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MINNESMRKEN

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MINNESMRKENHASSE PERSSON, KONSTNRLIG LEDARE OCH CURATOR

En ny utstllning av Karin Broos r en konsthndelse utver det vanliga. Drfr r det en stor ra fr Strandverket att nu f presentera Karin Broos utstllning Minnesmrken. Den bygger p ett drygt 40-tal nya mlningar som vl tcker in hela hennes oeuvre av fotorealistiskt mleri med motiv hmtade ifrn den egna livserfarenheten.

Tidigare i karriren har mnga motiv handlat om dttrarna Sara, Sissela och Stella, men nu dyker ven barnbarnen upp i mlningarna. Och medan de tidigare bildberttelserna utspelat sig kring hemmet i stra mtervik vid sjn Fryken i sagolika Vrmland, s har nu Karin Broos vidgat fltet till trstaden Jurmala i Lettland och till vrldsmetropoler som Berlin och Istanbul. Men med p utstllningen finns ocks en serie mlningar i sjukhusmilj motiv som kommit till konstnren under hennes egna sjukhussejourer i samband med elakartade gonproblem.

Det har ofta nmnts att Karin Broos mleri fr tankarna till en skandinavisk mlartradition och namn som Anders Zorn, Vilhelm Hammershj och P.S. Kryer. Men ven den amerikanske mstaren Edward Hoppers frkrlek till att fnga mnniskornas ensamhet str att finna i Karin Broos motiv. Dock r det alldeles uppenbart att mnga mlningar bygger p vad den franske msterfotografen Henri Cartier-Bresson kallat fr det avgrande gonblicket. Fr det r just frusna gonblick som oftast r utgngspunkten i Karin Broos mleri. Men till skillnad frn Cartier-Bresson, kan Broos lgga in flera frusna gonblick i samma mlning. Ett stort antal fotografier kan bli till ett collageliknande underlag fr en ny bild gonblick av mnskligt tillstnd fngade i tekniskt briljanta mlningar. Betraktare tillstr ofta knslan av en skrmmande historia bakom mnga av Karin Broos mlningar; av ngot som har intrffat fre mlningarna, eller en katastrof i vardande efter mlningarnas tillkomst. Hur dessa starka reaktioner skapats i de till synes fridfulla mlningarna r ngot av konstnrskapets stora hemlighet.

Karin Broos universum r kvinnlig melankoli i alternativet till den heroiska, utopiska vrld som manliga konstnrer ofta konstruerat kring sina ider om urhemmet, frklarade konsthistorikern Ingela Lind i frordet till boken Speglingar (Arena 2011).

Karin Broos fddes 1950 i Uppsala i mitten av en barnaskara p fem syskon. Bda frldrarna var akademiker och att barnen skulle g samma vg togs som

Nostalgia 4140 x 90 cm

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Strandverkets mlsttning r att vara en betydelsefull institution inom fotografi, mleri och skulptur. Vr ambition r att regelbundet producera egna utstllningskataloger, som denna, som ger beskaren ytterligare frdjupning av ett viktigt konstnrskap.

sjlvklart! Familjen flyttade till Malm nr Karin var 10 r och det var nog i Skne som Karin Broos formades mest. Hon blev tidigt en ung revoltr och hoppade av skolan fr att ka till London och uppleva 1960-talets swinging London. Unga Karin var bara 19 r d hon trffade blivande maken Marc Broos frn Holland. Det var Marc som lockade Karin att 1970 ska in p Kungliga Konsthgskolan i s-Hertogenbosch. Det var hr som Karin Broos fick lra sig konsten att mla. Fr i landet som skapat konstnrer som Vermeer, Rembrandt och Vincent van Gogh var teknisk perfektion A och O. Men efter fem rs studier hade Karin Broos nd inga sjlvklara tankar p en konstnrskarrir. Hon hade lst Thoreaus Skogsliv vid Walden och lngtade ut till ett grna vgen-liv i Sverige. Ett romantiskt liv som efterstrvades av mnga unga p 1970-talet. Marc och Karin kpte ett gammalt hus mellan Sunnemo och Hagfors i Vrmland och levde p krlek och vad marken hade att bjuda plus fr, bin, hundar och hstar.

Karin fortsatte dock att teckna och mla och fick en viss uppmrksamhet nr hon 1975 lmnade in fyra teckningar p Hstsalongen i Karlstad. Alla fyra kom med p Salongen och Vrmlands Museum kpte en av dem.

Ur intet kom hon, skrev Nya Wermlands-Tidningen d. Men det skulle drja ytterligare 33 r innan det egentliga genombrottet fr Karin Broos kom, vid 58 rs lder, med en uppmrksammad separatutstllning p Kristinehamns Museum. En framgng som fljdes upp 2011 med en stor retrospektiv utstllning p Bors Konstmuseum. En utstllning som sedan vandrade vidare till Sven-Harrys Konsthall i Stockholm och Vrmlands Museum i Karlstad.

Efter tre rs tystnad kommer nu Karin Broos med helt nya mlningar, varav tre akvareller en teknik som funnits med sedan tidigt i karriren och som nu ter r aktuell och kommer att vara ett viktigt uttryck ven i framtiden.

Att producera en ny utstllning som Minnesmrken, r av frsteliga skl en lngsam process. Vi p Strandverket knner en stor tacksamhet gentemot Karin Broos som lagt ner mer n tre rs arbete, fr att f denna utstllning frverkligad. Ett stort tack gr ocks till Marc Broos som varit en entusiastisk tillskyndare i projektet.

Ett srskilt tack snder vi till filmmakaren Sara Broos som i denna katalog skrivit en mycket personlig ess om frhllandet mellan mor dotter, konstnr modell. En ess som kan ses som en synopsis till Sara Broos kommande dokumentr om Mamma Broos, hennes frsta sedan den prisbelnta dokumentren Fr dig naken om konstnren Lars Lerin och hans krlekssaga med brasilianske Manoel Marques.

MINNESMRKENMINNESMRKEN

76 Gardinen 2 / The Curtain 2140 x 220 cm

98 Rd vila / Red rest60 x 80 cm

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MINNESMRKENHASSE PERSSON, ARTISTIC DIRECTOR AND CURATOR

A new exhibition by Karin Broos is an extraordinary artistic event. It is therefore a great honour for Strandverket to present Karin Broos exhibition Minnesmrken. It is based on more than 40 new paintings covering her entire oeuvre of photorealistic works with motifs drawn from her own experiences of life.

Earlier in Karin Broos career, many motifs depicted her daughters Sara, Sissela and Stella. Today the grandchildren also appear in her paintings. And while previous pictorial stories were enacted around the home in stra mtervik by Lake Fryken in magical Vrmland, Karin Broos has now broadened the field to the wooden town of Jurmala in Latvia as well as to international metropolitan cities such as Berlin and Istanbul. The present exhibition also features a series of paintings in a hospital setting, motifs that have disclosed themselves during the artists own hospital stays relating to malignant eye problems.

It has often been mentioned that Karin Broos paintings are reminiscent of a Scandinavian painting tradition and of great artists such as Anders Zorn, Vilhelm Hammershj and P.S Kryer. But the American master Edward Hoppers partiality for capturing human loneliness can also be found in Karin Broos motifs. However, it is quite obvious that many of her paintings are based on what the French master photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson called The Decisive Moment. For it is precisely the frozen moments that most frequently provide the bases of Karin Broos work. But, in contrast to Cartier-Bresson, Broos, in one painting, may include several frozen moments. Thus, a great number of photographs can give final shape to a collage-like foundation for a new picture moments of human conditions caught in technically brilliant paintings. Viewers often admit to sensing a frightening story behind many of Karin Broos paintings; of something that has happened before the paintings, or of a disaster that is about to take place after the paintings creation. How these strong reactions have been created in the seemingly peaceful paintings is part of the artistrys great secrets.

Karin Broos universe is female melancholia as an alternative to the heroic, utopian world that male artists often construct around their ideas of original home, art historian Ingela Lind explained in the preamble of the book Reflections (Arena 2011).

Nostalgia 2120 x 80 cm

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Strandverkets ambition is to be an important institution in the fields of photography, painting and sculpture. Our goal is to continually produce our own exhibition catalogues, such as this, which give the visitor further knowledge about an important artist.

Karin Broos was born in Uppsala in 1950, the middle child of a brood of five siblings. Both parents were academics and it was expected that their children would take the same route! The family moved to Malm when Karin was 10 and it is probably the region of Skne that has shaped Karin Broos the most. She soon rebelled, leaving school to go to London to experience the 1960s swinging London. Young Karin was only 19 when she met her future husband Marc Broos from Holland. It was Marc who, in 1970, tempted Karin to apply to the Royal Academy of Art and Design in s-Hertogenbosch. This is where Karin Broos learnt the art of painting. For in the country that created artists such as Vermeer, Rembrandt and Vincent van Gogh, technical perfection was key. But, after five years of studies, Karin Broos still had no clear plans to make a career as an artist. She had read Henry David Thoreaus Walden or Life in the Woods (1854) and longed to move to rural Sweden a romantic life that many young people aspired to in the 1970s. Marc and Karin bought an old house between Sunnemo and Hagfors in Vrmland and lived off love and whatever the land could offer plus sheep, bees, dogs and horses.

Karin Broos continued to draw and paint and received some attention when, in 1975, she entered four drawings into an autumn exhibition in Karlstad. All four were accepted and Vrmlands Museum bought one of them.

From nowhere she emerged, wrote local newspaper Nya Wermlands-Tidningen at the time. But another 33 years would pass before Karin Broos real breakthrough at age 58 with an acclaimed solo exhibition at Kristinehamns Museum. The success was followed up in 2011 with a large retrospective exhibition at Bors Museum of Art. The exhibition then moved to Sven-Harrys Art Museum in Stockholm and to Vrmlands Museum in Karlstad.

After three years of silence, Karin Broos is now exhibiting brand new paintings, three of which are watercolours a technique of hers since early in her career and once again current. It is likely it will be an important artistic expression in the future.

Producing a new exhibition such as Minnesmrken is understandably a slow process. And at Strandverket we feel immense gratitude towards Karin Broos who has dedicated more than three years of work to make this exhibition a reality. A big thank you goes also to Mark Broos, who, enthusiastically, has supported this project.

A special thank you also to filmmaker Sara Broos, who in this catalogue writes a very personal essay about the relationship between mother-daughter, artist-model. This essay may be seen as a synopsis to Sara Broos upcoming documentary about Mamma Broos, her first since her award-winning documentary For you, naked about artist Lars Lerin and his love story with Brazilian Manoel Marques.

MINNESMRKENMINNESMRKEN

1514 Resan 1 / The journey 186 x 125 cm

1716 Resan 2 / The journey 285 x 114 cm

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SPEGLINGARSARA BROOS

Vi sitter i baren p ett hotell i Jurmala, en kurort vid Rigabukten, hgt ver stersjn. Lnga strnder av vit sand, furuskog och frfallna trhus. Det r frsta gngen vi reser bort tillsammans. Det r hennes sextiorsdag, brjan av juli. I taket en discokula som sakta snurrar. Musiken spelas p lg volym, rsterna i lokalen r dmpade. Vi sitter tysta, en anstrngd tystnad som intrffar nr det r meningen att man ska prata; nr allt r upplagt fr det. Jag tnker p paren man ser ibland ute p cafer eller restauranger som levt ihop ett helt liv. De kanske inte gr ut s ofta men nr de vl sitter dr s har de ingenting att sga varandra. De sista gsterna gr och vi r ensamma kvar. Vi dricker upp vra drinkar, sover ltt i hettan.

Jag minns hur jag som barn i smyg betraktade min mamma dr hon stod framfr spegeln och hur jag undrade vad hon sg. Och jag minns hur hon frskte rra sig s friktionsfritt som mjligt; frndrade sig sjlv efter andras frvntningar. Det dr har blivit bttre med ren. Men hon sger att hon inte vet vad frihet r, inte den sortens frihet som innebr att inte knna skam. Att kunna acceptera sig sjlv som man r. Nr jag som tonring hamnade i samma tillstnd, knslomssigt nollstlld, med en lngtan efter att bli ngon annan eller upplsas helt, blev hon pmind om sin egen ungdom, ren av sjlvsvlt och destruktivitet. Genom sina mlningar hittade hon ett sprk fr det hon inte kunde uttrycka i ord. Utsatta kvinnor, stende rakt upp och ner med tomma blickar, helt i osynk med sig sjlva. Instngda i sina kroppar. Det kanske r konsten som r den plats dr hon r omedveten, dr hon inte ser sig sjlv genom ngon annans blick. Varje konstruktion eller manr blir synligt, ett misslyckande. Hon sger att varje ny mlning r en kamp och med jmna mellanrum ett rent helvete. Samtidigt som den strsta livsknslan uppstr nr allt knns rtt.

Motiven p utsatta kvinnor terkom, expressionistiska bilder med mycket svrta, sjlvportrtt. Jag minns srskilt en mlning; en kvinna som hller en katt i ett hrt grepp. Kvinnan med sin brustna blick, hela hennes uttryck frvridet, ett frstrt ansikte. Jag skrev till mlningarna, gav kvinnorna namn och sammanhang; fr att avvpna dem och genom att nrma mig samtidigt distansera mig frn dem. Frst lngt senare frstod jag varfr de berrt mig s starkt. Det r lttare att frtrnga, att blunda fr det mrka. Srskilt nr det handlar om dig sjlv. Du viker undan,

Skogsljus 2 / Forest light 2170 x 116 cm

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hon upplevt. Taxichauffren spelar Leonard Cohens Anthem nr vi ker ut till flygplatsen nsta dag: Theres a crack in everything, thats how the light comes in.

Karin tog ofta namn frn Cohens snger nr hon var ung. Hon skte sig till det destruktiva, levde i ett tillstnd utan grnser mellan verklighet och fiktion, alltid p vg ngon annanstans. Hon kallade sig Melinda efter Dylans Just Like Tom Thumbs Blues: Sweet Melinda, The peasants call her the goddess of gloom. She speaks good English and she invites you up into her room. Hon levde i en myt om sig sjlv, kvinnan i sngerna. Hennes sknhet blev ett skydd och ett vapen. Att frlora sig sjlv. Att bli ngon annan. Hon trffade Marc i slutet av 60-talet i Holland. Inte frrn de skulle gifta sig avsljade hon att hennes verkliga namn var Karin, inte Melinda. Hon kom in p Konstakademin i Den Bosch och brjade mla oavbrutet. De flyttade snart ut p landet i Vrmland, levde ett enkelt liv i skogen, lngt frn tankar p framgng eller karrir.

Jurmala kapslas in i minnet, sparas dr. Knslan av tomhet, av att ingenting egentligen blivit sagt. Hur vi gr omkring i vra separata vrldar. nd r det som om vi kommit varandra nrmre. Vissa saker mste man hantera varsamt, de gr inte att tvinga fram; de kanske inte ens kan uttryckas i ord. P samma stt i konsten nr du kastas in i ett tillstnd, tekniken r ovsentlig, ismer och kategoriseringar saknar betydelse. Pltsligt knner du igen ngot som du aldrig tidigare mtt. Knslan av att du har varit p en plats men glmt eller mter en frmling som du knner igen.

Karin lgger mrke till sm detaljer, sensitiv infr minsta skiftning; det sitter i oss bda. Det finns inga filter, inga skydd. Skrheten som ibland gr det outhrdligt att leva, men ocks motsatsen. Hon minns skterskan i frlossningsrummet som underskte henne innan hon sakta tog bort handen. Hon minns inte ansiktsdragen men hennes ovanligt lnga fingrar, precis innan hon sa: Det finns inga hjrtljud. Navelstrngen hade lindat sig likt en orm kring barnets hals. Flera r senare frlorar hon fullstndigt frstndet nr hon hittar ett dtt fl i hagen, strypt av elstngslet. Stoet stod bredvid med huvudet hngande och mjlken som droppade frn juvret. Vra minnen som frgar vr blick p vrlden. Hur en detalj, en doft kan kasta oss tillbaka in i ett tillstnd. Och hur ett sr kan rivas upp gng p gng. En lagring av bilder i minnet som pverkar mtet med nsta bild. Det kan vara ngot i tonen, ngot som slr an; de sm detaljerna som pltsligt framtrder och fr betydelse, nr vi fster blicken. Trettiofyra r senare mlar hon en svit sjukhusbilder. Var kommer allt ifrn? Var pbrjas processen till en mlning? Hon fr ofta frgan hur lng tid det tar att gra en mlning. Vad svarar man p det? Ibland kanske ett helt liv.

slr ner blicken, gr in i dig sjlv. Du vill slippa spela roller. Du lngtar efter att bli befriad. Men du kan inte fly. ven i tystnaden talar du.

Jag vaknar av att hon smyger ut i korridoren. Hotellet ligger precis vid stranden. Jag ser henne frn fnstret, hon har kameran med sig. Ngra pojkar leker intill vattnet trots att det r mitt i natten. Stora spotlights lyser upp delar av stranden. Havet r svart och det blser hrt. Vid frukosten ser hennes ansikte annorlunda ut, ett frmmande drag. Ngot undfallande och samtidigt en beslutsamhet. Hennes drag som hela tiden skiftar, som att hon br p alla sina ldrar samtidigt.

En flicka p kanske tio r sitter ensam vid bordet intill vrt. Mamman r stressad, hon pratar i telefon medan hon hmtar brd och kaffe. Flickan sitter och pillar med en servett, tittar ut genom fnstret. I ngra sekunder r det som att hela hennes uttryck frndras. Ansiktet blir genomskinligt och allt det hon r, tnker och knner koncentreras till en och samma punkt. Som nr en liten frskjutning i det vardagliga pltsligt kan framkalla en frhjd knsla av overklighet. Karin strcker sig blixtsnabbt efter kameran, men det r fr sent. Pltsligt blir flickan medveten om att vi tittar p henne, hon slr ner blicken. Strax drefter kommer mamman. De sitter nra varandra men det finns ingen kontakt mellan dem. Precis d, nr jag och Karin betraktar dem, medvetna om den tystnad som finns ven mellan oss, bestmmer jag mig fr att gra en film. Om hur nra man kan komma den mnniska som man tror sig knna s vl. Om de undermedvetna verfringarna och hur ibland en mening, en blick kan vara avgrande fr hur allt blir. Om det symbiotiska frhllandet mor dotter, konst liv och avgrunden dremellan. S lite vi vet om varandra. Livslgnerna vi omger oss med, hur vi lever med antaganden, om oss sjlva, om andra, om vrlden omkring. Till och med vra egna minnen.

Vi str i en lng korridor p hotellets hgsta vning. Vi blir stende dr, som om vi vntar p ngot. En kvinna med vit rock passerar utan att se p oss. Hennes rrelser i slow motion. Det r kvavt. Fnstren gr inte att ppna. nd fladdrar de tunna gardinerna, kanske frn en flkt ngonstans. Dr nere ser vi stranden och mnniskor som sm prickar. Mamma lgger undan kameran. Vi str helt stilla och bara tittar ut. Byggnaden rr sig som ett skepp, vi driver bort, en fgel flyger rakt mot rutan. Ljuset faller. De genomskinliga rda gardinerna som eld. Solen smlter och frsvinner i havet.

Jag undrar om hon r rdd fr det vackra, att det ska bli fr vackert. Hon sger att det handlar om hur man frhller sig till det; om det finns ngra sprickor, ngonting skevt. Och samtidigt, ju vackrare ngot r desto mer smrtsam r ofta pminnelsen om dess frgnglighet. Hon br alltid p den knslan, ven i de stunder d hon r vldigt lycklig, hur tillflligt och skrt allting r. Kanske beror det p alla sorger

SPEGLINGARSPEGLINGAR

2322 Skogsljus 1 / Forest light 1120 x 200 cm

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SPEGLINGAR

Hon lngtar inte lngre bort, inte p samma stt som frr d hon alltid bar p en diffus lngtan ngon annanstans. Hon r kvar p samma plats, reser inte grna. Hon arbetar metodiskt, lter sig inte distraheras av vrlden utanfr, av sociala medier eller telefoner. Hon stnger av allt under lnga perioder, gr sig onbar; rr sig mellan huset, ateljn, stallet, skogen och sjn. Att leva p en begrnsad plats utan att vnda sig bort frn vrlden. Samma stig varje morgon, samma skog, samma trd, samma ansikten. Ett beroende, av rutiner, av struktur, fr att inte rasa igenom. Det r samma landskap men det r nd inte samma landskap. De eviga sinnestmningsvxlingarna. De kemiska reaktionerna i kroppen. Vdret. Vissa dagar ligger luften helt stilla och himlen tynger ner jorden. Andra dagar r luften fri och det r ltt att andas. Kanske spelar det inte s stor roll var vi befinner oss.

Varje dag kaffe klockan elva. D kommer grannarna frbi; bilmekanikern, kyrkoherden, fotografen och bonden, ibland samtidigt, ibland var fr sig. De smpratar om vdret, om elstngslet till hstarnas hage som mste lagas. Hon simmar varje morgon, ven nr det r minusgrader och tunn is p sjn. Klarheten hon knner nr vattnet omsluter kroppen. Tyngdlsheten. Hon simmar aldrig lngt ut, hller sig nra land, aldrig ut p djupare vatten. Frykensjarna r oberkneliga. Ute dr nckrosorna brjar stupar det brant. Hundrafemtio meter. Fartyg har frlist dr.

Vi sitter nere vid bryggan, jag och mina systrar. Sjarna r avlnga och avlser varandra. Fri sikt ett par mil sderut mot Nilsbybron. Rda spann av betongbgar och bilar som passerar som streck ver sundet. Vattenytan spegelblank ver hela sjn. Idyllen. Ngot avvaktande, som vntan p en katastrof. Mamma str vid rcket ngra meter bort och betraktar oss. Jag knner hennes blick i gonvrn. En myra kryper uppfr mitt ben. En fgel lyfter ver vattnet. En vindpust mitt i det stilla. Jag sjunker in i mig sjlv och r samtidigt fullkomligt nrvarande. Jag ser p mina systrar. Den dr nedrvda melankolin som vxt in under huden p oss, blivit en del av vrt blodomlopp; ett tonfall, en klang. Det dr som vi alla tre knner igen hos mamma. Hon letar efter ngot. gonblicket eller sekunden nr ngot spricker upp, nr sjlvmedvetenheten frsvinner. Ett tillstnd av upplsning, nr det inte lngre r intressant vems ansikte det r, nr allt smlter samman. Och utanfr ramen fortstter bilden

Jorden, vattnet. En sjlvklarhet, en livsbetingelse. Aldrig ngot ptvingat, aldrig ngot konstruerat. Kroppen dras mot jorden och vattnet som en magnetisk kraft. Varje morgon samma promenad. Och s djuren. De str dr med sina ppna gon. De kan inte frstlla sig. De strvar inte efter att vara ngot annat. Hundarna som alltid vakar ver henne i ateljn, fljer minsta rrelse. Eller rdjuren ute p flten. Mamma gr sin vanliga promenad med Timo, min systerson, han r fyra r. De gr sakta. Han hittar ett stort lv p marken som han tar med sig. De pratar

om allt mjligt. Den sortens samtal som saknar riktning eller frvntningar, som inte behver leda till slutsatser eller frklaringar. Ett barn r s nra till det dr tillstndet av total nrvaro. Hur de helt kan uppslukas av ngot. Koncentrationen. Direktheten. Det teoretiska eller analytiska r underordnat.

Hon berttar om en drm. Det var ovanligt mrkt p morgonen, som om en filt lagts ver himlen och dmpat ljuset. Luften var tjock och svr att andas. Hundarna slpade efter. Pltsligt var de frsvunna och hon var helt ensam. Hon kom fram till de stora flten dr skogen brjar. Dimman hade lagt sig tung och hon sg bara ngra meter framfr sig. Det blev allt mrkare ju nrmare skogen hon kom och nr hon var framme vid diket dr flten slutar och skogen tar vid, upptckte hon att allt var borta. Bergen var kala och dr trden sttt gapade djupa svarta hl. Ett svagt ljud hrdes lngt ner under jorden, som frn ett skadat djur, men nd ett mnskligt lte. Hon gick nrmare och sg ner i ett av hlen. Armar som strckte sig upp mot henne, ansikten som en blandning mellan mnniska och djur, fastvxta i marken. Hon frskte ta sig drifrn, men benen var tunga och hon kunde knappt lyfta dem. Hon knde hur hon sakta vxte fast och sjnk nert. Marken rmnade.

Drren till ateljn r alltid lst. Bara hundarna fr vara drinne hos henne. Musik p hg volym; Nathalie Merchant, Lucinda Williams, Mary Gauthier, kvinnliga rster med mycket svrta. Marc ringer i klockan nr middagen r serverad, sen ut till stallet och hstarna. Dagarna har sin gng. Varje dag en ny stmning. Samma bild frn sovrumsfnstret nr hon vaknar; flten och krarna i flera skikt och ljuset som kommer krypande.

SPEGLINGAR

27Kommande uppslag / Next spreads: Tjrn 1 / Tarn 1 Tjrn 3 / Tarn 380 x 105 cm 80 x 107 cm

Tjrn 2 / Tarn 2105 x 80 cm

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REFLECTIONSSARA BROOS

We are seated in the bar at a hotel in Jurmala, a resort on the Bay of Riga, high above the Baltic Sea. Long white beaches, birch forest and dilapidated wood buildings. It is the first time we travel together. It is her sixtieth birthday, early July. In the ceiling a disco ball slowly turns. Music plays softly, voices in the room are low. We sit quietly, a forced silence that arises when the expectation is speech: when everything is arranged to that end. I think of the couples one sometimes sees at cafs or restaurants, who have spent an entire life together. Perhaps they dont go out often but once they are out they have nothing to say to each other. The last guests leave and we are the only ones left. We finish our drinks and sleep lightly in the heat.

I recall how I as a child stealthily observed my mother as she stood before the mirror and how I wondered what she saw. I recall how she tried to move with as little resistance as possible, modified herself according to others expectations. As the years have gone by, this has gotten better. But she says she doesnt know what freedom is, not the kind of freedom that does not also mean shame. To be able to accept oneself as one is.

When I as a teenager found myself in the same state, emotionally indifferent, with a desire to become someone else or dissolve completely, she was reminded of her own youth, years of starvation and destruction. Through her paintings she found a language for what she could not express in words. Vulnerable women, just standing there with empty gazes, completely out of synch with themselves. Trapped in their bodies. Art is perhaps the space where she is unconscious, where she does not see herself through someone elses gaze. Each construction or mannerism becomes apparent, a failure. She says that each new painting is a struggle and, on a regular basis, pure hell. While the greatest sense of vitality emerges when everything feels right.

The motif of vulnerable women recurred, expressionistic images with a great deal of darkness, self-portraits. I recall one painting especially: a woman holding a cat in a tight grip. The woman with her shattered gaze, her entire expression distorted, a ruined face. I wrote to the paintings, gave the women names and contexts; to disarm them and by approaching them at the same time distance myself from them. Only much later did I understand why they had moved me so. It is easier to

Frsket 1 / The attempt 170 x 52 cm

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she is very happy, how temporary and fragile everything is. Perhaps it is because of all the sorrows she has borne. The taxi driver plays Leonard Cohens Anthem when we drive out to the airport the next day: Theres a crack in everything, thats how the light comes in.

Karin often took her names from Cohens songs when she was young. She sought out the destructive, lived in a state without boundaries between reality and fiction, always on her way somewhere else. She called herself Melinda after Dylans Just Like Tom Thumbs Blues: Sweet Melinda. The peasants call her the goddess of gloom. She speaks good English and she invites you up to her room. She lived in a myth of herself, the woman in the songs. Her beauty became an armor and a weapon. To lose oneself. To becomes someone else. She met Marc in the late 60s in Holland. Not until they were to be married did she reveal that her real name was Karin, not Melinda. She was accepted to the Art Academy in Den Bosch and started to paint continuously. They soon moved out to the country in Vrmland, lived a simple life in the woods, far away from thoughts of success or a career.

Jurmala is contained in my memory, saved there. The feeling of emptiness, that nothing has actually been said. How we walk around in our separate worlds. Still it is as though we have grown closer. Some things must be handled with care, they cannot be forced; they perhaps cannot even be expressed in words. In the same way that, in art, you are thrown into a state of mind and technique becomes irrelevant, -isms and categorization lack meaning. Suddenly you recognize something you have never before encountered. The feeling that you have been to a place but forgotten it, or meet a stranger you recognize.

Karin notices little details, sensitive in the face of the slightest shift; it is in both of us. There are no filters, no protection. The fragility that sometimes makes it unbearable to live, but also the opposite. She recalls the nurse in the delivery room who examined her before she slowly moved her hand away. She does not remember her features only the exceptionally long fingers, right before she said, There is no heart beat. The umbilical cord had wound itself like a snake around the childs neck. Several years later she loses her mind completely when she finds a dead foal in the pasture, strangled by the electrical fence. The mare stood beside it, head hanging and with milk dripping from her udders. Our memories that color our view of the world. How a detail, a scent can hurl us back into a state of mind. And how a wound can be torn up again and again. An accumulation of images in memory that affect the encounter with the next image. It can be something in the tone, something that strikes you; the little details that suddenly emerge and gain meaning when we rest our gaze. Thirty-four years later she paints a suite of hospital images. Where does everything come from? Where does the process begin?

repress, to close ones eyes to the darkness. Especially when it is about yourself. You turn away, look down, go inward. You do not want to play roles. You long to be set free. But you cannot flee. Even in the silence, you speak.

I wake from her disappearing into the hallway. The hotel is on the beach. I see her from the window: she is carrying her camera. Some boys play by the water even though it is the middle of the night. Large spotlights illuminate parts of the beach. The ocean is black and there is a strong wind. At breakfast her face looks different, has a strange cast. Something yielding and at the same time resolved. Her features constantly shifting, as though she contains all ages at once.

A girl of perhaps ten sits alone at the table next to ours. The mother is frenetic, speaking into a phone while she fetches bread and coffee. The girl sits and plays with a napkin, looks out the window. For a few seconds it is as though her entire expression changes. Her face becomes transparent and all that she is, thinks and feels is concentrated into a single point. Like when a slight shift in the everyday abruptly summons an elevated sense of the unreal. Karin immediately reaches for the camera, but it is too late. Suddenly the girl is aware that we are looking at her, she looks down. Soon thereafter the mother appears. They sit near each other but there is no connection between them. Just then, when we are observing them, aware of the silence also between the two of us, I decide to make a film. About how close you can get to the person you think you know so well. About the unconscious transfers and how sometimes a sentence, a glance, can determine how things turn out. About the symbiotic relationship between mother daughter, art life and the abyss in between. How little we know about each other. The lies we surround ourselves with, how we live with assumptions, about ourselves, about others, about the world around us. Even our own memories.

We are standing in a long hallway on the top floor of the hotel. We remain standing there, as if we are waiting for something. A woman in a white coat passes without looking at us. Her movements in slow motion. The air is stifling. The windows cannot be opened. Still, the thin curtains flutter, perhaps from a breeze somewhere. Down below we see the beach and people like little dots. She puts away the camera. We stand completely still and gaze out. The building moves like a ship, we drift away, a bird flies straight into the glass. The light falls. The transparent red curtains like fire. The sun melts and disappears into the ocean.

I wonder if she is afraid of beauty, that it will become too beautiful. She says it is about how you relate to it; if there are any cracks, anything off kilter. And at the same time, the more beautiful something is the more painful is the reminder of its ephemerality. She always carries that feeling, even during those moments when

REFLECTIONSREFLECTIONS

3736 Berlin 1140 x 240 cm

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The earth, the water. A matter of course, a requirement for life. Never anything forced, nothing constructed. The body is drawn to the earth and the water like a magnetic force. Each morning the same walk. And then the animals. They stand there with their open eyes. They cannot disguise themselves. They do not long to be something else. The dogs that always guard over her in the studio, follow the slightest movement. Or the deer out in the fields. Mother takes her usual walk with Timo, my nephew, he is four years old. They walk slowly. He finds a large leaf on the ground that he carries with him. They talk about everything. The kind of conversation that lacks direction or expectations, that does not need to lead to conclusions or explanations. A child is so close to that state of absolute presence. How they can be completely swallowed up by something. The concentration. The directness. The theoretical or analytical is subservient.

She describes a dream. In it, it was an unusually dark morning, as if a blanket had covered the sky and dulled the light. The air was thick and difficult to breathe. The dogs lagged behind. Suddenly they had disappeared and she was completely alone. She came to the large fields where the forest begins. The fog had settled heavily and she could only see a few meters ahead. It grew darker the closer she came to the forest, and when she was by the ditch where the fields end and the woods begin, she discovered that everything was gone. The mountains were bare and where the trees had stood were deep black holes. A faint sound could be heard from beneath the earth, as if from a wounded animal, but still a human sound. She approached and looked down into one of the holes. Arms reached up towards her, faces a combination of human and animal, rooted in the ground. She tried to escape, but her legs were heavy and she could barely lift them. She felt how she slowly grew into the ground, sinking. The earth split open.

The door to the studio is always locked. Only the dogs are allowed to be in there with her. Music turned up high: Nathalie Merchant, Lucinda Williams, Mary Gauthier, female voices with a lot of darkness. Marc rings the bell when dinner is served, then out to the horses. The days have their pace. Each day a new mood. The same image from the bedroom window when she wakes: open fields and land. The light slowly approaching.

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She often gets the question how long it takes to make a painting. What does one answer? Sometimes an entire life.

She no longer yearns for somewhere else, not in the same way as before, when she always carried a diffuse longing for elsewhere. She works methodically, does not let herself be distracted by the world outside, by social media or telephones. She turns everything off during long periods of time, makes herself unreachable; moves between the house, the studio, the stables, the forest and the lake. To live in a limited space without turning away from the world. The same path every morning, the same forest, the same trees, the same faces. A dependence on routines, structure, to not collapse. It is the same landscape but still not the same landscape. The eternal shifts in mood. The chemical reactions in the body. The weather. Some days the air is completely still and the sky weighs on the earth. Other days the air is free and it is easy to breathe. Perhaps it does not matter where we are.

Every day coffee at eleven oclock. Then the neighbors come by: the auto mechanic, the pastor, the photographer and the farmer, sometimes all at once, sometimes one at a time. They make small talk about the weather, about the electrical fence around the horse pasture that needs to be repaired. She swims every morning, even if it is below zero and a thin layer of ice on the lake. The clarity she feels when water surrounds her body. The weightlessness. She never swims far out, stays near shore, never in deep water. The Fryken lakes are unpredictable. Out where the lily pads crop up there is a steep drop. A hundred and fifty meters. Ships have foundered there.

We sit down by the dock, my sisters and I. The lakes are long and relieve one another. A clear view for a few miles southward towards the Nilsby bridge. Red span of concrete arcs and cars passing like lines across the sound. The surface of the water a mirror reflection across the entire lake. Something expectant, like waiting for a catastrophe. Mother stands by the railing a few meters away and observes us. I feel her gaze in the corner of my eye. An ant crawls up my leg. A bird rises over the water. A gust of air in the stillness. I sink into myself and am at the same time completely present. I look at my sisters. That inherited melancholia beneath our skin, a part of our bloodstream: the tone of a voice, a chime. What we all three recognize in our mother. She looks for something. The moment or second when something cracks open, when self-consciousness vanishes. A state of dissolution, when it is no longer interesting whose face it is, when everything melds. And beyond the frame the image continues

41Berlin 2200 x 140 cm

4342 Brevet 1 / The letter 184 x 115 cm

4544 Katternas katedral / Cathedral of cats140 x 260 cm

4746 Nattens nglar 1 / Angels of the night 180 x 105 cm

Nattens nglar 2 / Angels of the night 280 x 105 cm

4948 Det ljusa rummet 2 / The light room 280 x 114 cm

5150 Det tysta rummet 2 / The silent room 240 x 50 cm

53Den vita hunden / The white dog105 x 80 cm

5554 Nattlek 2 / Night game 230 x 40 cm

5756 Vggen 2 / The wall 256 x 76 cm

5958 Kommande uppslag / Next spread: Det stora bl 3 / The great blue105 x 180 cm

Leken / The game80 x 130 cm

63Den gula containern / The yellow container140 x 105 cm

BIOGRAFI / BIOGRAPHYKARIN BROOS, fdd 1950 i Uppsala, bosatt i stra mtervik / KARIN BROOS, born in 1950 in Uppsala, lives in stra mtervik

Utbildning / Education Koninklijke Academie van Beeldende Kunsten s-Hertogenbosch Holland 1970-1975

Representerad / RepresentedModerna Museet, Stockholm stad, Statens konstrd, Ystads konstmuseum, Vrmlands

Museum, Eksj museum, diverse landsting, kommuner och privata samlingar

Stipendier / ScholarshipsThor Fagerkviststipendiet 1999, NWT:s kulturpris 1982 och 2007,

Konstnrsnmndens tvriga arbetsstipendium 2006-2007, Gustaf Frdings stipendium 2007

Utstllningar i urval / Selected exhibitionsSeparatutstllningar / solo exhibitions: Strandverket Marstrand 2014,

Varbergs Konsthall 2014, Ystads konstmuseum 2015, Bors Konstmuseum 2011, Sven-Harrys konstmuseum Stockholm 2011, Vrmlands Museum 2011-2012,

Galleri Christian Larsen Stockholm 2009 och 2011, Grupputstllningar / Group exhibitions 2005-2011: Centre Culturel Suedois Paris Frankrike,

Krabbedans Konsthall Eindhoven Holland, Galleri Jansen Amsterdam Holland, Riga Konsthall Lettland, N Art Reykjavik Island, Ystads Konstmuseum,

Vrmlands Museum, Konstbank Hamar Norge, Galleri Lars Hagman Stockholm, Konsthallen Moss Norge, Liljevalchs Vrsalong Stockholm, Kristinehamns

Konstmuseum, Galleri Billing Baar Schweiz, Market Art Fair Stockholm, Norrbottens Museum, Trollhttans Konsthall, Alingss konsthall,

Oskarshamns Konsthall, Box Kraftverk dalen, Alma Lv Museum stra mtervik, Lilla Europa minibiennal Hallsberg, Zurich Art Fair Schweiz,

Galleri Hafslund Skarpsborg Norge

Bcker / BooksMinnesmrken Strandverkets utstllningskatalog / bok text Hasse Persson och

Sara Broos, Mlningar mlningar 1995-2000 text Jessica Kempe konstkritiker DN, Speglingar mlningar 1999-2012 text Ingela Lind konstkritiker DN och Hasse

Persson fd. chef Bors Konstmuseum, In i bilden, ut bland orden 12 frfattare om 12 konstverk (SAK), Omslagsbilden Hysteros av Helena Granstrm (Natur och Kultur),

Omslagsbilden Springa med ror Cilla Naumann (Bonniers), Omslagsbilden Lekarna Peter Normark (Bonniers)

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