Fall equinox. The mist is creeping in, swallowing all sound. Is there such a thing as a sun? Does the world really turn? Nothing moves, not even the fisherman on the rocks. The world has pulled a blanket over her head.
(Helsinki, Finland; October 2013)
Can you hear the hooves clicking on the cobblestones? Do you see the steaming horses and the bustle of a departing riding party? Do you hear the clattering in the kitchen, later resulting in a celebratory Sunday dinner? I did, as I peeked out through the window into the courtyard.
And I sank into the bubbles of my heart-shaped bathtub and dreamed I was a princess.
(Rosersberg palace, Stockholm, Sweden; October 2013)
To the left, the Atlantic; to the right, the Baltic. At the tip of the land the wind blows in one direction but the waves curiously crash into each other from opposite directions. Where Denmark ends one can keep walking, right into the waves.
(Skagen, Denmark; August 2013)
One of the last days in July, when the night is thin, an a cappella quartet croons us goodbye as we push off, pick up our sweep oars, and row out onto the lake. We push through the blanket-soft air: creak-swish, creak-swish. Suddenly we hear the soft sound of a saxophone, playing a haunting tune like from David Lynch’s dreams. A man stands on a rock ledge a few inches above the water, channeling his heart through the brass. And there is no next nor memories inside the cloud of music softly blowing over the water, only now, for ever, for a minute.
(Our Festival, Tuusula, Finland; July 2013)
Why puff around in mighty silks and wigs when the age-old story of a woman who strayed rings a bigger bell of bittersweet when it plays out in a luxurious and provocative night club? Sometimes it is the message and not the word that matters, and so a courtisan today may be scantily clad in latex hotpants and heels, shaking her booty to Verdi’s timeless tune. And when Violetta is revealed to be withering away, the flash and neon glow is transformed into an ugly glare.
In the midst of the heartache and arias of the tormented I step outside into the soft summer night and soak in the heat of the sun-warmed stones. Gazing over the blue waters I vow never to forget that we are only as trapped as we feel. There is always a way out, although we never know exactly where it may lead us.
(Savonlinna Opera Festival, Savonlinna, Finland; July 2013)
Leaning against the wall in the livingroom is a silk-screen print depicting a big fish under a table, its fin poking through the tabletop. The fish resembles a blend of tuna and koi. The work is called “breakfast” and is by a Finnish, up-coming artist called Samuli Heimonen. How it ended up there is a good question. We were on our way to Savonlinna Opera Festival but Art Centre Salmela is art shopping made too easy. Who wouldn’t love spending an afternoon in such a gorgeous setting, and perhaps finishing the spree with a dive into the lake from the swim-house?
The fish may be dead or alive under that table, but it will look good on the wall.
(Art Centre Salmela, Mäntyharju, Finland; July 2013)
Once upon a time Europe was covered in ice. When the ice receded, three erratics, or glacier-transported rocks, were left behind, stubbornly confronting each other. Who knows how far they have traveled, but this is where they remain.
Today the site is used as a church by the local parrish. Perhaps, 10,000 years ago, this site was a church for another belief, and the firesite lay on the exactly same spot on the ledge outside? Perhaps there were sacred rituals and silent evening gatherings where our ancestors sat on the ledge by the fire, silently regarding the setting sun? And maybe, just maybe, if you stand still you will feel them smiling?
(Korsvik church, Pernaja, Finland; July 2013)
While the Tall Ships’ Race visited Helsinki, Small Ships’ Race was held in Loviisa. Some won. Others capsized. I had ice cream.
At night there was a party on the landing and everybody who was somebody knew everybody else. How estranged I felt when I knew almost nobody and everybody thought they knew me since my family are long-time locals, save my generation.
What a random and delightful day, just like the best summer memories always are.
(Loviisa, Finland; July 2013)
Imagine this particular warm afternoon, the heat, the bees in the flowers, and the complete lack of a breeze. The mallards teaching their young to smack while chewing sea weed, the fathers teaching their young to navigate while sailing, and the world not giving a damn about such a thing as winter and ice.
Memory is short. Summer is shorter.
(Helsinki, Finland; July 2013)
“I must go seek some dewdrops here
and hang a pearl from every cowslip’s ear”(W. Shakespeare / A midsummer night’s dream)
(Loviisa, Finland; June 2013)
This blue marble 