HANNE LYDIA OPHEIM KRISTOFFERSEN • BELONGING

HANNE
LYDIA
Opøien Kristoffersen
belonging
17.02. – 24.04.2011
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
Det nakne selvportrettet
i full påkledning
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 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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
4
THE NAKED SELF-PORTRAIT
FULLY DRESSED
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
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
5
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.
6
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 NordNorge, 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
7
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.
8
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
9
SURVIVER
2010
Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper.
(Fra serien/from the series “Belonging”)
152 x 157 cm
10
11
FOLDED
2009
Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper.
(Fra serien/from the series “Belonging”)
152 x 157 cm
12
13
SELFCoMBustion
2009
Farveblyant på papir/coloured pencil on paper.
(Fra serien/from the series “Belonging”)
150 x 150 cm
14
15
WOOD
2010
Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper.
(Fra serien/from the series “Belonging”)
152 x 157 cm
16
17
MANSWORLD
2010
Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper.
(Fra serien/from the series “Belonging”)
152 x 157 cm
18
19
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
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.
22
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?”
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.
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.
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
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.
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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.
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25
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.
26
27
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
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
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
silver
2009
Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper.
110 x 85 cm
34
35
PARKING
2010
Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper.
110 x 85 cm
36
37
THE STREET
2010
Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper.
110 x 85 cm
38
39
i am a block of flats
2010
Farveblyant på papir/coloured pencil on paper.
150 x 150 cm
40
41
the sea
2010
Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper
(Fra serien/from the series “Belonging”)
152 x 157 cm
42
43
menopause
2010
Farveblyant på sort papir/coloured pencil on black paper
(Fra serien/from the series “Belonging”)
152 x 157 cm
44
45
mistaken
2010 (For Lydia)
I thought
I had come
home
that time
in Barcelona
do you remember the borrowed room, a bed,
a desk, the toilet
was
broken, sunlight,
mid-morning and
the book by Pablo Neruda
so strong
was the feeling
of having met
you said
what animal am I?
and I was supposed to guess, but was mistaken
the certainty of having walked down the right street and
come home
was so
great
that I
was wrong
Lydia Opøien • skuespillerinne/actress • 1894–1961
46
47
Hanne Lydia Opøien Kristoffersen
Born 1964, Trondheim. Lives and works in Oslo, NO
www.hannelydia.com
grant
2011 Recipient of the Håkon Bleken’s Artist Award, NO
Education
1991–1992 The School of Art and Crafts, Stockholm, SE
1987–1991 Academy of Fine Art, Trondheim, NO
Selected Solo Shows
2012 Buskerud Center of Visual Arts, Drammen, NO
2011 BOA Center of Visual Arts, Oslo, NO
Gråmølna Museum of Visual Arts, Trondheim, NO
2009 The Arcitcht`s Daughter, Tromsø Cultural Center, NO
ID, Haugesund Artcenter, NO
Kunst1, Sandvika, NO
2008 True Identity, Kunstverket, Oslo, NO
2007 Citizen, The White Tube, Oslo, NO
Take it in hand and make something of it, Tegnerforbundet, Oslo, NO
2005 The woman who could not draw, Tromsø Center of Visual Arts, NO
2004 Remote control, Akershus Center of Visual Arts, NO
Looking back in anger, Rogaland Center of Visual Arts, Stavanger, NO
2003 Domestic violence and other boring stories, Kunstverket, Oslo, NO
2000 Enlightenment – Illumination, Vestlandske Museum of Arts and Crafts / BOB, Bergen, NO
1998 Ich heiratete/I got married, Kunstvereien auf dem Prenzlauerberg, Berlin, GE
Selected Group Shows
2011 RED, .NO Gallery, New York, US
2010 13 Drawers, Alta Center of Visual Arts, NO
2008 REAL, Haugar, Museum of Visual Arts, Tønsberg, NO
Supermarket 2008, International Independent Art fair, Stockholm, SE
2007 It`s drawn well, Kunstbanken, Hedmark Center of Visual Arts, NO
2006 The Projectroom 93 – 06, Galleri F – 15, Moss, NO
2004 The Drawingbiennial 2004, Stenersen Museum of Visual Arts, Oslo, NO
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Annual Shows
2006, 2001, 1994, 1993 2006, 1989 1992 The National Annual Exhibition of the Visual Arts, Oslo, NO
The Annual North Norwegian Exhibition, NO
UKS Annual Springexhibition, NO
Collections
2009 Haugesund Center of Visual Arts, NO
2007 ATV, NO
2003 The National Museum of Art, Architecture and Design, NO
1997 Tromsø Center of Visual Arts, NO
1996, 1991 Arts Council, Norway
Comissions
2008 E. C. Dahls Stiftelse, Chief Administrative Officer of Trondheim County, NO
2007 1. Nordic Conference on Violence and Treatment, Oslo, NO, temporary
2006 Tronka, The State Building Commission, Trondheim, NO
Selected Bibliography
2010 Anne Schäffer, Numèr # 85, magazine for drawing and illustration
2008 Kari Brantzæg, ”Drawings that grip you”, Dagbladet
Daniel Østvold, ”Real, Young Norwegian Realism”, Catalogue
2007 Mona D. Gjessing, “Delicate vs hardhitting at The Drawing Center”, NO , Billedkunst, # 2
Harald Flor, ”Panties and threats”, Dagbladet
Truls Ramberg, ”Drawings on the right track”, Aftenposten
Line Ukleiv, ”Citizen”, Kunstkritikk.no
Tommy Olsson, ”Take it in hand and make something of it”
Ingvild Johnsen, ”Selfportait with boxer, Man Basic” , Argument, # 1
Asbjørn Larsen, ”The women” , Virkelig, # 1
2003 DIN, ”Violence” , magazine for religion and culture
2000 Jorunn Haakestad, ”Enlightenment – illumination”, Catalogue
Randi Nygaard Lium, ”Hjemløshet, Outside home, Synliggjøring, Illustrating the invisible”, Catalogue
49
TAKK TIL/THANKS TO
Nyebilder.no (Ivan Rios, Arash Nejad, Thomas Bjørnflaten),
Håkon Bleken, Merete Hovdenak, Hanne Ekkeren, Tommy Olsson,
John Coltrane, John, Gunnar, Lille Lydia, Store Lydia, Kaja Kristine.
Oversettelser/Translations: Natalie O`Donnell
Tekster/Text: Hanne Lydia Opøien Kristoffersen
Foto/Photography: Nyebilder.no
Design & layout: Scanpartner
50
ISDN
Ebit, int derum qui blatus
nimus earum voluptate
ne num la nonsequos
sunto velibus rae
nullorrunt, aces velecus
arit hita nobit fuga.
It, tem quatur sapicit
velenis aut voluptaqui
ipiet latis mi, co
Gråmølna - Trondheim Kunstmuseum • Trenerys gt.9 • 7042 Trondheim • Tel. +47 73 53 81 90 • www.tkm.museum.no