Notes from Sunny Norway

On a mountain path in Finse.

At the time of writing this entry, I have now been in Norway for thirteen glorious days. Inexplicably, all of them sunny, unseasonably mild, and free of rain. Wherever I go in Norway, the beautiful weather seems to follow. 

Crossing the North Sea on the ferry from Copenhagen to Oslo.

I arrived in Oslo on Sept 13 on an overnight ferry from Copenhagen, which is more like a cruise ship, complete with an un-ironically funny cover band. There’s something inherently amusing about a thirty-something year old man powering through Michael Jackson’s Bad in wobbly English with a strong Norwegian accent while milking the falsetto “hee-hee’s”. 

The ship pulled into port on a bright, cloudless and brisk morning. That morning was the coldest temperature I’ve experienced in my trip, thus far, other than at the top of the mountain in Kongsberg. After a short, pleasant stay near the city center of Oslo, I traveled on to Kongsberg to visit with my distant cousin and his family, before making my way back to Oslo, next on to Finse, and then to Bergen. I write this as I am on my way from Bergen to Flåm on the train, by way of Myrdal.

Since arriving in Norway, the days have hovered between 45 and 65 degrees Fahrenheit (or 7 to 18 Celcius. Still haven’t gotten use to the conversion), which is fortunate since I packed only carry-on luggage for this journey— with limited outfits for Northern European summer and a Mediterranean fall (spoiler). In Oslo, it was easy to find some secondhand knit accessories to beef up my warmwear, though, so far, I’ve barely had to use them.

In each place I’ve visited, the strange and glorious weather has been remarked upon by the Norwegians I meet. In Finse, according to one hotel employee it’s been over thirty years since the weather was so warm and sunny there this time of year. When I remarked how much I loved Oslo, an acquaintance smiled and cautioned, “But you know it’s not usually like this.”  In Bergen, an older gentleman in the pub Folk Rovere told me last night, “It’s been at least ten years since we’ve seen weather like this.” 

A sauna that I enjoyed in the harbor of sunny Oslo.

Firstly: global warming…of course it’s very real and its consequences quite disturbing. But, on a more personal note: I consider myself a person equipped with a fair balance of reason, skepticism and wonder. At the same time, I’ve had enough diversity of experiences to show me that I truly don’t know much. So I encounter the facts of my life as both a pragmatist and dreamer. But, as a person opening herself up to new possibilites in life at this moment, it is also impossible to eliminate the possibility of signs from the universe. This constellation of glowing days in Norway feels, if nothing else, incredibly well-timed and invigorating. 

Is it also a meaningful sign that I’ve taken to Norwegian brown cheese?

My cousin’s family in Kongsberg was shocked that I enjoyed it from the first bite. For those who haven’t tried it, it is a light brown dairy product (not technically a cheese) that tastes a little bit like caramel and melts in your mouth. Even the family’s fluffy gray Norwegian kitten seemed to enjoy it, stealing licks and bites of a hunk that I’d forgotten about off of the cutting board. In my experience, brunost is best enjoyed in a thin slice with butter on sourdough/spelt bread. This combo makes an easy, cheap, delicious and nutritionally-questionable lunch on the road or trail. 

Bergen, infamous for its rainy weather!

In Norway, I’ve spent my days mostly walking: through city streets; old silver mines; inside sprawling museums; on park and mountain paths. When I’m not walking, I’m often painting, writing, or reading. Or eating. Norway’s food offerings cater to my tastes. There’s always a variety of pickled things. Many root vegetables. A bounty of fish. Rich soups. Milk chocolate. Spicy, sugary morning buns. Coffee in so many varieties. And pizza. Scandinavians seem truly enamored with pizza and all permutations of it. How do they stay trim with such a preponderance of tempting carbs all around? Keep reading. 

During these last two weeks and change, I keep meeting lovely people, wherever I go, with whom conversations flow. Artists in pubs. Duos of ladies who wrap me up into deep talks and laughter. An uncanny streak of handsome, interesting dudes named Erik.

The commonality that all these Norwegians share, other than nationality? Everyone seems to be an experienced skier. That, my friends, is where all the carbs go. 

A painting of skiers at Hotel Finse 1222.

This might be the only fact I've learned so far that makes me not feel right at home in Norway: a skier, I am not. Though, I love snowshoeing and snowball fights. Rolling around in the snow between sauna sessions. And, if you bring me along on a ski trip, I will enjoy being cozy, maybe bake something, get some creative time in… and happily build a fire and warm up the sauna and/or hot tub for when the group returns. 

A few highlights from my time in Norway, so far: with my distant cousin and his family, attending a mountaintop concert in Kongsberg.

I’m a somewhat experienced hiker, but this was not an easy climb, and an even trickier climb down in the fading light (the trail was what some might call “an ankle-turner”).

A climb straight up the mountain was quite a thing compared to the lazy elevations of the upper midwest. But it was an incredibly rewarding and magical experience, and also a rich cultural snapshot. While we hiked, my cousin’s seven year old daughter effortlessly bounded up the mountain. She had time to become fascinated with small pools of water and mosses, to come back to hold my hand, walk together and share some of her thoughts and observations, and even climbed a pine tree while we adults plodded carefully on the path. Indeed, Norwegians of all ages seemed prepared to happily and nonchalantly meet the challenge of the mountain’s steep incline, cracking jokes along the way. In the end, we were rewarded with a lovely picnic of thermos-warm hotdogs and hot cocoa brought and shared by my hosts, and a concert of beautiful, haunting music at sunset. I will never forget this special evening.

Hikers/residents of Kongsberg who made it to the mountaintop for the show.

A view from the mountaintop.

Somehow, I ended up getting photographed and briefly interviewed by a journalist (also, as you will note, named Eirik, a Norwegian version of the name Erik) and getting featured in a Kongsberg newspaper. Special thanks to my cousin for the magical experience, and for lending me this super chic military-grade lichen-patterned camo poncho in which I have been immortalized.

To top it all off, we hiked down after the show through the darkening forest, some hikers with actual fire torches in hand, only to be greeted at the mountain road by a bright orange pink moon cresting above the horizon. 

Another highlight was a concert in Oslo the night of my arrival in Norway: Bård Berg and the Oslo Beats Big Band. I came upon it randomly in a Google search and I’m so glad that I did. On the ticketmaster page, the event offered this description:

Bård Berg is an Oslo-based producer, drummer and artist who has established himself as a hot name within the electronic scene in Norway. At a concert with Bård Berg, the DJ desk is replaced by musicians from the top shelf who deliver soulful and sophisticated world-class club music.

The band was, in fact, very big. The performance Berg gave alongside about twenty other musicians and a conductor was one of the most engaging, impressively-scaled musical experiences I can recall. The backline had about a dozen horn players. Some of the sax players casually switched to flute throughout the songs. There was both an electric and upright bass, and two drum kits. In my experience, two drum kits on a stage is a sign that something riotous and special is about to take place. The singers were graceful and added a cooling etheriality to the overall mix with their soulful performances. 10/10 gold stars.

Not knowing what to expect from the show, but recalling that Danes are very punctual, so it might follow that Norwegians might be, too, I had arrived exactly on time. I’m glad I did because this allowed me to be right up against the stage, directly beneath the mics of the singers and soloists during all the action. 

The show was riveting. Being part of it made me wish: A. That I knew Norwegian, so I could understand the charming, laugh-inducing asides given by Berg from behind his drum kit and B. That I were an official culture writer for a relevant media outlet so that I could have a platform to rightly call attention to this incredible group. Regardless, I have a feeling that Berg and the band are bound for big things. If you have the opportunity to book them at your venue or to experience their energetic, tight, and euphoric jazz/house/soul music– in Europe or maybe even in America– do yourself a favor and do so.

Another standout of my experience in Norway so far: my stay at Hotel Finse 1222. Even though it is marketed as the “adventurer’s hotel” it is also a poet and painter’s dream. Of course, I was incredibly lucky to have found myself there during a window of abundant sunshine and uncommon warmth— (it's usually wet and around 8 C or 36 F this time of year) but the scenery and experience of the hotel is incomprable. This was my first real splurge on my trip, but in every way, it was well worth it.

The hotel was recently remodeled and styled by the company Snøhetta, to beautiful effect.

A view from the blue room of the hotel that has a majestic view of Hardangerjokulen glacier.

Rich colors, sleek Scandinavian furniture and cozy textile touches come together in beautiful synergy with the natural surroundings, which are framed like changeable paintings within the large windows.

The hotel offers rooms tiered from “budget” level to super pricey, but note that even the budget ones are a bit steep. However, you’ll find that the hotel attracts incredibly interesting and friendly adventurers from all over Norway. You can only access the place by train. And since everyone is there for the right reasons— much like in remote wilderness camping— there exists a sense of warm camaraderie that lends itself to sharing drink and conversation. While there, I even chatted with with a Norwegian minister (an elected politician) on the porch overlooking the glacier at sunset.

From most vantages within the hotel's public spaces, you can sit and enjoy endless iterations of the plays of light and cloud formations on the glacier and rocks. I recommend doing so on the porch off of the blue room with sheep skin under your butt, and with a wool blanket wrapped around you. 

When you feel inspired to exert yourself, you have an abundance of exhilarating hikes and mountain biking paths, and yes, ski paths to explore in all directions from the hotel.

When you feel like being restful, you can light a fire in the beautiful carved fireplace in the library, and settle in with a fancy cocktail made with care by the wonderful staff.

Oh, and the breakfast at Hotel Finse 1222 is delightful. After you’ve had your fill of smoked salmon, beetroot shots, and freshly baked goodies, you’re encouraged to make a take-away a sandwich for your adventures at a provided sandwich station.

When you want a change of pace, hike on over to the DNT Finsehytta (DNT stands for what translates to the Norwegian Trekking Association) hostel and café about a ten minute walk away. There you can enjoy delicious traditional Norwegian vegetable and meat soup, crispy heart-shaped waffles with jam and sour cream, and slightly cheaper beer. 

I’ll never forget my lovely days spent in Finse, and the warm, compelling people I befriended there. The only thing that might have elevated the experience at Hotel Finse 1222 would be a sauna next to the lake to facilitate exhilarating dips and even more heart-pounding views… which they happen to be in the process of building, with expected completion this winter.

Over all, I was very touched by the beauty there and grateful for the peaceful and fun experience. One of the lovely hotel employees, a young man named Erik (of course), was wise beyond his years when he reflected to me: we all must figure out how to take the magic of this place away with us, wherever we go. 

That’s all for now. Gotta go catch the Flåmsbana train. 

A watercolor, gifted to Hotel Finse 1222 as a gesture of my appreciation.

Following the Light to Skagen

A watercolor study from Skagen.

Turns out that in Danish, Aalbaeck and Albeck are not the same thing. They are different words, different names, and different places. 

With my limited knowledge of the Danish language, in my exuberance at discovering this seaside town, I didn't do very thorough research. Upon returning from my soul-refreshing days in Jutland, my godfather coolly explained to me that the town where our family is from long ago is an even smaller berg, a few hundred kilometers to the southwest, inland.

While it may seem disappointing, this fact didn't diminish my experience of traveling there. If nothing else, traveling to Aalbaeck is what brought me to Skagen.

Skagen is a small seaside town on the northern most tip of Jutland, where the North Sea meets the Baltic Ocean. The landscape is sandy, and the sky and ocean views are abundant in all directions. It has long been an enclave for fishermen (a fact you can even smell when you drive into town), but in the late 1800’s it also became a destination and home for artists.

There is a saying in Denmark, which is that Skagen has "the most beautiful light in the world." It is the special quality of the light there that attracted some of Scandinavia's most well-known painters to visit, live, and learn. As I came to know in my visit, some of the region's most extraordinary painters spent their formative years in that landscape. This group of artists is known as the Skagensmalerne. They formed a commune, where they could experiment together and advance modern notions of painting beyond their formal training at institutions like the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts in Copenhagen. They enjoyed life in Skagen, painting en plein air, and documenting intimate scenes of life there in their works. 

The special magic of the city can be felt as soon as you arrive into its tangled cobblestone streets, after driving about 10 km north from Aalbaeck through an expanse of sandy grassland. The homes are classically marigold yellow, or black or red or white. The sky on the September day when I visited was a blazing, rich cerulean blue, touched by appropriately painterly soft clouds.

When I arrived, my first destination was the museum. While the painters of Skagen were previously not known to me, their works are recognizable, engrossing, and completely spectacular. Anna Ancher. Michael Ancher. Carl Madsen. Laurits Tuxen. P.S. Krøyer. These are some of Denmark's most distinguished and revered artists. As I walked through the galleries of Skagens Museum, I felt like I floated from room to room. I know I bore my astonishment on my face, my body: my mouth was, at several points, agape. Chills cascaded up and down my spine like waves, endlessly whitecapping. Each painting told a story, and the stories all took place paces away on the beach, in the dunes, in the streets of Skagen, under a special sky-- or within the kitchens, living rooms all around the Museum, with the light filtering in through windows. 

A painting by Michael Ancher of his wife, fellow artist, Anna Ancher.

Young Woman in the Dunes by Laurits Tuxen.

Morning on the Beach After the Rain, Skagen, by Thorvald Niss.

Skagen Hunters, by P.S. Kroyer.

I was inside the museum for only about an hour before a hunger to paint gripped me.

Strolling with my sun hat, my watercolors, my eyes, hands and my mother’s advice, I made my way to the beach on the Baltic side. I crossed a wandering sandy path through sunny dunes dense with yellowing wild rose bushes, rainbow grasses, broken white and tan seashells and warm pink stones. On the girthy beach, I sat halfway between the dunes and the shoreline. Freighter ships moved slug-like across the horizon. The sky in the distance swirled with different watery designs on the day: possible storm fronts, in the foreground, wispy white clouds, and, in between, a patch of deep blue that looked like a paintbrush had just drenched the spot with deeply pigmented phthalo blue. 

Skagen Havn/ Skagen's Beach

I studied the colors that had inspired the painters and their incredible demonstrations, and made a few quick paintings.

I found that along the horizon the sea had a purple streak. The waves crashing close to me were not blue-green, but rather, yellow and green, and constantly changing as the sand churned inside them. I filled my little tray with sea water, and made quick studies of the ocean, the sand, the dunes, Some of them quite gestural, some of them filled with questions that my technique wasn’t prepared to answer. All of them with a slight glitter of salt crystals, and made while a warm wind tried to wrest the paper from my lap.

A watercolor study from Skagen

For the first time in recent memory, sitting on the beach, I felt overjoyed. There’s a special kind of giddiness in feeling like you’re exactly where you're supposed to be. It’s a privilege to be able to relax into that feeling. But after several hours painting in the sun without any sunscreen brought to re-apply, I knew I needed some shade and a meal.

I wandered from the beach into the local restaurant at Brøndum’s Hotel. Originally owned by one of the painter Anna Ancher’s father, it was a gathering place for the artists who called Skagen their home. Today, at the hotel’s restaurant one can experience the finest version of Danish dining that I've experienced, so far. Everything is served on Royal Copenhagen blue and white plates. A team of sharp, proud and starchy-uniformed waiters rush around with purpose and grace. The presentation makes you feel like a time traveler. A golden light filtered in softly through eastern windows, and the space was ethereal, cozy and warm.

A room within the restaurant of Brøndum’s Hotel

For lunch I had the fish stew with fresh filets of fish (caught, again, just paces away), which was topped with dill cream and bread and butter. I also enjoyed a glass of Gruner Veltliner, one of my favorite wines from Austria. Following lunch, I treated myself to a decadent plate of chocolate petit fours filled with marzipan, jam and hazelnut. 

Alone in the restaurant, I was surrounded by friends and families laughing, toasting, celebrating together. Even though I felt wistful, thinking I should have people I love with me, I also felt content. Emotions can come together and mix like waters, like colors. I felt content because in a sense, I was keeping company with the artists I had just communed with in the Museum. In reviewing the profundity of their artistic achievements-- the Anchers, for example, and imagining their lives here, I was animating their spirits anew. 

While I only spent half a day in Skagen, it opened my eyes. There are so many paths that life can take us down, but it’s only possible to take one at a time. Finely tuning in to where we are in the now, what we pay the most attention to or value comes into focus. But what is true in one moment owes little allegiance to the next: through an artist’s way of seeing, it can all be experienced as revelation. 

Walking, studying, and nourishing myself in Skagen that day, I heard echoes from the past and the future. To build a life around creative practice is a calling that will only keep calling. I'm here now to listen, to notice, to learn and soak up everything. This is my practice.

A watercolor study from Skagen.

Heaven and Home in Aalbaeck

After my parents were both gone, to no longer share my last name with them felt disturbing. At age 36, by most, if not all accounts a grown woman, it was frightening to me in a way that’s hard to explain. The closest way I can approximate it is as suddenly feeling like a young kid, who, having wandered off mesmerized by something sweet in the Stop & Shop grocery store, looks up to find themselves alone. My parents, nowhere in sight. And in this metaphor, as in reality, I’m nowhere near the Stop & Shop in the suburbs of New York. I’ve lost their trail completely. Despite my age, I was that scared, disoriented child.

The cover of my first journal made for me by my older sister.

Though it had been my happy choice to take my husband’s name in our marriage, something inside me told me it would hurt if I lost the Albeck name.

"Albeck-Gasparka" felt too clunky in hyphenated form. So, in 2017, in the eyes of the law, I swapped my double middle name for my maiden name. It represented my parents and the life they envisioned for us, and for me.

A buried card in the game of life. 

As soon as my mom was gone, I knew that I needed to go back to using the name she and my dad gave to me.

I wanted to say the name when meeting strangers. To sign my signature once again with that looping, satisfying “A” I’d practiced with purple gel pen in my tweens in anticipation of becoming a famous writer/director/screen actress. And now, to resonate with the raised bronze letters on the plaques of my parents’ columbariums.

I acknowledge, though am not quite ready to unpack, how the impulse is also a bit like going back to a draft of a story that I was last in the process of writing long ago. 

My name was extremely intentional, though not without complications. My mom had chosen the name “Elizabeth" for me. She wanted to spell my name with a “z” as she felt it would always be misspelled the other way. My dad insisted it be spelled as it had been throughout his Danish family lineage, and he was adamant.

As was often the case, my mom was right: people usually misspell my name. But when people do spell the name correctly– on sense alone, which happens more often than you’d think– the feeling of synchronicity is pure magic. It usually sparks a stimulating conversation with a barista or store clerk. My late dad probably sensed this possibility, and would have been delighted to know that he was right, too.

.

Elisabeth Albeck was my dad’s great aunt. I can’t really be sure if my dad was proud about it, but he repeated dramatic highlights of her story like a refrain throughout my childhood and young adulthood. Before he passed, he gifted me several portraits of her– some old fashioned portrait photos, and some photos of portrait paintings that had been made of her– with “inscriptions” that he’d typed up, printed and taped to the back of the frames. 

A photo of a painting of Elisabeth Albeck Skogstad.

His words about my namesake, from an email: 

Elisabeth had caused a major scandal in Copenhagen where she had been engaged to the Danish Ambassador to the U.S., and suddenly decided to elope to Oslo with Einar Skogstad, head of Den Norske Creditbank.

I recall that he also described his great aunt Elisabeth as "extremely confident." "Self-assured." "Her own woman." 

Author’s sidebar: I write these words now about ten days after my trip to Aalbaeck, sitting in HIMKOK bar in Oslo. I'm so taken with this city, having only spent 2.5 days here up to this point. The light is exquisite. The sun has been abundantly shining, the infusion of vitamin D adding to a feeling that my time in Norway has been blessed. I type up this story installment knowing that when I go back to the states, there’s a whole other family thread waiting for me to untangle in a way that feels destined: Elisabeth Albeck and Einar Skogstad’s child Maude L’orange (m) grew up in Oslo, was educated at Oxford, and had three children, all of whom moved to Wisconsin for their higher education. Having moved to WI myself of all the places in this wide world, I imagine that it would have been hard for them to leave. Logistically, but more so emotionally, spiritually. The beauty of the place, not dissimilar from their homeland, is enveloping. Lakes. No mountains, but an inland sea, the exotic glaciated plains, driftless rolling hills, and shocking rock formations. More tree diversity. And it would have felt like even more of a frontier at that point. So I have to wonder if there are descendants in Wisconsin for me to discover.

But, I digress. Now, on to Aalbaeck, Denmark, in the recent past. 

I traveled there out of curiosity, intrigued to explore this place that I understoodto be the place Elisabeth's family had hailed from before they moved to Copenhagen, the big city. I also went because my parents couldn't. I thought it might be soul-stirring, for them and for me.

In checking in at the Aalbaeck Badehotel, I not-so-subtly emphasized my middle name/former surname with a smile. The gray-haired and bespeckled lady hotel clerk was not the least bit impressed. 

I took my smiling self to my room, and then wandered from the hotel towards the beach. There’s a small residential street between the hotel and the short gravel road to the dune. On the way, I peeked in at the lives of the Danish people, their gardens– most of them, abundant with pink and magenta September roses– their window sill candles, orchid plants and other dressings. A family was hanging a green and white floral garland over a doorway, and tidying the pillows on patio furniture in the backyard. On my way back, I would see that it was for a 35th anniversary party celebration. 

When I got to the road that led to the beach, my smile grew twice as wide. Suddenly, I was flanked by a warming forest on both sides. I learned from a Google search that there was a nature preserve next to the beach to protect and encourage bird habitats. The forest consisted mostly of birch trees, pine trees, grasses, and shrubs. In the gray light of the cloudy afternoon, the birch trees’ skin had a soft candy pink tint.

The forest on my way to the beach.

Strolling up the dune walk, I felt my heart beating with a giddy cadence, but also felt a sense of coherence, peace. The sand mounds around me were vast and soft-looking, strongly resembling Kohler-Andrae park in Sheboygan, a beloved camping, hiking, and swimming spot that has been a touchstone throughout my Wisconsin life. The rolling sand hills of Aalbaeck’s natural preserve are kept in place by evergreen trees, juniper bushes, purple clover, wild grasses, but predominantly wild rose shrubs. I myself felt a bit like a little wild rose. A resilient pine. Taking time off and away has allowed me to really understand how the last decade of my life has been brutal with chronic stress, losses and grief. But in that moment I felt comfort in the sense of my own roots. I could trust in my ability to withstand, and not only that, to revel, stay resourceful, and produce expressions that are colorful, sustaining.

The dunes of Aalbeack, captured the next day at sunset.

The wind whipped, and the sky was mottled with clouds that threatened rain. I took off my hat and my dress and ran into the sea. No better time than right now for a dip. 

I didn’t go all the way under or in, as the waves were strong and the beach empty except for a few lolly-gagging gray seagulls. I thought better of a full immersion until there were safer conditions.

Up to just my waist in the brisk Baltic waters, I talked to myself. I don’t think I said much except  

Wow.

Wow, wow.

Wow.

The beach in Aalbaeck on the following day was sunnier, with calm waters.

The dune walk in the sunshine.

After returning from the beach, the rain remained at bay and so I took to the generous hotel patio with my watercolors and ordered a Tuborg brown ale.

If travel makes me feel like the most nimble and happy version of myself, painting and drawing make me feel like the most elemental. Immersed in the satisfying activity of flowing with paint, I am somehow every age I’ve been, all at once. 

Recently, two little Norwegian girls that I befriended (a Norwegian cousin and hosts’ daughter and her friend) were admiring my recent paintings, and asked me animatedly, in English, How?! 

I told them the truth, which is that I am still learning. To me, painting is mostly about seeing. It requires close looking and noticing, and then being patient as you ask your body to respond. I emphasized that art-making is considered a practice. The truth is, though I've been making art for a long time, I am a relative novice at the practice part.

So, together, we practiced painting the tiny pink calluna flowers on my cousin and host’s porch. We painted close up studies of the flower petals and stems, and then the birch trees of the backyard against a cerulean blue sky, dappled with backlit golden afternoon clouds. 

Me, at the same age as my Norwegian painting buddies.

Astrid kept trying to tell me something in Norwegian.

Himmel! she kept repeating.

Himmel! Himmel! 

You want to paint the sky? I inquired, gesturing upwards. 

But no, that wasn’t it. She kept persistently, patiently saying the word Himmel along with other Norwegian words while pointing to her in-progress work. I smiled and apologized for not being able to understand. 

Now, in retrospect, I’m pretty sure she meant that the act of painting is heaven. 

___

Though I can’t say I believe in heaven in the afterlife, I do believe in spirits, and energy in a multitude of forms. In life, my mom Laura was a special artist. She was also a gifted teacher, especially when relating to young children. She taught many kids who were about the age of these two little girls. 

Throughout her life, my mom had several ways of expressing her artfulness. It was present in the confidence and panache with which she decorated the many homes she lived in across the world and, eventually, the suburb of New York City where I was raised. She integrated eclectic vintage family items of her own family with my dad’s family items from Denmark, The Netherlands, Ukraine, Indonesia, and Japan, along with newly-acquired antique tchotchke as well as contemporary pieces. She dressed with intention and leaned into trends and timeless cultural fashion touchstones. She was never afraid to embrace glamor, drama, hairspray or shoulder pads. Over the years, she sampled aesthetics from many of the cosmopolitan places she called home, including Milan and London. But underneath her ways of adorning herself and her space was a vital force of creativity pulsing through her. 

Mama somewhere in Europe. Venice? Brussels? Milan? If you recognize this square, I'd love to know.

I sense that my mom could be unsettled by the urge to create. I can recall how she, at times, lamented her loss of an art practice with sorrow and resignation. I can’t imagine what it would have felt like to be a mom of four kids in a homogenous, perfectionistic suburban town, with all the pressures therein, and to still feel the urge to make art gnawing at her from the inside. I understood that underneath everything, at a base level, my mom’s way of moving through the world was as an artist: with hungry pupils and itching hands. 

Building façades. Figures from books or dreams. Furniture. Posters in hotel lobbies. Lettering on menus. The visual world spoke to her. She was often struck by scenes and compositions from the world and from her own mind. 

On the rare occasion when she did pick up a pencil, pen, or watercolors, it was usually to play a beloved family game with us kids to pass time waiting for a meal in a diner. “Doodle” was a game in which, on a paper placemat, one person would draw a line continuously into an abstract shape– without lifting the pen or pencil– and then pass it on to the next person to complete a composition building off the orginal line. 

My mom had such a special way of drawing– unlike anyone I’ve ever seen before or since. Each line was actually many quivering lines, like stormy sea waves moving in towards a rocky shoreline and bouncing back off. In the precious few completed pieces of art made by her that we have, there you can see the force of energy that flowed through her. To see them is to feel her aliveness. 

Like many souls, in life my mom struggled in certain ways. Her emotions could boil over into anger, grief, shame. As with many mothers and daughters, her struggles were mirrored in my own. As I grew up, our closeness and trust frayed. Especially after I entered puberty, we struggled in an, at times, painfully fraught dynamic. But she was my first teacher. And, until recently, she was the person, the audience I was always painting for. 

Are you painting? You should be painting every day, she chided me over the phone last winter before she got sick. It was a common refrain for her over the last several years. 

One of my last conversations with her was from my little basement art studio under Real Tinsel Gallery in Milwaukee. Though she’d been chronically ill and disabled for years, in the conversation she sounded energized, positive. She urged me to think “long and hard” about some of the moves I was mulling over in my life. She knew how deeply I loved many aspects of my life in Milwaukee, but things were changing. The truth is that many things had already changed for me. I never wanted to stress her, as she was often overwhelmed with her own challenges. It could be uncomfortable for me to be vulnerable with her; I preferred to have my shit figured out. But she had a way of reading through the lines. 

Towards the end of her life, my mom would wistfully speak about wanting to move back to Denmark for her final chapter. She’d also express her strong desire to write a book about her life. Trump’s version of America disturbed her deeply, for one thing. Her years in Denmark were a touchstone of calm. How happy she and my dad had been. How warm, refined, and pleasurable the culture of Denmark was to her in her memory. And comforting. She had processing that she longed to do around her own memories and life story and Denmark felt like the right backdrop.

In looking through her things after she died, I discovered the opening lines of a story, of her story, handwritten in the notes section of her 2024 daily planner. She'd changed her own name to "Meredith," which is the name that she always told me was her second choice of names for me.

Feeling gutted at seeing her inspiration arrested, I am all the more impelled to follow my own.

There I sat in Aalbaeck, enjoying a dark Tuborg beer, painting, experiencing pleasures for my own spirit as well as my mom's. In the face of life's shortness and unpredictability, these moves are declaration that the grief that passes through me will be generative.  

It’s no coincidence that I took up watercolor painting for the first time in my adult life while staying at mom’s apartment during lockdown in 2020. She needed support at that time for health reasons, and I moved in with her for the month of December and a few days of the new year. We had so much fun together. She was an extremely silly and bitingly sarcastic person. She could make waiters in diners or nurses in ICUs laugh out loud with one-liners, or a perfectly timed facial expression. But she also had a sober wisdom that was not always accessible, at least to me. When that part of her was open, it was my safest harbor. 

During that winter, there were deep talks, meals, and movies together. All the of the movies, macabre. Murder and tragedy were by far her favorite subjects in film and TV. We laughed together, cried together, and squeezed hands, which, in my family's language, translates to “I love you.”

It was joyful and healing time, even though the world outside was in chaos. This was a version of our relationship that we'd both longed for. 

One stormy day, after walking by Long Island sound on my daily walk, I came home inspired and picked up my mom’s watercolors (which I had purchased for her to encourage her creative impulses). I began painting on the floor of her guest room, like I would often do in my own room as a child. 

Watercolor on sketching paper, 2021.

Just like going for a dip exactly when the opportunity arises, the best time to create is right now. As a kid, I would often heed the call and draw or paint sitting on the floor, leaned against the legs of a chair, sofa, or bed, with a pile of computer paper and a book in my lap, or a pre-stretched A.I. Friedman canvas leaned against a side table. 

Mom always encouraged me to love and honor my art practice. My focus, however, was usually on trying to be good. Trying to show her my very best. 

I’m now 37 years old, the same age my mom was when she had me. After birthing three kids in three different countries, I came along as an accident, an afterthought, or, you might say, an unwitting inspiration. 

Traveling in the way that I am these days feels a bit like giving birth to a new version of my life. At the center of this new life is the daily practice of creativity, in a way that hasn't been the case since I was a child. Each day is fresh, and much changes, but the elements remain the same. When I'm lucky, they come together in a flow through some combination of seeing, processing, knowing and doing. 

Like in life, in painting, every moment matters and every gesture counts. You have to practice patience and trust. Keep faith, as my mom would tell me in times of trouble. Faith allows us to seek and find the waters and other resources we need to sustain ourselves, to keep following the light as it changes, to notice and allow for shadows, no matter the shapes they take. Faith is how we build, mark by mark, layer upon layer, our pigmented story.

A painting of mother + daughter made for my Norwegian hosts.

A grief comic, made shortly after my mom passed away.