Work with what is left
When I first arrived in Sweden, I had a hole in my chest, insatiable.
After a short period of sexual dependency, I understood that was not the kind of intimacy I was looking for.
Sweden is not a photogenic country.
There is no sun. There is no decay, everything is perfectly packed beneath a gray sky. Maria told me, “It’s the perfect place to create your own light.”
She said it while struggling to pick up a nigiri with two clumsy chopsticks.
In a random moment of doom-scrolling, Fellini told me, “The artist should not know too much about what they are doing, or they will start to limp.”
I wonder why I remember that.
I wonder why, when I create, I always think about how to do it in a way that would earn my grandmother’s approval.
When I first arrived in Sweden, I felt a hole in my chest, insatiable.
And I asked people, “Hey, can I take a picture of you?”
And I asked people, “Hey, can I take your portrait tomorrow?”
And I asked people, “Hey, I’m looking for something. You have something. Can I take it?”
Sara wanted to shave her head, and I wanted to feel connected, just for a moment. Our goals met in photo studio 217B.
Taking her portrait in such a vulnerable moment made me feel connected to life.
It was the first time it happened through a camera.
I had a hole in my chest, insatiable, and then I wanted more of that pie.
More connection. More people. More smiles.
More “Thank you.”
More “Tell me more about that.”
More “Show me.”
More “What about next Wednesday?”
Like a junkie, I craved the feeling of connection, but with no result. The next attempts failed. I invited people into the studio, sure I could recreate the same effect. Grotesque results. They looked at me, waiting for instructions.
“What should I do?” I felt nothing. Somebody told me, “Fake it till you make it.” So I faked it.
And I never stopped. The discomfort of failed attempts got more familiar than connection. And was easier to recreate.
I held onto that.
With Salla was the first time I stole an idea. I do not remember when we first met.
But I remember how we felt, like two dogs wagging their tails every time we shared a room.
She came over with the idea of taking each other’s portraits, and with her came the fear that I had no idea what I wanted to do.
The embarrassment crept in as soon as the small talk faded and we picked up our cameras.
The silence was killing me. My eyes did not know where to look.
Suddenly, I said, “There is a room in this building. It is called Lekhallen. It is a playroom for kids. Let’s go there.”
Taking time was my mantra. I waited for something to happen.
Once inside, I slowly set up the 4×5 camera.
After mounting it, I still had no ideas.
I caved. Miserably. I grumbled, “I have no ideas. This is so embarrassing. I carry this damn camera around, but I have no idea what I want to do.”
Pathetic. Then I looked up and saw Salla placing a Montessori game on her head like a crown. I grabbed the camera.
“Don’t move.”
I am mesmerized by how the frustration is essential to the work.
Every time. James Broughton told me, “When you travel, don’t follow the main roads. Get lost.” It is in the desperation of feeling lost that I finally create my own path. I remember my frustration during my last art residency in the Italian Alps.
Nothing went as planned. After a bath in the Torre river, Ram Dass told me, “It is when expectations are not met that you experience sadness.”
Leafing through Mattia’s book, he told me, “Work with what is left.”
I brought another person to Lekhallen.
He was eating dinner with my flatmate when I saw him.
I instantly knew he had to come to the room.
I told him, “Just choose an object, anything you want.”
He picked up a small plastic banana. He said, “I could pretend I’m eating it, sitting on this small chair at this small table.”
And the picture was made. Playful and awkward. Real and staged.
Funny, but if you explain it, it is not funny anymore.
The door that opened the room said “Lekhallen.”
I took it as an instruction manual, but kept failing in my attempts to play.
I noticed that failing to play was easier than actually playing.
And more interesting to me.
I held onto that.
With Anna was the first time I bluffed. I drew the picture before shooting it.
I told Anna, “Jump on the shutter release while you throw your hair up.”
Anna said, “I thought we would play. What kind of game is this?”
With Micheal, playing worked.
But not for good pictures.
His approach was shy when she entered Lekhallen.
I asked him to jump face-first onto the sofa, to create some weird mask.
I ended up with no good pictures.
But I ended up with a stronger friendship.
After that day, the energy of our interaction changed completely.
We were much more secure around each other.
After coming to Lekhallen, Josefin wrote me in the feedback: “I felt we were equal. Both of us being brave enough to be in our essence of playing with the clay. For me, this play reconnected me to the innocence of trust and playfulness I had as a child, even among men.”
When I had to decide how to show the project, I booked a project room. A space of thirty-five square meters. I sat there for half a day, trying to figure out how to place the images on a wall. How to summarize all the experiences I had with 40 people on a wall of seven meters.
Knowing this was impossible, I searched for a synecdoche.
The part for the whole. I tried to find pillar images and connect them, creating a sequence of 8-9 photographs. But within that sequence, something was missing.
And then the Lekhallen walls fell, and I saw behind.
I realized it was just an empty room with a name.
Then I looked at my surroundings as if perceiving the room itself.
There were no walls.
Colored surfaces flew away, revealing the grey matter underneath.
I saw the project for what it was: a collection of images hidden behind a ruling title.
I saw myself playing my part, following the rules the room set, cutting along the lines, keeping this paper castle from collapsing.
I saw definitions struggling in vain to create a world incapable of misunderstanding.
My thoughts spun fast, my sight turned to jelly.
I became dizzy and I had to sit down. I breathed in and slowly pulled the Lekhallen walls back up. I noticed that continuing to play my role made everyday life much easier.
So, I held onto that.
Italo Calvino told me, “If I had to choose a definition, I would say my work has been about removing weight.”
And so I held onto that.
I removed all the weight from the project until only one picture remained.
I printed it on cheap paper. 9×12 centimeters. The same size as the negative.
I placed it in the middle of a big white room.
Then she said, “What about the other images?”
And he said, “You shouldn’t exhibit only one picture.”
Then she said, “It’s so pretentious! You’re not there yet!”
And she said, “It makes me angry. And I like that.”
The vast empty space, filled with unexpressed possibilities, framed the small print in a cloud of unfulfilled expectations.
A self-portrait, imitating a chair.