2019

Photo: Mads Graver

FOLK TALES


Jubilæumsprojektet 2024


/ samarbejdspartnere: Tønder Festival, Museum Sønderjylland, Tønder Lokalhistoriske Arkiv og Kunstmuseet i Tønder



PORTRÆTTER 2019


I 2019 var der udstillet portrætter af musikere, som gæstede Tønder Festival i 2018. Alle portrætter er baseret på personlige møder og samtaler om musikernes hjemstavne. Hvert portræt består af et træsnit og en litterær fortolkning af et sted, som betyder noget særligt for den portrætterede.

Fokus for værkerne er at undersøge portrætgenren og det mellemrum, der opstår mellem træsnittenes ydre portræt og teksternes indre landskaber. 


Portrætterne var udstillet på festivalpladsen og i Visemøllen.


Deltagende kunstnere 2019: The Bros. Landreth (CAN), Mari Boine (NO), Rasmus Lyberth (GRL), The Brother Brothers (USA), Lankum (IRL), Irish Mythen (IRL), Melissa Horn (SE), David Ramirez (USA), Søren Huss (DK)


“I 2018 arbejdede jeg med relief og et falsk perspektiv i musikerportrætterne. Ansigterne kollapser og vrides dermed væk fra genkendelighed. I år er jeg gået en anden vej med mere klassisk træsnit, men hvor selve originalsnittet udstilles.

Træsnit rummer både vildskab og disciplin. Jeg kan tone kunstnerens sind med mine snit. Nogle gange fint og andre gange med voldsomhed på tværs af portrættet. Portrætterne er snittet i egetræ.”


Søren Assenholt

“Jeg forholder mig kontekstuelt til de personer, jeg portrætterer. Jeg taler med musikerne om de steder, de forbinder med hjemstavn.

Jeg baserer mine tekster på samtalen, men forvandler den til en fortælling, hvor den portrætterede agerer hovedperson. Teksterne er øjebliksbilleder, der er sat i scene på det sted, personerne selv har valgt.
I år leger jeg med genrerne og lader teksternes form tale med i portrættet.”


Sanne Flyvbjerg

FOLK TALES


Jubilee Project 2024


/ collaborators: Tønder Festival, Museum Sønderjylland,

Tønder Lokalhistoriske Arkiv og Kunstmuseet i Tønder



PORTRAITS 2019


the 2019 exhibition showed portraits of musicians that visited Tønder Festival in 2018. All portraits are based on personal meeting and conversations about the artists' local areas. Each portrait consists of an image and a literary interpretation of a place that holds special meaning to the person on display. 

The works focus on the portrait as genre and the dynamic between the woodcuts’ external portraits and the inner workings of the texts. 


The portraits were exhibited on the festival site and at Visemøllen.


Participants 2019: The Bros. Landreth (CAN), Mari Boine (NO), Rasmus Lyberth (GRL), The Brother Brothers (USA), Lankum (IRL), Irish Mythen (IRL), Melissa Horn (SE), David Ramirez (USA), Søren Huss (DK)


“In 2018 I investigated the portrait through the false perspective of the relief. From certain viewpoints the faces collapse and distort. This year I have taken a different road towards more traditional woodcut, however, I put the original oak plates on display. 

Woodcut is simultaneously wild and disciplined. I can tone the mind of the musician through my movements. Sometimes my cuts are subtle and sometimes they are violent across the portrait.


Søren Assenholt

“I relate to my subjects through place and context.

I talk to them about the place they come from and the local environments that hold special meaning to them.

My stories are based on the conversation, but I transform the content into a narrative where the subject of the portrait acts as the protagonist. All stories are staged in the environments from the conversation.

This year I investigate different genres and allow the form of the texts to shape the voice of the portrait."


Sanne Flyvbjerg

Irish Mythen

VINEGAR HILL, ENNISCORTHY, CO. WEXFORD, IRLAND
Af Sanne Flyvbjerg

Hvis hun havde en time tilbage at leve i, ville hun gå op på Vinegar Hill. Hun ville sætte sig ned ved den gamle mølle og se udover stedet, der skabte hende og alle generationerne før. Hun ville mærke livet, historien, traditionerne, sorgen og kærligheden, og så ville hun dø lykkelig, på Vinegar Hill.


Oppe på Vinegar Hill kan hun se til alle sider, hun kan dreje sig hele vejen rundt.

Mod vest ligger Enniscorthy, katedralen, borgen og dybest nede løber River Slaney. Folk har altid fisket der, og hun gør det selv, når verden skal være stille for en stund. Mod øst er der grønt, bregner og brombær, og ud af én bakke vokser den næste. Der er uendelige marker på vejen mod Det Irske Hav, Muir Éirann.


There is a lane leading up to Vinegar Hill and each night at twelve o’ clock the galloping of horses and the clashing of swords can be heard and shadows can be seen flitting past.

(Mrs. Hewitt, Co. Tipperary, year unknown)


På Vinegar Hill løb et folk i 1798, alle bønderne flygtede op på bakken. De havde først kæmpet englænderne væk med landbrugsredskaber, men så kom englænderne tilbage for at få hævn. Nu skulle byen jævnes med jorden, og folket var omringet på bakken. Man taler om det den dag i dag, fortæller om konflikt for at lære at undgå den. Ingen irer vil i virkeligheden slås, og det var fredelige folk på Vinegar Hill.


På Vinegar Hill vokser mindet om en bungalow. Et lille hus, hvor hun havde mor, far, søster, bror og sit helt eget værelse. Det lå ved siden af fyrrummet, og hendes vindue vendte ud mod haven og gyngen i vinden. Op ad væggen stod en overvældende bogreol; halvdelen af den var fyldt med Star Wars figurer, og den anden halvdel havde forældrene fyldt med kunstbøger og musik. Hun sad på gulvet i timevis med tunge bøger i skødet, tabte sig selv i kunsten, og hun sad i et hav af lyd; af Bach, af Brahms og Beethoven.


What if they were beaten on cruel Vinegar Hill? What if those stout hearts were pierced? They did not fail. They struck into the slow blood of their country a fire that never was quenched.   

(J. Reeves, Co. Wexford, year unknown)


Fra Vinegar Hill løb hun mod River Slaney. Altid, altid løb hun mod vand. Ud af døren, dreje til venstre og så bare af sted nedover skråningerne. Hun ville stoppe ved brombærkrattet og spise lidt, og så løb hun videre ned mod vandet med rifter på armene. Blot et øjeblik senere ville hun stå på flodbredden i den fyndige duft af mos og vand, med fingre, der var sorte af knuste bær.


På Vinegar Hill vokser alle farver, både dem, der passer sammen som et omkvæd, og dem, der konflikter som et vers. Her fødes børn med en sang i hjertet, og her husker man tabet af sønner, døtre og forældre. Det er urgammelt land, og følelserne gror dybt fra den irske jord. Fortæl til hinanden i stuerne, fortæl fra voksne til børn. Snak om konflikten, byg sangen op med alvor og latter og syng så med hjertet på blokken. En sang er aldrig bare en sang.


On the top of Vinegar Hill there is supposed to be a pool of blood. This pool was formed by the blood of some of the Irishmen who fought in 1798. If the blood is thrown out of the pool it will bring bad luck on the person who does it, and moreover, it will fill up again.

(English dictation, Co. Kerry, 1938) 


Fra Vinegar Hill vokser Prince Edward Island, en lang, tynd ø i det atlantiske Canada. Mod syd er der rustrøde kyster, og mod nord er der hvidt sand. Det er fladt, her er udsigt til vand, og nu bor her et hjerte, der er gjort af kløver og ahorn. Hun sidder bag et skrivebord fra et gammelt postkontor, hun ser folk på gaden i Charlottetown. Op ad væggen står en overvældende bogreol; det meste er fyldt med bøger og musik, men på en hylde ligger tre gamle madkasser med Star Wars figurerne fra det gamle værelse. Hun griber ud efter et fotografi, der står på skrivebordet og holder det op foran sig. Det er et billede af hendes mor og far, og de står på Vinegar Hill.





VINEGAR HILL, ENNISCORTHY, CO. WEXFORD, IRELAND
By Sanne Flyvbjerg

If she had but one hour to live, she would walk up Vinegar Hill. She would sit by the old mill and gaze upon the place that made her and all the generations that went before. She would feel the life, the history, the traditions, the sorrow and the love and then she would die happy, there on Vinegar Hill.


On Vinegar Hill she can see all around, she can turn any which way she pleases. To the west lies Enniscorthy, the cathedral, the castle and down at the bottom runs the River Slaney. People have always gone fishing there and she does so herself whenever she needs to quiet the world. To the east everything is green; ferns and blackberries, and rolling hills away as far as the eye can see. There are infinite fields along the way to the Irish Sea, Muir Éirann.


There is a lane leading up to Vinegar Hill and each night at twelve o’ clock the galloping of horses and the clashing of swords can be heard and shadows can be seen flitting past.

(Mrs. Hewitt, Co. Tipperary, year unknown)


On Vinegar Hill a people was running in 1798, all the farmers fleeing up the hill. At first they had fought off the English with nothing but crude farm tools, but then the English came back for revenge. Now the entire town was to be razed and its people found themselves surrounded on the hill. People talk about that day still, they speak of conflict so that they may learn to avoid it. No Irishman truly wants to fight and they were always peace-loving folk on Vinegar Hill.


On Vinegar Hill the memory of a bungalow lives. A small place in Enniscorthy where she had a mum, dad, sister and brother and a room all of her own. It was right next to the boiler and from her window she could see the garden and the swing dancing in the wind. Against one wall was an immense bookshelf; one half filled with Star Wars action figures, the other half her parents had stocked full of art books and music. She would sit for hours on the floor with these heavy books in her lap, losing herself in the world of art, and she sat in an ocean of sound; of Bach, of Brahms and of Beethoven.


What if they were beaten on cruel Vinegar Hill? What if those stout hearts were pierced? They did not fail. They struck into the slow blood of their country a fire that never was quenched.

(English Dictation, Co. Kerry, 1938)


From Vinegar Hill she ran towards River Slaney. Always, always she would run towards water. Out the door, turn left and then all she could take down the hillside. She would stop by the blackberry bushes to eat a while and then on she went towards the water with cuts on her arms. A brief moment later she would find herself on the riverbank in the poignant scent of moss and water, and her fingers were blackened with crushed berries.


On Vinegar Hill all colours grow, both those that come together like a chorus and those that stand out like a verse. Children are born with a song in their hearts and the losses of sons, daughters and parents are kept in remembrance. It is an ancient land and feelings reach deep into the Irish soil. So tell one another in the parlours, let it pass from parent to child. Talk about the conflict, shape the song with gravity and mirth and sing then with your hearts at stake. For a song is never just a song.



On the top of Vinegar Hill there is supposed to be a pool of blood. This pool was formed by the blood of some of the Irishmen who fought in 1798. If the blood is thrown out of the pool it will bring bad luck on the person who does it, and moreover, it will fill up again.   

(J. Reeves, Co. Wexford, year unknown)


From Vinegar Hill, Prince Edward Island stretches; a long, thin island in Atlantic Canada.

To the south are shores red as rust and to the north white sand. Everything here is flat with a view of water and now here lives a heart made from maple and clover. She sits behind a desk from an old post office; she is watching people on the street in Charlottetown. Against the wall is an immense bookshelf; it is mostly stocked full of music and books but on one shelf are three old lunch boxes filled with the Star Wars action figures from her old room. She reaches for a photograph on the desk and holds it up in front of her. It is a picture of her mum and dad and they are standing on Vinegar Hill.



                                                                                                       English translation: Jeppe Grünberger

Søren Assenholt, 2019

Woodcut in oak

Lankum

HUSET MED SANGENE, PHIBSBOROUGH, DUBLIN, IRLAND
Af Sanne Flyvbjerg

I midten af Dublin på Mountjoy Street,
mellem River Liffey og Royal Canal,
ligger et gammelt, georgiansk hus.

Det ligger skulder om skulder med ti søstre langs gaden, og de er alle sammen bygget af røde sten. Hoveddøren er grå og flankeret af træpilastre, der er toppet med ranker og snirkler. I nat blev snirklerne stjålet, men ruden over døren sidder der endnu. Lyset fra gaden strømmer ind og lander på trappen op mod lejligheden. Derinde er to stole vendt mod en sofa, og det damper fra en bedaget, grå tekande. Fire mennesker sidder overfor hinanden, og de har fløjter, strenge og bælge, de har Dublin i deres blod.

Der er huse nok på Mountjoy Street,
men huset her har sine sange,
for nu synger de i Daraghs køkken,
Daragh, Ian, Cormac og Radie
nu synger de i Daraghs køkken.



I bunden af huset på Mountjoy Street,
i etagen under lejligheden,
ligger en nigeriansk restaurant.
I dag steger de fisk i køkkenet, og alle andre dage er det lugten af brændt kød, der stiger op gennem husets vægge. I forlokalet er der røde paneler, og bagerst ligger toilettet efter en sektion på fire meter med lys i gulvet, lædersofaer og stripperstang. Lokalet er dunkelt og kun lidt lysere ved ruden, hvor fire mennesker har sat sig ned. For nu åbner det hemmelige værtshus, og festen starter med Nigerian Stout, der er tyktflydende, sød og stærk. De skåler for rodet i Dublins gader og synger: Come hither my lads with your tankards of ale, and drink to the present before life should fail. De synger om fejder og forlis, og de har Guinness i deres blod.
Der er huse nok på Mountjoy Street,
men huset her har sine sange,
for nu flyder øllet så tykt som sirup,
Daragh, Ian, Cormac og Radie
det flyder så tykt som sirup.



Udenfor huset på Mountjoy Street,
i passagen overfor bygningen,
står en tilfældig lygtepæl.
En mand parkerer ved restauranten, det er onsdag, og han skal hente mad med hjem. Han lader nøglerne sidde i bilen, og nu kommer en tyv forbi, som springer ind bag rattet og kører af sted. Ejeren skriger og kommer stormende ud, snart brydes og slås de i bilen. Fire mennesker kigger op fra husets trappesten, og Sergeant Bailey går langsomt forbi, mens han mumler lidt ind mod fundamentet. Nu flygter tyven fra bilen og forsvinder ned igennem passagen. Ejeren løber efter og råber stands, stands, så jeg kan pande dig én! Han styrer direkte ind lygtepælen, og han råber, svovler og bander, da han smager sit eget blod.
Der er huse nok på Mountjoy Street,
men huset her har sine sange,
for nu ligger han der på jorden,
Daragh, Ian, Cormac and Radie,
nu ligger han der på jorden.



Kun et par sekunder væk på Mountjoy Street,
på en plads, der deler gaden,
ligger den sorte kirke.
Det har regnet i nat, og nu står den sort som djævlen, der venter på at blive kaldt frem i mørket. Gå tretten gange rundt om kirken, eller tre gange baglæns mod uret, så kan du sælge dine smerter for din sjæl. Lidt længere væk rider folk om kap på heste, og en børnebande cykler ud fra husene. De stejler på cyklerne for at blokere trafikken, og de stopper først, når bilerne ikke kan komme forbi. Børnene opdager nu en betjent på en Segway, og så samles de, griner og peger. Flere folk støder til og griner med, fyrre mennesker står ved siden af hinanden, og hele gaden bliver samme blod.
Der er huse nok på Mountjoy Street,
men huset her har sine sange,
for det er lastet med heste og fester og sagn,
Daragh, Ian, Cormac and Radie,
det er lastet med heste og sagn.



I toppen af huset på Mountjoy Street,
over øverste sal i lejligheden,
ligger et langt loft.
Det binder alle ti søstre sammen, og man kan gå fra den ene ende af bygningen til den anden, henover husnumre og væggene, der deler husene op. Det er et fugtigt loft med grønne planter og bregner, og det har groet så længe nu, at bladene vokser ud mellem sprækkerne i dørkarmen. Fjern hellere de hampblade, du dyrker på loftet, havde viceværten sagt, fjern det hurtigt, så siger jeg ikke noget. Men planterne vokser fra huset selv og er stedets grøde, alt det gamle, der skal fortælles med nyt. Og det ved de i Daraghs køkken, hvor to stole er vendt mod en sofa. I morgen skal huset sælges, og fire mennesker ømmer sig ved tanken, for de har fløjter, strenge og bælge, de har huset i deres blod.
Der er huse nok på Mountjoy Street,
men huset her har sine sange,
bare pluk dets blade og kog dem i vand,
Daragh, Ian, Cormac and Radie,
bare pluk dem og kog dem i vand.





THE HOUSE OF SONGS, PHIBSBOROUGH, DUBLIN, IRELAND
By Sanne Flyvbjerg

In the middle of Dublin on Mountjoy Street,
between the River Liffey and Royal Canal,
sits an old, Georgian house.
It sits shoulder to shoulder with ten sisters on the street and they are all made of red stone. The front door is grey and framed by wooden pilasters topped with frills and fancy. Last night the frills were stolen but the window above the door remains. The light from the street flows through and touches the stairs to the flat above. Inside are two chairs turned towards a sofa and steam rises from an old, grey teapot. Four people sit across from each other and they have flutes, strings and bellows, they have Dublin in their blood.
There are plenty of houses on Mountjoy Street,
but this house has its songs,
for now they sing in Daragh’s kitchen
Daragh, Ian, Cormac and Radie
now they sing in Daragh’s kitchen.



At the bottom of the house on Mountjoy Street
on the floor below the flat
is a Nigerian restaurant.

Today they are frying fish in the kitchen and on all other days, the scent of burnt meat rises up through the walls of the house. In the front room there is red paneling and in the back is the toilet behind a small four meter section with in-floor lighting, leather couches and a stripper pole. The main room is dim and it is only marginally lighter by the window where four people just sat down. For now the shebeen is open and the party starts with Nigerian Stout; thick, sweet and strong. They toast to the holy mess that is the streets of Dublin and they sing: Come hither my lads with your tankards of ale, and drink to the present before life should fail. They sing of quarrels and calamities and they have Guinness in their blood.
There are plenty of houses on Mountjoy Street,
but this house has its songs,
for now the beer flows thick as syrup.
Daragh, Ian, Cormac and Radie
it flows as thick as syrup.



Outside the house on Mountjoy Street,
in the laneway across the street,
happens to be a lamppost.

A man parks by the restaurant, it is Wednesday and he is getting his takeout dinner. He leaves the keys in his car and now a thief happens by who jumps behind the wheel and sets off. The owner yells and comes rushing out, soon they are fighting and brawling in the car. Four people look up from the steps of the Georgian house and Sergeant Bailey walks by, mumbling quietly to himself. Now the thief escapes from the car and vanishes down the laneway. The owner pursues and yells stop, stop so I can punch you in the face! He charges straight into the lamppost, and he yells, swears and curses at the taste of his own blood.
There are plenty of houses on Mountjoy Street
but this house has its songs,
for now he lies flat on the ground.
Daragh, Ian, Cormac and Radie,
now he lies flat on the ground.



Just a few seconds away on Mountjoy Street,
on a square that splits the street,
is the black church.
It rained last night and now it stands there black as the devil that waits to be called in the night. Walk thirteen times around the church, or three times backwards anti-clockwise; then you can trade away your pains at the cost of your soul. Further down the street people race each other on horses and a gang of children emerge on their bikes from between houses. Riding on their back wheels they block all traffic, they are not letting a single car through. Now the children spot an officer on a Segway and they come together to laugh and point. More people join in now, forty people stand together laughing and the entire street is of one blood.
There are plenty of houses on Mountjoy Street
but this house has its songs,
for it is loaded with horses, feasts and fables.
Daragh, Ian, Cormac and Radie,
it is loaded with horses and fables.



At the very top of the house on Mountjoy Street,
above the top floor of the flat
is a long attic.

It binds all ten sisters together and one can walk from one end of the building to the other, across street numbers and dividing walls. It is a humid attic with green plants and ferns that have been there so long that the leaves reach out through the cracks of the door frame. Just you remove those hemp leaves you have growing in that attic, the janitor said, you remove them quick and I won’t say a thing. But the plants outgrow the house itself and become its bloom, all that which is old but must be told with the new. And they know this in Daragh’s kitchen, where two chairs are turned towards a sofa. Tomorrow the house will be sold and four people shiver at the thought, for they have flutes, strings and bellows, and the house is in their blood.
There are plenty of houses on Mountjoy Street,
but this house has its songs,
just pick its leaves and boil them in water
Daragh, Ian, Cormac and Radie,
just pick them and boil them in water.



English translation: Jeppe Grünberger

Søren Assenholt, 2019

Woodcut in oak

The Bros. Landreth

/Dansk tekst følger



THE UNPLUGGED STREET, WINNIPEG, CANADA
By Sanne Flyvbjerg

Two brothers are running on a dead end street that ends up by the Seine River. Their house is one of ten tiny houses, five on either side of the street, built for the francophone veterans of World War I. All ten houses are twenty by twenty feet built on lots just twenty five feet wide. One is white, one is grey, one is cedar but none of them are particularly remarkable. Just postwar shacks on a gravel street surrounded by empty, industrial lots and the wild of the river. Behind the house is a big pile of mud and a transmission tower and right next door grandma and grandpa have a tire swing in a tree.


The boys have caught a frog in the wild mints that grow under the stairs outside their house. Mum is driving her bus but grandma is home, in the house next door. A few houses up the street is Aunty’s house. On the other side of the street is Pepsi, who lives next door to the cokehead, who lives next to the crazy coke dealer, who lives next to the policeman who pretends that he does not see what is going on. Next to the policeman is Mike, the weightlifter, who works for Pepsi and has an outdoor pool table. Mike’s mission in life is to protect the boys, he has made it so. All right, boys? All right, Mike. Everything is all right.


There are damselflies and dragonflies by the Seine River, there are willow trees and elm trees, quaking asp and switchgrass growing under the big dangling canopies that stretch out over the edge of the river. There are remains of homesteads, sawmills, gristmills, brick and soap works along the river bank but the boys keep their distance. The water is dangerous in the summertime and they have been told to stay clear of the muddy river and not get lured in by its lazy green. People settle near the waterways and drain the streams and creaks of the prairie but the water still runs beneath the ground. Grandma comes out. Are they hungry? No. They are Ninja Turtles heading for the wilderness. Two heroes with a frog in their pocket.


The boys have climbed the big tree on the berm near the embankment, and they are heroes with supernatural powers sitting fifteen feet above the ground. One of them can tamper with temperature and when he does, the river freezes over. He looks up and swipes his hand across the landscape. All the mud instantly stiffens, every green leaf is covered with ice and the toads dig themselves into the river bank before it is too late. The boys look at each other and now the other boy braces himself as he moves to set the sun itself and raise the moon in its place. Coyotes, foxes and bears appear, their eyes glow in the dark. A grey owl hears a meadow vole under the snow and balls up its feet. It plunges feet first out of the sky and punches through the thick snow crust. The temperature is still dropping and now it is so cold that they can hear the crackling of the transmission tower wires. They know it so well, the sound of winter. Six months every year everything is covered in snow and ice and they can walk for miles and miles on the frozen river. They might actually be hungry, but so what? Come to dinner!, someone cries. It could be Mom calling, it could be Grandma or Aunty, and now the winter landscape melts away.


They are back underneath the street lights, running. Heroes have denser plumage and can lower their body temperature at night to stretch their fat reserves, like chickadees, but they cannot survive for long without food. They pass horseradish growing in the bush and they run past the piece of wood where they will one day discover a hidden stash of porn magazines. After dinner, their grandfather will once again try to turn them golfers. He will line them up along the edge of the yard and have them plop old gulf balls into the river. By accident, one of the boys will knock his grandfather out with a wild swing of his golf club and they will run, most likely they will run to the open field behind the transmission tower. But for now, they are headed home, answering the call. No one is poor enough not to pay attention, not even Joseph, a teacher will say in the seventh grade. And Joey will turn to his friend and ask: Holy shit, are we poor? And the friend will answer: Yeah man, you are like the second poorest kid in the class, next to Spencer.


Two brothers are growing up poor, and they have no idea. They are running in their unplugged street, happy. Pepsi is rummaging outside his house and so is the coke dealer and the policeman. Mike is fixing his pool table and looks up. Everything all right, boys? Yeah, Mike. Everything is all right.

Søren Assenholt, 2019

Woodcut in oak

Søren Assenholt, 2019

Woodcut in oak

Søren Huss

BINDINGSVÆRKSHUSET FRA 1761, NYBORG, DANMARK
Af Sanne Flyvbjerg

Det sner ikke så tit i Nyborg, men det gør det i nat. Han kan se det igennem ruden, i det svage lys fra gaden, han kan se den lette sne, der falder som et pulver ned over voldgraven foran slottet. Sneen smelter, når den rammer det sorte vand, kun enkelte krystaller lægger sig ovenpå de tynde isflager, der stivner ved voldenes kant. De har været her i flere hundrede år, disse volde; siden kongeborgen fik sit fæstningsværk efter Grevens Fejde.


Og sneen falder ved foden af hans hus, der står på kanten af slotsholmen. Hans hus består af remme, dokker og stolper, det har sort bindingsværk og syldsten, hvide tavl og en blå port med en smal dør. Det er skredet i konstruktionen, siden det blev bygget i 1761, og remmene vrider sig, så huset er skævt. Det overlevede vist branden i 1797, og siden er det blevet renoveret, ligesom han nu renoverer det selv, hver gang han har råd. For 200 år siden skrev en tømrer på en bjælke i hans entre: Denne bjælke blev lavet i år 18-noget. Han husker aldrig årstallet helt præcist, men han har fritlagt den og lakeret den, så inskriptionen ikke forsvinder.


Hans stue er hvid af røg. Det er nat, og øjeblikket nærmer sig. Han sidder ved det gamle flygel, ænderne i voldgraven er tavse, og himlen er gemt bag sneens væv. Hvis han åbner sine øjne, ser han ingenting andet end mikrofonen, men hvis han lukker dem, åbner der sig dale, og der rejser sig tinder og drag. Et flygel består af bund, ramme, strenge og hamre, og hans står midt i stuen. Det skrider ofte lidt i lyd, men han fandt det selv og forelskede sig.


Han har farvede lamper, og fire af dem er tændt. Han ved, at et stort egetræ vokser skævt henover vandet i voldgraven udenfor, men ellers husker han ikke så mange detaljer. Jo, der er persiennerne og de varme, fritlagte bjælker i den hvidmalede stue. Der er træet under fødderne, der er kaffen i koppen, men mest af alt er der bare nattens rum. Og nu fyger sneen ind igennem hullet under den gamle blå port, hvor den lægger sig i hans entre.


Et menneske består af 206 knogler og en hel masse lyd, og efter en vågen nat følger en langsom morgen. Sneen er smeltet i Nyborg, og det er vådt på gulvet i entreen. Det skæve egetræ drypper ned over voldgraven, og solen står op bagved slottet. Han har sine ruter fra den blå dør og ud på den brostensbelagte gade, og nu slipper han døren, så den falder i. Længere mod nord ligger parcelhuskvarteret, hvor han voksede op, men det er her, han har hjemme; i sit bindingsværk, hvor alting skrider lidt i konstruktionen, i mellem rem, dok og stolpe.



THE HALF-TIMBERED HOUSE FROM 1761, NYBORG, DENMARK
By Sanne Flyvbjerg

It rarely snows in Nyborg but tonight it does. He can see it through the window in the faint glow of the street, he sees the light snow falling like powder over the castle moat. The snow melts when it hits the black water, only a few crystals fall and stay on the thin sheets of ice hardening against the rampart’s edge. They have been here for centuries, those ramparts; since the king’s castle was fortified after The Count’s Feud.


And the snow falls lightly by the foot of his house which is at the edge of the castle isle. His house is made of straps, studs and jetties with black timber framing and dry stone foundation, it has white panels and a blue gate with a small door. The foundation has shifted considerably since the house was constructed in 1761 and the straps twist the building a bit out of shape. It is believed to have survived the fire in 1797 and was since renovated just like he now renovates it himself, whenever he can afford to. Two hundred years ago a carpenter wrote on a beam in his hall: this beam was made in the year 18-something. He can never recall the exact year, but he has left the beam exposed and he varnished it so that the inscription does not fade.


His living room is white with smoke. It is nighttime and the moment is near. He sits behind his old, grand piano, the ducks in the moat make not a sound and the sky is hidden somewhere behind the weave of snow. If he opens his eyes, he sees nothing but the microphone but if he closes them, valleys open up and peaks and ridges reach for the sky. A grand piano basically consists of base, frame, strings and hammers and his is in the middle of the living room. It tends to shift out of tune but it was he who found it and he who fell in love.


He has coloured lamps and four of them are lit. He knows that a large, bent oak tree stretches across the watery moat outside but other details elude his memory. Yes, there are blinds and there are warm, exposed beams in the white living room. There is the wood under his feet, there is coffee in his cup, but most of all there is the moment of the night. And now the snow drifts through the gap underneath the old, blue gate to settle in his hall.


A human being consists of 206 bones and a lot of sound, and a restless night is followed by a slow morning. The snow has melted in Nyborg and the floor in the hall is wet. Water trickles off the bent oak tree and into the moat and the sun rises behind the castle. He has his usual walks from the blue door and out along the cobbled street, and now he lets go of the door so that it slides shut. Further to the north is the old neighbourhood where he grew up but his home is here; in his timber frame where everything shifts over time, in between straps, studs and jetties.



English translation: Jeppe Grünberger


Søren Assenholt, 2019

Woodcut in oak

Melissa Horn


TOPPEN AF BYEN, STOCKHOLM, SVERIGE
Af Sanne Flyvbjerg

EN PIGE træder op på sengekanten og sætter fra på den bløde madras. Hun griber fat i karmen og trækker sig det sidste stykke op til vinduet og klatrer ud på sin lille balkon.
Hun klatrer ud i natten over Östermalmstorget.


Karlsson, er det dig?


Tagene er skiver mod himlen, og himlen drypper ned, hvor den kan. Nu skændes de på gaden, nu brydes de. En samtale drejer om hjørnet og en politibil nærmer sig, stopper. Det er nat, men gaden er lys og fuld af stemmer, og hun er barn i toppen af en hovedstad. Her skriver hun små dialoger på lapper af hvidt papir.


Anna her.
Kommer du ned?


De tænder lys i lejligheden overfor, og en skygge går ud i et køkken. Pigen kniber øjnene sammen. Der er mange meters luft ned mod gaden, et dybt fald fra den lille balkon. Men tværs over, hvis hun strækker armen ud, så er der ikke mange meter. Kun et enkelt hop og et vingeslag for den hvide måge på taget.


Hey, vent! Vent lidt, jeg kommer med.
Vent nu på mig.


Pigen vender sig ind mod værelset og kigger ned på gulvet. Det lille værelse er fyldt med luft. Hun sidder tusinde meter over skrivebordet, der roder med penne og papir, klistermærker og stempler. Mor spiller kabale, og far ser fjernsyn. Det hele er helt almindeligt, og der er musik fra brødrenes værelser.


Gå bare i forvejen, gå bare.
Jeg ringer om lidt.


Døren er lukket ind til stuen, men vinduet er åbent til gaden. Pigen hopper ned på sin seng og falder i søvn til lyden fra byen, til en samtale udenfor en bar. Her har hun lejligheden og byen for sig selv, og hele tiden lyder den. En postbil, en sirene. En port, der smækker, en bar. En mor, en far, brødrene og Bob Dylan. Aldrig helt stille og alligevel helt tyst.

EN KVINDE går fra gaden og ind gennem porten. Hun træder ind under det hvælvede loft i det røde og gule rum og sætter hælen mod de sort-hvide kakler, lige her er det som at lande i en favn. Hun er hjemme, i sin port i byen tæt ved Nytorget.


Er det stadig dig?
Ja, det er mig. Jeg flyver gennem gaderne.


I elevatoren op til fjerde sal, op, op, op over byen, og også her er der røde og gule farver og et sort-hvidt kakkelgulv. Kvinden lægger hånden mod sin hoveddør og julekransen, der stadig hænger der fra december.


Er vi stadig de samme, som vi var engang?
Jeg tvivler.


Kvinden står hun i sin lange gang, hvor hun altid har hortensia i en vase. Nogle gange rummer den friske blomster i vand, og uden for sæson er det tørrede blomsterstande. En bænk, et spejl, en træstub, som hun husker fra lejligheden ved Östermalmstorget.


Du er kun ti minutter væk.

Ringer du?
Husk det nu, byen er tryg.


Kvinden var tom for ord ved havet. Hun sad der et par dage og kunne ikke skrive, kunne ikke sove, men bare vågne, for hvad var det? Det var stilheden og hver eneste lyd, der brød den. Og natten var ikke båret af byen, natten var ikke på fjerde sal.


I morgen ved springvandet, der ses vi vel?
Klokken fem?
Klokken fem.


Kvinden bor på bænken i køkkenet, og herfra ser hun stuen og byen med sine rødbrune tage og spir. Her bygges husene af replikker, og de skyder hele tiden op i nye karreer. Hun åbner vinduet ud mod gaden og huset på den anden side og klatrer ud i natten over Nytorget. Jo, nogen taler, de græder og ler, og gulvet lyser gult i hendes køkken.

/ENGLISH


THE TOP OF THE CITY, STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN
By Sanne Flyvbjerg

A GIRL on the edge of her bed, she sets off into a leap from the softness of her mattress. She grabs the window sill and pulls herself the last bit of way, she climbs out the window and onto her little balcony. She climbs into the night above Östermalmstorget.


Karlsson, is it you?


The rooftops are discs facing the sky, and the sky is dripping down, down where it can. Now they are fighting on the street, now they are wrestling. A conversation turns the corner and a police car approaches, stops. It is nighttime but the street is bright and full of voices, and she is a child on top of a capital city. Here she writes little dialogues on white scraps of paper.


Anna here.
Are you coming down?


They turn on the light in the flat across the street and a shadow walks into a kitchen. The girl squints. There is a lot of space between her and the street below, a steep drop from the little balcony. But across the street, if she reaches as far as she can, there is almost no space at all. Just a simple jump and a beat of the wing for the white gull on the roof.


Hey, wait! Wait a bit, I’m coming down.
Come on, wait for me.


The girl turns towards the room and looks down at the floor. The little room is filled with space. She sits a thousand meters above the desk which is a mess of pens and paper, stamps and stationary. Mum is playing solitaire and dad is watching television.

It is all completely normal and there is music from her brothers’ rooms.


Just go on ahead, just go.
I’ll call in a bit.


The door to the living room is closed but the window to the street is open. The girl jumps into bed and falls asleep to the sound of the city, to a conversation outside a bar. Here she has the flat and the city to herself and always it hums to her. A mail van, a sirene. A gate that is slammed, a bar. A mother, a father, her brothers and Bob Dylan. Never a quiet moment and yet always entirely serene.


A WOMAN walks from the street and in through the gate. She steps underneath the arching ceiling in the red and yellow room and her heel presses against the black and white tiles, she is walking into open arms. She is home, in her gate in the city, close to Nytorget.


Is it still you?


Yes, it’s me. I’m flying through the streets.

In the elevator to the fourth floor, up, up, up above the city, and here too there are red and yellow colours and a black and white tiled floor. The woman puts her hand against her front door and the Christmas decoration, which is still there from last December.


Are vi still the same as back then?
I doubt it.


Now the woman is in her long hallway where she always keeps hydrangeas in a vase. Sometimes it has fresh flowers in water, out of season it has dried inflorescences. A bench, a mirror, a tree stump that she remembers from the flat by Östermalmstorget.


You are only ten minutes away.
Will you call?

Just remember, the city is safe.


The woman lost her words by the ocean. She sat there a couple of days and could not write, could not sleep, only wake, for what was that? It was the silence and every sound that broke it. And the night was not carried by the city, the night was not on the fourth floor.


Tomorrow by the fountain, see you there I guess?
Five o’clock?
Five o'clock.


The woman lives on the bench in the kitchen and from here she watches the living room and the city with its red and brown rooftops and spires. Here the houses are built with phrases and they always bloom into new blocks. She opens the window to the street and the house across the street and climbs into the night above Nytorget. Yes, someone is talking, they cry and laugh and the floor in her kitchen shines a bright yellow light.




English translation: Jeppe Grünberger

Søren Assenholt, 2019

Woodcut in oak

Mari Boine


LAKSEELVEN, KARASJOK, FINNMARK, NORGE
Af Sanne Flyvbjerg

Hun står ved Anarjok i midnatssol,
hun går ud i elven og fisker.
Ternerne svæver over det flade land,
det er midnat, og solen brænder.
Der er laks i elven, masser af laks.


Hun fisker i midnatssol.
Der er guld i vandet og elvens sand,
guld omkring fødderne, som er væk i strømmen.
Det er endelig blevet maj.
Det er nat, og hun fisker.


Det er nat, og fuglene synger.
Himlen orange, den er lava, den er lys,
solen rammer birk og fyrretræer.
Hun ser gamle både sejle forbi, hun husker.
Træet blev bøjet i vand.
Træet blev bøjet til en motorbåd.
Om vinteren trak hesten en slæde på den frosne elv.
To mil til Karasjok.


Hun fisker ved geografiske grænser.
De kalder det Norge, de kalder det Finland,
men Samerne kalder det Samerland,
Træerne er lave,
og under hendes fødder vokser lange rødder ned,
ned igennem Finnmarken,
helt ned i jordens magma.
Her henter hun kraft under skifer og granit.


Hun står i lakseelven.
Himlen brænder og bløder.
Der var køer ved den lille gård,
køer, grise, fjordheste.
Hun plukkede bær i skoven.
Tyttebær, blåbær, multebær.
Hun samlede kogler til skovens vogter.


Hun står mellem masser af laks.
Hun husker at sidde i et bedehus.
Nu kommer den, vækkelsen,
den fylder rummet med ekstase og lyd.
Hele slægten i trance i en dal ved Anarjok.


Hun står mellem masser af laks.
Hun står på en scene i London,
og byen er hård som sten,
men strandene er bløde ved Anarjok.
Der er gyldent sand og guldførende banker
der er ræve og bjørne i skoven.


Hun træder op fra det glødende vand.
Der ligger elge foran hendes hus,
og de hører hende komme hjem fra elven,
så nu rejser de sig op og forsvinder.
Solen stiger igen.


THE SALMON RIVER, KARASJOK, FINNMARK, NORGE
By Sanne Flyvbjerg

She stands near Anarjok in the midnight sun,

she steps into the river.

The terns soar across the flat lands,

it is night and the sun burns brightly.

There are salmon in the river, lots of salmon.


She fishes in the midnight sun.

There is gold in the water and in the sand of the river,

gold around her feet which vanish into the rush of the river.

It is finally May.

It is night and she is fishing.


It is night and the birds are singing.

Sky orange, it is lava, it is light,

the sun grazes birches and pines.

She sees old boats sailing past and she remembers.

The wood was shaped in water.

The wood was shaped into a motor boat.

In the winter, the horse pulled a sleigh on the frozen river.

Two miles to Karasjok.


She fishes near geographic boundaries.

They call it Norway, they call it Finland,

but the Sami call it Samiland.

The trees are short,

and beneath her feet, the roots grow deep,

down through the Finnmark,

all the way to the magma of the earth.

Here she draws her strength from slate and granite.


She stands in the salmon river.

The sky burns and bleeds.

There were cows by the small farm,

cows, pigs, fjord horses.

She picked berries in the woods.

Cranberries, blueberries, mulberries.

She gathered pine cones for the guardian of the woods.


She stands amidst a multitude of salmon.

She remembers sitting in a prayer house.

Here it comes, the awakening,

it fills the room with ecstasy and sound. 

All her kin entranced in a valley near Anarjok.


She stands amidst a multitude of salmon.

She stands on a stage in London,

and the city is hard as stone,

but the beaches are soft by Anarjok.

There is golden sand and auriferous banks

there are foxes and bears in the woods.


She steps from the glowing water.

There are moose resting in front of her house,

and they hear her coming home from the river,

so they rise and depart.

The sun rises again.



English translation: Jeppe Grünberger

Søren Assenholt, 2019

Woodcut in oak

Rasmus Lyberth


ET ANDET LYS, MANIITSOQ, GRØNLAND
Af Sanne Flyvbjerg

Så se ham stå der i Maniitsoq,
tage afsked.
Se husene på fjeldene,
grønne, hvide, gule, blå;
de er anderledes nu.
Helt anderledes.
Det hele falder i et andet lys.
Her midt i en afsked,
foran et hvidt kors,
foran slægten i jorden, under sandet.
Jeg skal leve, til jeg bliver 85,
siger han til korset,
og så fortæller jeg dig, hvordan det er.
Men kun hvis jeg dør,
kun hvis jeg dør.
For nu bliver lyset anderledes,
det hele falder i et andet lys,
og han græder i Maniitsoq,
fantastisk,
fantastisk.


På denne dag i Maniitsoq,
går han på lange trapper nedover klippeøen,
han går på broer og ud i en båd,
han taler med sine ånder
i sumpen ved Kangerlussuaq,
og han takker verden,
sansernes verden,
takker for sin plads i universet.
Han er verdens barn,
han er her nu,
kun nu,
i Paradis, for fanden.


Barndommens hus er væk,
måske var det grønt eller blåt,
men det er gennemsigtigt nu og forsvinder,
falder ned mellem fjelde og kløfter,
ned mellem fugleklipper,
mellem tejster og hvide ræve,
er et gryn mod et urgammelt kraton.



.


Så se ham tilbage i Maniitsoq,
tage afsked
ved et gravsted
og midt i et hav af plastikblomster,
grønne, hvide, gule, blå,
farverne er anderledes nu.
Hvalerne rejser sig fra havet,
halvtreds hvaler
vælter rundt i det salte vand,
De vrider og kaster sig mod lyset,
og lyset er anderledes
helt anderledes.
Det hele falder i et andet lys,
i en skærgård,
på en sukkertop i Evighedsfjorden.


Så se ham stå der i Maniitsoq,
tage afsked,
vågne op,
blive stolt over at komme fra Maniitsoq.
Hvalerne rejser sig fra havet.
Og se ham male,
falde ind i lærreder,
ind i musik,
falde, flyde og blive til lyd.
Hør ham nu:
Hvis vi dør,
hvis vi dør,
fantastisk

/ENGLISH


A DIFFERENT LIGHT, MANIITSOQ, GREENLAND

By Sanne Flyvbjerg

See him, then, standing there in Maniitsoq,
saying his goodbyes.
See the houses in the mountains,
green, white, yellow, blue;
they are different now.
Entirely different.
Everything in a different light.
Here in the middle of a goodbye,
before a white cross,
before the kin in the earth, under the sand.
I will live to 85,
he says to the cross,
and then I will tell you how it is.
But only if I die,
only if I die.
For now the light changes,
everything in a different light,
and he cries in Maniitsoq,
incredible,
incredible.


On this day in Maniitsoq,
he walks endless stairs across the rocky island,
he walks on bridges and into a boat,
he speaks with his spirits
in the wetlands of Kangerlussuaq,
and he thanks the world,
the world of the senses,
for his place in the universe.
He is a child of the world,
he is here now,
only now,
in Paradise, god damnit.


His childhood house is gone,
perhaps it was green or blue,
but it’s translucent now and fading,
slips down through mountains and ravines,

down through bird cliffs,

between black guillemots and white foxes,
is a speck against an ancient craton.

See him then, back in Maniitsoq,
Saying his goodbyes
by a grave
and in a sea of plastic flowers,
green, white, yellow, blue,
the colours in a different light now.
The whales rise from the sea,
fifty whales
tumbling in the salty waters.
They twist and throw themselves at the light,
and the light is different
entirely different.
Everything in a different light,
in an archipelago,
on a white spruce in the Fjord of Kangerlussuatsiaq.


See him, then, standing there in Maniitsoq,
saying his goodbyes,
waking up,
becoming proud of being from Maniitsoq.
The whales rise from the sea.
And see him painting
falling into canvases
falling into music
falling, floating and becoming sound.
Hear him now:
If we die,
if we die,
incredible.


English translation: Jeppe Grünberger

Søren Assenholt, 2019

Woodcut in oak

David Ramirez


HOME BASE IN STAFFORD, HOUSTON, TEXAS
By Sanne Flyvbjerg

A baseball field, Houston, Texas. They leave the car in the parking lot and cross the line where the gravel turns into grass. A boy has his cleats on and he can smell the fresh cut grass through the pungent scent of his baseball gear. He carries his bat, glove and extra balls in his bag as he crosses the fields. Field eleven, and he knows where to go. His family is there by his side, siblings running, begging for nachos in the afternoon sun.


Home base, the boy spends every weekend in a house in the suburbs. It is at the end of a quiet street in a residential area, it has a broad driveway and a big oak tree in the middle of the yard. His grandmother keeps the flower beds and when he opens the front door there is that particular smell. The walls are papered with Rosaries, pictures of Jesus and Mary and the sounds of Tijuana music. Always Tijuana music, playing from his grandfather’s radio on the patio in the back yard.


The baseball field, first inning, outer field. The heat is building up inside the glove, the boy’s hand is getting sweaty. His dad has been working all week, the new job, the better one, that keeps the poverty at bay. Always do the best you can, improve the odds, get a good education. The boy plays centre field, and all his time is spent on the grass. Catcher, hitter, everyone, get ready for the ball.


Home base, Poppa is cooking potatoes. The boy wakes up. He can hear the voices from a Mexican soap opera in the living room and the rustling sound of Poppa’s newspaper. The sun is burning already and after breakfast they will go to the neighbourhood pool with friends and family. Later, Poppa will teach him how to dribble a ball before they settle in front of a boxing match on the television and eventually share a nap.


The baseball field, fourth inning, outer field. The boy spots a caterpillar in the grass. The batter swings, misses the ball. The boy looks up, loosens his muscles and stands up, then crouches again. Get ready. Another pitch, this time a curved ball, the batter doesn’t swing, strike. The caterpillar climbs the fresh cut grass and sways on the tip of the blade before it bends down to the soil. The boy looks up. The batter swings, fair ball, but where did it go?


Home base, Poppa opens his hand. The boy counts three seeds that look like moth wings resting in the rough palm. Poppa turns up the music and grabs the spade. Let’s go, he says, and walks into the back yard. Here? He stops, looks at the boy and the boy nods; right there. Poppa starts digging and prepares the soil. He hands the seeds to the boy and the boy pushes them into the ground.


The baseball field, seventh inning, closing in on home plate. The boy is a strong hitter, but the wait gets him anxious. He adjusts his helmet, picks up the bat and squeezes it a few times to get the right grip. He stands legs apart and raises the bat to just behind his head, ready. Always stick with your family. Be loyal, be loving and pay attention. He scans through the crowd above the dugout. It’s just a metal bench and a fence but they are supposed to be there, to see him, all of them, his family.


Home base, the boy runs through the house and into to the back yard. A young maple tree has broken through the soil and every weekend he checks on the tree. When’s it gonna grow, Poppa? When’s it gonna grow? Poppa sits down and opens a Modelo Light, turns on his Tijuana music. Chill, boy. In six years time, you will climb the tree, maybe ten. Maple trees can grow at incredible speeds, but they need a bit of time.


The baseball field, somewhere in the urban sprawl. First base, and the boy catches sight of familiar faces in the crowd. His family, his dad, they are all there. The air is stuffy, clouds are forming over the Mexican Gulf. No high winds or flooding alerts but the rain is definitely coming tonight. He bends down, he swings, hits, throws the bat and runs. Fair ball, first base, second. Stop. He sets his feet, bends down low and gets ready, all eyes on him, he is a wire coiled into a string. Now just run, run, all the way home.

Søren Assenholt, 2019

Woodcut in oak