HANNE LYDIA. belonging

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2 HANNE LYDIA Opøien Kristoffersen belonging GRÅMØLNA TRONDHEIM KUNSTMUSEUM SPRING 2010 Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper. Fra serien/from the series Belonging 152 x 157 cm 3

3 Det nakne selvportrettet i full påkledning THE NAKED SELF-PORTRAIT FULLY DRESSED Portrettering som del av den kunstneriske praksis har til enhver tid vært anerkjent i den vestlige klassiske kunsthistorien og selvportrettet kan i enkeltes kunstnerskap være en sentral del av den kunstneriske produksjon. I Hanne Lydia Opøien Kristoffersens kunstproduksjon er selvportrettet et viktig bæreelement. I moderne tid har også det fotografiske portrett fått en god posisjonering og det fotografiske selvportrettet har i senere tid også fått en noe annen kunstnerisk tilnærming enn tidligere. Kunstnere anvender nye strategier og virkemidler som gir betrakteren muligheten til nye analyser og lesbare referanser. Det selvbiografiske materialet uttrykkes enten med direkte og sterke virkemidler eller det formidler underliggende og subtile referanser. Høstutstillingen 2006, hvor jeg jobbet som kunstformidler, var mitt første møte med arbeider av Hanne Lydia Opøien Kristoffersen. Dette året var hun antatt med flere tegninger i store format som alle viste kvinneansikter delvis eller helt tildekket av herre- og dametruser. I formidlingsøyemed skapte bildene flere interessante utfordringer. For det første i form av å skulle formidles som kunstverk innen mediet tegning, da de oftest ble betraktet som manipulerte fotografier ved første øyekast. Bildene var imponerende fotorealistiske! For det andre oppstod det oftest situasjoner hvor publikum kun analyserte det kunstneriske uttrykket som en slags morsom lek med referanser til seksuelle fetisjer eller billige virkemidler fra en velkjent reklameverden. Andre, i alle aldre, opplevde bildene som urovekkende, ubehagelige og veldig nakne Portrettene ble umiddelbart satt i relasjon til ulike kulturers kvinnesyn og pågående kjønnsdebatt, som i vår tid først og fremst blir eksemplifisert gjennom kvinners bruk av hijab, slør og andre hodeplagg. Kristoffersens tegninger stiller spørsmål ved truismer, det vi alle tar som små selvfølgeligheter eller naturligheter. Hvor går egentlig de naturlige grensene mellom tildekking - nakenhet, religionsfrihet sexifisering, frivillighet tvang, og hvordan formidles eller forklares grensene mellom portrett- og karikaturtegningen? Hanne Lydia Opøien Kristoffersen setter både sitt kunstneriske uttrykk og betrakteren på prøvelser på svært ulike nivåer. For det første er hennes tegneferdigheter slående, noe som gir henne en tydelig kunstnerisk signatur. Detaljrikdom, stofflighet og fuger i hud, ansikt og formidling av ulike tekstilmaterialer understreker tydelig hennes håndverksmessige ferdigheter og talent. Kristoffersen arbeider (ironisk nok) med relativt store formater, samtidig som bildene påberoper seg noen interessante detaljstudier. Hennes kunstnerskap kan plasseres innenfor en sterk fotorealistsk retning. I tillegg er hennes gjengivelser subtilt absurde, det kreves en egeninnsats fra betrakteren for å kunne plassere den portretterte inn i en større kontekst, både kunsthistorisk og kontemporært. Hvorfor trer Kristoffersen truser med ulike logoreferanser nedover hodet? Og hva vil hun uttrykke eller fortelle oss tildekket i vinterklær og overlevelsesdrakt? Utstillingen i Gråmølna har fått tittelen Belonging og er Hanne Lydia Opøien Kristoffersens første kunstmuseale separatutstilling. Det er samtidig første gang Kristoffersen stiller ut videoarbeider og egne tekster sammen med portrettserier. Serien Belonging viser bilder av en person med relativt androgyne trekk, delvis skjult bak hodeplagg, skjerf, votter, gensere og i enkelte tilfeller solbriller. Serien Portraits of a young woman, twenty three years of age at the time viser avbildninger av en ung kvinne, delvis skjult, også her bak hodeplagg og igjen; solbriller. Gråmølna har gjennom historien skiftet identitet og funksjon av ulike årsaker Huset ble bygd i 1860-årene som moderne møllehus på industriområdet Nedre Elvehavn, kort tid etter ble mølla omgjort til gutteskole. I gamlehuset har det i tillegg vært suppekjøkken, aktivitetsstue, politihus og sykestue. I dag representerer hele mølletomta et utstillingssted for samtidskunst og Trondheim Kunstmuseums samling verk av Håkon Bleken og Inger Sitter. Gråmølnas ulike historier, identitet og tilhørighet kan leses i relasjon til den tematikken vi finner i Kristoffersens arbeider. Portrettseriene forankrer hverandre i differanser og i nyansene om at hendelser, tid og sted innenfor gitte rammer kan bidra til å gi ulike bilder av sosial og kulturell tilhørighet. Og det individuelle speilet som reflekterer vår identitet står samtidig i relasjon til samfunnet, tiden og vår kunnskap om eller forståelse av tilhørighet. Vi anerkjenner dessverre så altfor sjelden viktigheten av å reflektere og studere vår identitet og belonging på ulike nivåer. I anledning utstillingen Belonging i Gråmølna tildeles Hanne Lydia Opøien Kristoffersen Håkon Blekens Kunstnerstipend. Trondheim Kunstmuseum gratulerer! Takk til kunstneren, Hanne Lydia Opøien Kristoffersen, for et interessant samarbeid i forberedelsestiden mot utstillingen. Takk til Tommy Olsson for tekst til utstillingskatalogen. Takk til Håkon Bleken for interessante samtaler rundt arbeider og temaer som her presenteres. Merete Hovdenak Konservator i Gråmølna, Trondheim Kunstmuseum Portraiture as part of artistic practice has always been acknowledged in Western classical art history, and self-portraits, in the artistic practice of some, can constitute an important part of their artistic production. In Hanne Lydia Opøien Kristoffersen s art production, the self-portrait is an essential bearing element. In modern times the photographic portrait has attained high status, and in recent years it has also been attributed a somewhat different artistic approach than previously. Artists apply new strategies and means of expression that provide the viewer with new analytical possibilities and readable references. Autobiographical material is either expressed via direct and potent means of expression, or it communicates subtle, underlying references. During the autumn exhibition of 2006, when I was working as an art lecturer, I had my first encounter with the works of Hanne Lydia Opøien Kristoffersen. That year several of her large-format drawings were to be exhibited, all of which showed women s faces wholly or partially veiled by men s or women s undergarments. For the task of intermediating between the images and the public, several interesting challenges arose, first of all because it was a question of having to communicate works of art in the medium of drawing, whereas these were most often considered, at first glance, as manipulated photographs. The images were impressively photorealistic! Secondly, situations arose when the public most frequently only analysed the artistic expression as a kind of playful trifling with the sexual fetishes or cheap means of expression from the well-known world of commercial advertising. Other viewers, of all ages, perceived the images as disturbing, offensive and very naked... The portraits were immediately related to various cultures view of women and the current gender debate, which in our era is primarily exemplified by women s wearing of the hijab, the veil, and otherhead coverings. Kristoffersen s drawings challenge truisms, the things that all of us take for granted or that we consider natural. Where are, really, the natural boundaries between being covered and being naked, between freedom of religion sexual fixation, willingness coercion, and how can the boundaries between portraiture and caricature be communicated or explained? Hanne Lydia Opøien Kristoffersen puts both her artistic form of expression and the viewer to the test at very different levels. First of all, her drawing skills are stunning, an attainment that provides her with a distinct artistic signature. The richness of details, materiality and tones of the skin, face and rendering of various textile materials all clearly underscore her craftsmanship and talent. Kristoffersen works (ironically as it were) in relatively large formats, while at the same time the images invoke some interesting studies of detail. Her artistry can be placed within a strongly photorealistic current. In addition, her representations are subtly absurd and demand a personal effort on the part of the beholder to place what is represented into a broader context. Why does Kristoffersen pull undergarments displaying various logo references down over the heads of her subjects? And what does she aim to express or tell us, the viewers, bundled up in our winter clothing and survival suits? The exhibition in Gråmølna has been given the title Belonging and is Hanne Lydia Opøien Kristoffersen s first solo exhibition in an art museum. Likewise, this is the first time Kristoffersen exhibits video works and her own texts along with the portrait series. The series Belonging shows images of a person with relatively androgynous features partially concealed behind headwear, scarves, mittens, sweaters and, in some cases, sunglasses. The series Portraits of a young woman, twenty three years of age at the time depicts a young woman she, too, partially hidden by her headdress and, once again, by sunglasses. Gråmølna has, throughout history and for various reasons, changed identity and function. The building was raised in the 1860s as a modern mill in the Nedre Elvehavn industrial area; a short time later, the mill was transformed into a school for boys. The venerable old building has been used as a soup kitchen, and activity centre, a police station and an infirmary. Today the entire site of the mill is a place for exhibiting contemporary art as well as Trondheim Art Museum s collection of the works of Håkon Bleken and Inger Sitter. The various historical tales, identities and affiliations of Gråmølna can be seen in relation to the themes we find in Kristoffersen s works. The portrait series counterbalance one another in differences and nuances in the impression that events, time and place within given limits can contribute to creating differing reflections of social and cultural belongingness. And the individual mirror reflecting our own identity stands at the same time in relation to society, time and our knowledge about or understanding of the concept of Belonging. Unfortunately, we all too seldom acknowledge the importance of reflecting over and studying our own identity and our own belonging at different levels. In conjunction with the exhibition Belonging in Gråmølna, Hanne Lydia Opøien Kristoffersen has been named recipient of the Håkon Bleken s Artist Award. Trondheim Art Museum extends our heartfelt congratulations! Our gratitude goes to the artist, Hanne Lydia Opøien Kristoffersen, for an interesting collaboration during the preparatory phase leading up to the exhibition. Thanks also to Tommy Olsson for the text for the exhibition catalogue. Thanks are due as well to Håkon Bleken for interesting discussions on the works and themes presented here. Merete Hovdenak Curator, Gråmølna, Trondheim Art Museum 4 5

4 Nordover, ved sjøen Hit the North Manacled to the city All estate agents alive yell down the night in hysterical breath And from the back of the third eye psyche the inducement come forth Hit the North The Fall Det blir umulig ikke å si noe om Nord-Norge i denne sammenhengen, så jeg kan like så godt gjøre det til selve innkjørsporten her. Jeg har, sant å si, aldri truffet et usympatisk menneske nord for Trondheim. Jeg har heller ikke truffet en eneste som ikke har vært seriøst føkka på den ene eller andre måten. Men det lurer jeg på om det muligens er en miljøskade som kommer av de dramatiske skiftningene mellom lys og mørke, eller det like dramatiske landskapet. Eller en kombinasjon av disse faktorer. Sant er at det intenst ville blikket til nesten alle med røtter i denne delen av landet bestandig har funnet en dyp resonans i meg, som jo kommer fra radikalt annerledes omstendigheter, men det er mulig det er en felles form for bipolar psykose som følger oss gjennom hverdagen. Helt oppriktig; jeg vet ikke, jeg noterer bare hva mine erfaringer sier meg så langt. Og hva jeg tenker; kan du på noen måte undgå å bli manisk depressiv når du vokser opp i en verden som enten er lys eller mørk, sort eller hvit, og bare unntaksvis mer nyansert? Jeg tenker i hvert fall det er noe å skylle fra seg på. En slags diagnose, eller bonus, en unnskyldning for situasjoner som krever en tilbakeholdenhet som er utenfor rekkevidde. Denne unnskyldningen er noe jeg selv mangler og saktens kunne trengt noen ganger. Det er ikke helt det samme å vokse opp midt i Sverige når sosialdemokratiets formkurve fortsatt peker oppover. Jeg kan ikke peke på de samme ytre faktorene for hvorfor jeg er føkka. Det er selvfølgelig en grunn til at jeg begynner med disse spekulasjonene. Jeg forholder meg til bilder som gjør det klinkende klart at det begynner å bli kaldt ute. Men ikke bare det. Jeg har og nettopp sett tre videoarbeider fra en kunstner jeg nå har kjent i noe sånn som 22 år, uten å en eneste gang sett stå å fibble med et kamera. Dette er altså ikke det samme gamle vanlige på noen som helst måte, selv om jeg skal passe meg for å si noe om at video er et nytt og spennende medie for det har det ikke vært siden Nam June Paik knuste et fjernsynsapparat på scenen det år jeg ble født. Men her opptrer det altså for hva jeg tror er første gang. Det er definerte, nokså strengt komponerte arbeider metodiskt ikke ulikt de fotorealistiske tegninger vi allerede kjenner fra før. Narrativer som renner over av den latente vold som bestandig har fulgt dette kunstnerskapet som en subsonisk grunntone, ikke bestandig like lett å lokalisere, men alltid til stede. Nå spørs det om denne skummelt hverdagslige volden egentlig kan sies å ligge latent her, disse videoene er så tekstbaserte at det egentlig kan sies å være litterære arbeider, og ubehaglet ligger på ingen måte skjult i disse vonde historiene om mislykkede seksuelle overgrep og det nesten uutholdelig banale i det å skulle være nødt til å spise noe når man sitter på et dødsleie og venter på at noen skal trekke pusten sin for siste gang. Pizza, f.eks. Eller det jeg egentlig tok utgangspunkt i til å begynne med; en tekst om hjemmestedet, som ikke en eneste gang nevner det ved navn, men som i likhet med tegningene også skjuler et ansikt. Denne konsekvente innpakkingen av ansiktet som er ute og går her, enten det nå er et par truser eller svære solbriller som dekker mesteparten, er noe Kristoffersen har jobbet med før. Da maktet hun å gjøre det skjulte ansikt til et møtested for problemstillinger rundt både det personlige, politiske og seksuelle i en eneste fokusert manøver. Nå videreføres dette arbeidet til en synkronisert tvil rundt i hvor høy grad dette egentlig holder som grunnlag for en identitet. Og da havner vi altså i Nord-Norge et sted. Der det hele begynte, og fortsatt begynner. I det siste har jeg notert hvor mye folk jeg har rundt meg som kommer fra et annet sted. Og hvor nest inntil identisk historie de forteller om familie og barndomsvenner. Og det faktum at min egen historie er eksakt likedan. Dette med at man har beveget seg ut av kontekst, og er helt alene og tiår passerer uten at noen annen fra dette barndomslandskapet en gang vurderer å flytte over kommunegrensa. Bare en refleksjon som slår meg innimellom; det faktum at jeg trives best med de som er som meg de som en gang flyttet hjemmefra og virkelig mente business. Men det er også denne andre siden av det, hva mann så bærer med seg av spor fra dette tapte landskapet. Vi kan jo ta Hanne ut av Nord- Norge, men kan vi ta Nord-Norge ut av Hanne? Etter å ha sett Belonging et par ganger må svaret selvfølgelig bli Nei vi kan ikke radere vår egen forhistorie, den vil bestandig være fundamental for hva vi velger å være. Eller det vi tror vi velger. Det vi liker å tro, at vi velger. Stedet vi kommer fra vil uansett utøve en sterk gravitasjon på oss. Det har skjedd at jeg passert mitt eget lille høl i bil noen ganger de siste årene. Og jeg har tatt en ekstra sving rundt steder jeg ikke får ut av systemet, steder som ville gjort meg fullstendig gal hvis jeg måtte forholde meg til de på daglig basis, men som jeg likevel må oppsøke enten i hukommelsen eller rent fysisk når det går an, bare for å holde denne organismen noelunde på plass. Vi er ingenting uten denne forhistorien. Ikke sånn at vi er noe spesielt uansett, men det har vist seg være vanskelig å helt lure seg unna disse tingene vi en gang løpte fra i panikk i den sene puberteten for å komme mest mulig vekk. Men vi vet jo også dette, denne den strengeste vintern på fryktelig mange år; man må kle seg godt. Eller være tøff i trynet; et år badet jeg naken i Kirkenes de siste dagene i september. Men jeg traff også en gang en kar i Tromsø som sa han ikke badet på sommern en gang. Og her kryper tegningenes inneboende logikk over meg; er dette egentlig et spørsmål om anonymisering? Er det ikke i like høy grad sånn at svaret på spørsmålet er beskyttelse? Og hva velger vi å beskytte oss med? Og bortsett fra minusgradene; hva burde vi beskytte oss mot? Tommy Olsson 6 7

5 Northward, by the sea Hit the North Manacled to the city All estate agents alive yell down the night in hysterical breath And from the back of the third eye psyche the inducement come forth Hit the North The Fall It is impossible not to say something about Northern Norway in this context, so I might just as well say it here at the very outset. I have, it is true, never met an unpleasant person north of Trondheim. I have also never met a single person who has not been seriously fucked up in one way or another. But what I wonder is whether this is possibly an environmental maladjustment due to the dramatic changes between light and darkness, or due to the equally dramatic landscape. Or maybe a combination of these factors. It is true that the intensely wild stare of almost everyone with roots in this part of the country has found a deep resonance in me, which of course comes from radically different circumstances, but it is possible that this is a common form of bipolar psychosis that follows us through our everyday life. Quite frankly: I don t know. I simply note what my experiences tell me so far. As well as what I think: can you in any way avoid being manic-depressive when you grow up in a world that is either light or dark, black or white, and only nuanced on an exceptional basis. I think, at any rate, that it represents good grounds for making excuses. A kind of diagnosis, or a bonus, an excuse for situations that demand an attitude of reserve that is out of reach. This excuse is something I lack myself and admittedly could need on occasion. It s not the same thing to grow up in central Sweden when social democracy s degree of fitness is still on the plus side. I can t blame the same external factors to explain why I am fucked up. Of course there is a reason why I choose to start with these speculations. I am reacting to pictures that make it crystal clear that it is starting to get cold outside. But not only that. I have just seen three video works by an artist I have known for nearly 22 years and whom I have not once seen fiddling with a camera. So this is in no way the same old, usual thing, although I shall be careful not to say anything about video art being a new and exciting medium, because it has not been so ever since Nam June Paik broke a television set on stage the year I was born. But here it is encountered for what I believe is the first time. These are defined, quite strictly composed works methodically not unlike the photo-realistic drawings we already know from the past. Narratives that overflow with the latent violence that has always accompanied this artistry like a subsonic, basic tone, not always easy to localise, but ever-present. Now of course it might be asked if this sinister, everyday violence can be said to be lying latent; these videos are so text-based that they might rather be described as literary works, and the aversion is in no way veiled in these painful tales of failed sexual abuse and the almost insufferable banality of having to eat while sitting by someone s deathbed waiting for someone to draw the last breath. Pizza, for example. Or what was my starting point above: a text about a place of origin without once mentioning it by name, but like the drawings, concealing a face. The consistent covering of the face used here, whether it is a pair of knickers or large sunglasses covering most of it, is a technique Kristoffersen has worked with before. In the past she managed to make the concealed face a meeting place for issues involving the personal, the political and the sexual in a single focused manoeuvre. Now this effort is pursued to invoke a synchronised doubt about the extent to which this is a tenable basis for an identity. And then we wind up in Northern Norway somewhere. Where it all began, and is still beginning. Lately I have taken notice of how many people I have around me who come from one place or another. And how all of them have almost identical stories they tell about family and childhood friends. And the fact that my own personal history is exactly the same. The fact that one has moved out of context and is totally alone and decades pass without any other member of this childhood landscape ever even considering a move out of the confines of the municipal borders. Just a reflection that strikes me from time to time: the fact that I am most at home with those who are like me those who once left home and really meant business. But there is the other side of the coin - the traces that one brings with one from this lost landscape. We can take Hanne out of Northern Norway, but can we take Northern Norway out of Hanne? After having seen Belonging a couple of times, the answer must of course be No we cannot obliterate our own background; it will always be fundamental for what we choose to be. Or what we think we choose. What we like to think that we choose. Our place of origin will always, unavoidably, exercise a strong gravitational force on us. It has occurred that I have driven by my own little hole of a town a few times in recent years. And I have made a few rounds past places I can t get out of my system, places that would have driven me completely mad if I had to relate to them on a daily basis but which I nevertheless have an urge to revisit either through memory or physically when I can, just to keep this organism somewhat intact. We are nothing without our personal backgrounds. Not that we are special in any respect at all, but it has proven difficult to disentangle oneself from these things that we once fled in panic in our late puberty in order to get as far away as possible. But we know this the harshest winter in many, many years; one has to dress warmly. Or be tough as nails; one year I swam naked in Kirkenes in late September. But I also once met someone in Tromsø who said he didn t even go swimming in the summertime. And it is here that the inherent logic of the drawings washes over me; is this actually a question of depersonalization? Isn t the answer to the question to an equally great extent that we seek protection? And with what do we choose to protect ourselves? And aside from the sub-zero degrees on the thermometer, what should we protect ourselves from? Tommy Olsson 8 9

6 SURVIVER 2010 Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper. (Fra serien/from the series Belonging ) 152 x 157 cm 10 11

7 FOLDED 2009 Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper. (Fra serien/from the series Belonging ) 152 x 157 cm 12 13

8 SELFCoMBustion 2009 Farveblyant på papir/coloured pencil on paper. (Fra serien/from the series Belonging ) 150 x 150 cm 14 15

9 WOOD 2010 Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper. (Fra serien/from the series Belonging ) 152 x 157 cm 16 17

10 MANSWORLD 2010 Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper. (Fra serien/from the series Belonging ) 152 x 157 cm 18 19

11 the iranian DINNER 2010 Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper. (Fra serien/from the series Belonging ) 152 x 157 cm 20 21

12 THE STORM 2010 Video 12 min. It was building up; it could be sensed as a different light. There was pressure, a heaviness in the air. Early in the morning, warm, not yet hot. The sun was concealed behind the approaching wall of weather. The sea lay calm and crystal clear. As if it was waiting, subservient to what was approaching. They sat on a little stone jetty. He had just taken a dip in the still water. She sat with her legs tucked under her body with a hammer in her hand. They were on a headland, a majestic protrusion in the seascape. The path departed from the main road and wound its way down to the sea. The house stood at the bottom, behind large gates. She had been inside the big house and picked up the hammer. It must have been easily accessible. She was thinly dressed, the short skirt made it harder to conceal her legs, made it more difficult to draw her legs up while covering her pants. It was painful sitting on the stones. She felt that now, now that her head had cleared. She had been to bars, dancing. Had hung out with two English girls. They were younger than her, in their mid-thirties. She thinks she got too drunk, since they left. Her head was hot and her face flushed; everything was blurry. She had sat in the bar by herself; she only just got served. She was wearing a miniskirt and a sleeveless top. Suddenly she was on the street. It must have been daylight, a grey light. She sat on the pavement. A white van had stopped and she got in automatically. The van started driving. Past her hotel. It drove through long bends, the road rose up out of the landscape. She threw her sandals out the door as the car sped along; now she was barefoot. The car suddenly left the road and descended along a gravel path to the house, behind the tall gates. It was hard to make out the contours of him. It was as if he was faceless. The alcohol lay like a thin veil over the pulse, throbbing in her stomach. She had her mobile phone, tried to reach her sister at the hotel. It was a foreign country and the dialling code was not recognised. She started shivering and dropped her phone among the stones. He began touching her. It was then she got the hammer and sat with it in her hand If you come near me, I ll kill you! She tried to conduct a conversation. He did not speak English, only a little German. She knew a few words. He told her where he was from. She hated that country. It was then he took off his clothes and dived in. He came up, milky white. He sat in front of her naked. She waited for him to get bored, to take her back. She talked about her family. Her family back at the hotel. The air was still. The storm was on its way, steel grey. It was indescribably beautiful, a bitter contrast. They got in the car; it had been hours. Nothing had happened. She lay down the hammer; she did not need it anymore. The car climbed up the gravel path. It took a sharp turn and stopped abruptly in front of a small cabin. It happened so quickly, she was taken by surprise. He dragged her out of the car and into the cabin. A small room with a bed and a tiny bathroom. A frosted glass pane in the door. He locked it and flung her onto the bed. He threw himself on top of her, forced her down. She cried for help, he hit her in the face. She thought the more she fought, the harder he would become. He went down on her, lay his body the other way. His organ was by her face; he was limp. She cried, was passive. He forced himself inside her. A shadow loomed through the glass pane. Someone shouted. He dressed and went outside. She was alone, ran down the road. Her clothes still on, he had not bothered to remove them. It was sunny. On a little veranda sat an elderly couple. She cried; was asked to sit down. They covered her naked arms with a towel. They said he had done it before. They made a phone call. A car arrived. A policeman in plain clothes. He was like all men from this country. He drove her to the hotel, waited outside. Her son was still sleeping. Her sister was pale. Her parents came to see to the boy; she barely dared to look at them. She and her sister sat on the backseat on the way to the island s capital. They waited in a sparse corridor for ages. Men went in and out of offices. They typed with one finger. They talked, smoked. They said they had to find someone who could speak English. She gave evidence over the telephone. Gave details. The sister waited outside in the corridor. Many hours passed. The window of the office was open. The voices from the street were audible. She thought now everyone can hear. It was completely black outside. Thunder and lightning. A downpour. The storm had arrived. They wanted her to go to the hospital. The thought of being examined by a man was unimaginable. They wanted her to press charges. That meant returning from her homeland to witness. She declined. The police fetched her one more time before they left her alone. She stayed in the hotel room all day; her parents came to take her son out to swim. A tour guide arrived. He said this happened more frequently on the other islands. A doctor came. She gave her some pills for the swelling on her face. Gave her some tranquilisers; she did not touch them. The doctor told her to go home. She decided to stay. There were eleven days left. They hired a car. For several days they drove around the island, like the other tourists. They left the incident behind, as if it had never happened. They lay in the sun. In the evenings and at night they sat on the terrace. She and her sister. The child was asleep. They felt like someone was watching them from the darkness. They saw movements in the bushes, heard knocking on the walls. They bought a torch and shone it into the night. One morning, as they were leaving the hotel room, the maid came in. The woman examined her face did he hit you? she said. It was then she realised that the whole island knew. The return journey began at the crack of dawn. Everyone from the same hotel stood by the main road with their luggage. They were waiting for the bus to the airport. She saw him. He cycled past. She only told one friend when she returned, was talked into going to a refuge. They were discreet. Followed her up with tests and examinations. She said it had not been consummated. She said she had decided not to tell. They respected her decision. Her husband never knew. She thought of his reaction, she believed she could not have defended herself. They carried on as usual. For him it was a continuation. For her it was afterwards

13 PIZZA AND DEATH 2010 Video 3,40 min. He had been ill for a long time. Outside the window there was an enormous chimney that penetrated the layer of clouds. It reminded me of a crematorium. He was awaiting his turn. It was June, but everything was grey. The North wind was icy. Every day he became less of himself. He was becoming something else. He was gasping for breath for three days. We were on tenterhooks; we did not recognize him or ourselves. On the final day we were desperately hungry. We had to have food to follow him into death; it could take all night. The hospital was huge, but there was nothing to eat. We jumped in the car and found a random pizza place. The man behind the counter was a foreigner; he was unusually friendly. We were given garlic sauce for free. We returned to eat it in the waiting room. The staff were alone with the dying patient. We only managed a few mouthfuls. A young nurse arrived and asked us to come through. He gasped one last time; it was quick. We stood around him. This is it, said the nurse. I asked for a chair. We had promised him we would be there and made it just in time

14 belonging 2010 Video 5 min. My friend was talking about a book. Earnestly. I finally got it as a present. It was about the part of the country where I grew up. About the place I got my dialect from. Where my father was born. A place that is missing a season, where they head straight into summer. Where the icy wind from the North blows as the sun shines. Where the women swear as intensely as the men while they look you straight in the eye. Where the fog is at crotch height. Where it snows on Midsummer s Eve and it is impossible to light the bonfire. Where the sea flirts before it murderously changes its mind. Where the Midnight Sun prevents you from sleeping, and you are always tired. Where the Northern Lights dance across the darkness in August. Where nature offers you a love so cold and passionate that you never forget. From which I never get any rest, even when I am far away from home

15 invisible 2009 Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper. (Fra serien/from the series Portraits of a young woman, twenty three years of age at the time ) 152 x 157 cm 28 29

16 big orange 2009 Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper. (Fra serien/from the series Portraits of a young woman, twenty three years of age at the time ) 152 x 157 cm 30 31

17 SMOKING 2009 Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper. (Fra serien/from the series Portraits of a young woman, twenty three years of age at the time ) 152 x 157 cm 32 33

18 silver 2009 Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper. 110 x 85 cm 34 35

19 PARKING 2010 Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper. 110 x 85 cm 36 37

20 THE STREET 2010 Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper. 110 x 85 cm 38 39