement with myself. Therapy and meditation have helped me reconnect with myself. Today I live with a motivation that isn’t fueled by “higher, faster, further,” but by the desire to consciously shape my own life.
It’s not about functioning perfectly. It’s about figuring out what really works-for me, for my work, and for the life I want to lead.
Understanding matter. Preserving things.
The farm has remained and grown along with it. A second one was added. Today, the garden and the workshop are part of my daily life-not as a backdrop, but as living spaces where thought and action come together.
In the garden, tomatoes grow in raised beds and in the greenhouse. Bees, permaculture, a pond, Benjes hedges, and old linden trees form a structure that cannot be fully planned-and remains alive precisely because of that. Some things need care, some need time, and some simply need the freedom to develop on their own.
It’s similar in the workshop, except that here, different materials respond. Wood, metal, and machines demand attention, experience, and patience. In the woodshop, the lathe turns; in the auto shop, there’s a lift. I tinker with and restore cars, fabricate sheet metal, fit it, weld, sand, prime, apply layers of paint, and polish surfaces.
Scirocco II, Derby I, Beetle, Volvo, and T3 Westfalia are among the vehicles I’ve worked on or prepared for an “H” license plate. It’s about making things roadworthy again, restoring their function, and revealing their beauty.
But not at any cost. I don’t want to erase the past or bury history beneath a flawless surface. An old vehicle should be allowed to show what it has been through. Signs of wear and tear aren’t flaws that must be eliminated at all costs. They’re part of its history.
That’s why my philosophy is: preserve, maintain, cherish. Change as little as possible, as much as necessary.
This approach doesn’t end at the workshop door. It continues in my artwork.
AtomotA - between structure and chaos.
On atomota.art, I’ve been collecting more than twenty years of drawings. These are works from different phases, born of observation, experimentation, concentration, and the need to give form to thoughts.
Organic cellular structures meet mandala forms. Checkerboard patterns lose their balance, lines shift their order, and stencils create distinct marks. Black meets white, and white meets black. Shapes tilt, spaces emerge, and surfaces seem to move. What initially appears unambiguous on paper begins to change upon closer inspection.
I’m interested in the transitions: between order and disorder, surface and space, repetition and deviation. Between what we see and what our brain makes of it.
The format is part of the experience. A small drawing tells a different story than a sheet of DIN A4 paper or an enlarged work. Every size alters the perspective, the proximity, and the rhythm of viewing.
My drawings are digitized and archived. Later, they will be paired with sound. For me, image and sound are not separate disciplines, but different forms of expression of the same quest.
Part of this quest can even be experienced directly: If you gaze at a high-contrast work for a long time and then look at a white wall, you may perceive a negative afterimage. The motif appears as an echo in your own vision. This is no magic trick, but rather an indication that perception does not end at the surface of the image.
The image changes as you look at it. And in this way, the viewer also becomes part of the work.
AtomotA is my alter ego, an artistic identity conceived by André P. Winter. Under this name, an open-ended body of work is to be created: AtomotA-Pieces 001 to 100, drawing and sound as a cohesive work, as a gallery without the character of a museum. A place where art remains accessible without having to explain or justify itself.
I don’t want to erect a barrier that can only be crossed with the right prior knowledge. Whoever discovers something is free to take it with them. Whoever doesn’t recognize anything in it is also free to move on. The invitation is open to everyone.
Think aloud. Feel the sound.
Music has always been a part of my life-my personal soundtrack. For a while, I played bass in a band. We had three gigs, then that chapter came to an end. But the music never completely disappeared.
Today I’m playing again-openly, with a bluesy edge, and without feeling the need to fit into any specific genre. My electric voice comes from a Gibson SG, a Big Muff, an Orange tube amp, and a Marshall 4x12 cabinet. I also play acoustic guitar and bass.
It can be gentle and understated, or loud, raw, and dense. I’m interested in the moment when rhythm and emotion collide-when something is no longer just being played, but becomes palpable.
I’m not looking for perfection. I’m looking for the moment when a sound loses its direction and, precisely because of that, finds something of its own. I’m looking for friction, resonance, and the courage to leave a rough edge.
Some material has already been recorded, but nothing has been released yet. That doesn’t have to be a contradiction. Not everything that’s created has to be shared right away. Some things need time to find their form.
In the future, I also want the music to come together with the drawings-not merely as background music, but as a second layer: lines take on rhythm, structures become sound, contrasts become audible.
A life with its own signature.
Today, I live increasingly autonomously and self-sufficiently. The garden contributes to my sustenance, and the workshops give me space to work, repair, and invent. I try to treat what I have with care and not rush to replace things with new ones.
I’m more interested in the naturalistic than the decorative, the organic than the smooth, substance over appearance. I believe in the value of the unfinished, in visible craftsmanship, and in materials that don’t need to hide what has been done to them.
For me, this approach connects gardening, vehicle restoration, drawing, and music. It’s all about attention-about what’s already there, what can develop from it, and when it’s better to leave something alone.
On atomota.art, I’d like to share a bit of that. Not a finished world meant only to be viewed, but an open workspace - a collection of images, sounds, thoughts, and experiments that’s allowed to evolve.
For me, art is both matter and idea. It arises from the resistance of a material, from the movement of a hand, from repetition and deviation, from conscious decision - and sometimes from a coincidence that shouldn’t be corrected.
Depth instead of surface. Rawness as a remedy. Structure in chaos. Loud in life.
I don’t have to smooth everything out to find it beautiful. I don’t have to explain everything to make it understandable. And I don’t have to follow someone else’s rhythm to keep moving forward.
Perhaps that’s the most important lesson I’ve learned from all these detours: Your own path doesn’t have to be a straight line. It just has to feel right for you at some point.
I draw, build, repair, play, observe, and keep learning. Not to create a perfect image of myself, but to let something real emerge.
Not perfect. Real. Loud. Tangible.
AtomotA
Art. Sound. Mind. Matter.
Atoms of thought. Clouds of creation.