#askov højskole
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Inge Bjørn, who turns 98 today, is a Danish textile artist. She worked for 40 years at Askov Højskole, and has woven tapestries based on works by Asger Jorn and others.
Above: Tæt på Havet, 2007 - silk, linen, and wool (Galleri Tom Christoffersen, København)
#art#danish artist#textile art#inge bjørn#2000s#askov højskole#asger jorn#galleri tom christoffersen#silk#linen#wool#tapestry#beach scene
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Anna Klindt Sørensen (1899-1985) pintora, escultora e ilustradora danesa.
Ahora se la recuerda como una mujer fuerte y segura de sí misma que practicó el expresionismo francés en sus propios términos en Dinamarca.
Nació en Ry, en el centro de Jutlandia, Anna provenía de una familia acomodada que poseía una gran propiedad.
Recibió lecciones privadas de pintura en casa de la paisajista Pauline Thomsen, alumna de Vilhelm Kyhn. Después de estudiar en Silkeborg y en la Escuela Secundaria Popular de Askov, ingresó en la escuela de decoración de porcelana de Albertine Wesenberg en Copenhague, pero pronto la dejó para concentrarse en la pintura.
Después de un breve período en otra escuela secundaria popular, Borups Højskole, se preparó para ingresar en la Real Academia Danesa de Bellas Artes estudiando con Viggo Brandt.
Pasó sólo tres semestres en la Academia (1919-20) porque no estaba contenta con el enfoque de Valdemar Irminger sobre el arte moderno.
En 1923, viajó a París donde estudió con Marcel Gromaire, Fernand Léger y André Lhote, adquiriendo una buena base para crear sus obras expresionistas.
En 1935, regresó a Dinamarca para pasar un año más en la Academia, esta vez estudiando escultura con Einar Utzon-Frank.
En 1936 expuso sus esculturas, pinturas, vidrios decorados y textiles en una exposición privada en Aarhus.
Durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial, viajó a la isla de Bornholm donde, junto con Olga Lau, Ebba Schou, Ellen Fisher y Asta Ring Schultz, creó una colonia de artistas para mujeres.
Luego vivió en parte en Copenhague y en parte en su ciudad natal de Jutlandia, donde pintó cálidos paisajes de Djursland y Ry, además de escenas exóticas de países extranjeros.
Sus retratos también exhiben vitalidad personal como se puede comprobar en los de los artistas Holger J. Jensen y Jeppe Vontillius y, sobre todo, en los de su madre.
Anna Klindt Sørensen murió en Ry.
Su trabajo se ha exhibido ampliamente en toda Dinamarca.
Le ponemos cara.
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Food for thought
I had a long talk with a young thoughtful woman named Lena from Bulgaria, and she was asking about my life in Los Angeles. “Every time I come to Denmark,” I told her, “I feel a belonging that I haven’t really felt in years. Honestly, I’m not sure if it’s that I do belong here, or that it’s just such a stark difference from the sixteen years I spent not belonging in Los Angeles.” It’s a hard city to find your place, your people or your purpose, and after years of striking out, you start to think that those simple things aren’t for you. At Askov those things feel within my grasp. “Los Angeles is only one city in the huge state of California,” I promised her, “It’s so much more.” I told her about the coast, the sequoias, the mountains, the Pacific Crest Trail, and all the produce they grow in the central valley. All of it is California. When I told her it took me seven-and-a-half hours to drive to my parents’ property, her jaw dropped.
“And you’re still in California?”
“Oh yeah, and it could take you another seven hours to get to the Oregon border.”
This idea blew her mind. She told me that it would only take five hours to drive through the entire country Bulgaria. I’ve noticed this about a few of the people here. I don’t think they really comprehend how far away I live from New York, and it surprises them that I don’t know the geographical details of the East Coast. But I told Lena that it was weird for me to imagine if each of our states spoke a different language. Can you imagine? What if Nevada, Oregon and Washington all spoke a different language? That’s what it’s like for Europeans, so they treat language study much differently than the US does.
Most students here start by speaking their native language and English. “We have to learn English,” Lena told me, “because nobody else speaks Bulgarian.” Then the go on the their first foreign language, which for Lena was Norwegian. Danish is almost always a second foreign language, because “Only Denmark and maybe ten other people speak Danish,” Lena joked. When I told her how regretful I was that I didn’t take more language classes, she guessed that I had more time for other electives. They take their language classes in a whole separate school. They arrived at 8am and didn’t leave til 6pm—studying the same language the entire time. I took high school French twice a week for an-hour-and-a-half. Lena laughed. Of course I wasn’t going to master a language that way.
“But you were able to pursue your acting, writing and art,” she pointed out. I hadn’t really thought about the amount of time it’s taken these people to learn these languages and compared it to how I might have spent that same time. Don’t get me wrong, I still wish I would have committed myself to language study earlier in life, but Lena brought a perspective that I hadn’t considered. First, American language classes come up far too short for any level of mastery, and students have more time to spend pursuing extracurriculars. God knows I had my fair share!
I’m going to cut this short, because I still have some homework to get through tonight. I can’t believe we’re almost halfway done. It’s going by too fast. Until tomorrow, Vi ses.
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Travelling to Denmark & general impressions
My academia struggles ended up with me being awarded a scholarship for a three-week Danish course at Askov Højskole. I decided to use my blog as a journal, this saving some paper and sparing my back.
August 4th
Day one consisted mainly of travelling. In order to get to Vejen, where the school is located, I had to get up at 4, catch a 7 am flight from Sofia to Amsterdam, wait for three hours at Schiphol airport, and then catch another flight to Billund Airport. The first part of my morning was not quite as interesting as I had expected. The plane was loud and uncomfortable, and my included meal consisted of a huge white bread bun with some yellow cheese. Some American dude tried to flirt with a woman from the cabin crew, and another dude showed up 10 minutes before the flight. Other than that, it was quite a boring experience.
So I arrived at Schiphol at about 9 am local time, eager to get a cup of coffee, maybe try a stroopwaffel, and maybe a souvenir. Turned out my roaming service had not been activated, and I couldn’t call my parents, my boyfriend, my service provider or even the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to ask for help.
Thank God Schiphol had good wifi.
After about an hour of nervous scrolling on an airport bench, I managed to find a way to activate my roaming service from abroad. I received a message that I now was able to contact the rest of the world in less than an hour. However, by the time this happened, I had lost nearly an hour and a half and about a pound of sweat. I bought a mozzarella sandwich (quite good!), I had a quick cup of coffee and I boarded my second flight.
And dare I say, KLM sure knows how to treat its passengers. First of all, the staff (all males) were super friendly and welcoming. There was a confusion with my boarding pass, but a stewardess approached me and solved it in less than 2 minutes, smiling the whole time. On the 45-minute flight everyone was offered a sandwich, a cup of coffee and other refreshments. In comparison, my previous flight was almost three hours long, and all I got was the sandwich, aka the huge bun with the tiny bit of cheese. A+ for customer service.
I arrived at Billund airport on time, but I had to wait for almost half an hour to collect my enormous suitcase.
You’d think the story ends here? Sadly, that is not the case.
From Billund airport I took a bus to Vejle. My first words in Danish were, quite literally, Hi, I am travelling to Vejle, can I use my student discount and a confused What immediately after hearing the ticket price (Danish numbers am I right).
Arriving in Vejle, I was supposed to catch a train to Esbjerg. I had to figure out how the DSB ticket machines work. The first couple I asked seemed no less confused than me, and after 10 minutes of frantically looking for information or help from someone at the station I ended up turning to a group of teenage boys, who were so sweet and explained this rocket science to me.
I am currently in Fredericia, on that same train I had to buy a ticket for, and in about 30 minutes I’ll be in Vejen, where I’ll hopefully meet my friend and we’ll go to the school together.
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Agnes Smidt (Oct. 4, 1874 - 1952) was a Danish artist and public speaker, much engaged in the cause of re-unification of Denmark and Northern Schleswig. She belonged to the Danish minority south of the pre-1920 border and was educated at the Askov folk high-school in the Grundtvig principles of democracy and participatory education.
As an artist she studied at the Arts and Crafts School for Women in Copenhagen, and after that with N.V. Dorph. Back in Southern Jutland she mainly practices as a public lecturer on Danish culture and history, but also took many commissions as a portrait painter.
Above: Self-Portrait, 1920s - oil on canvas (Privately owned)
#art#danish artist#danish painter#danish public speaker#agnes smidt#portrait painting#self portrait#1920s#n.v dorph#tegneskolen for kvinder#oil on canvas#northern schleswig#sydslesvig#reunification#askov højskole
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Agnete Therkildsen (May 10, 1900 - 1993) was an autodidact Danish artist who went from rural naturalism to abstract, colorist art - often with figurative elements such as birds and other winged beings. She worked first with oils, but from the 1950s onward often with collages of found items.
Above: Blue Man and Birds, 1969 - oil on canvas (SMK)
#art#danish artist#agnete therkildsen#1960s#oil on canvas#nature painting#abstract art#birds#birdmen#smkmuseum#smk#statens museum for kunst copenhagen#ejler bille#collage art#läkerol#askov højskole#autodidact artist
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Reacquainting Myself with Inspiration
Back in California, I’ve struggled to write more than a few hundred words a day in these past few weeks after graduation. Sometimes I couldn’t even get that out. I’ve been afraid recently that I have nothing of value to say. It’s a hard thing to admit publicly. I know it’s just a part of the writing cycle, the psychosis part, but it’s a rough phase. Although this blog takes quite a large portion of my time and effort each day, simply writing observations of my Askov experience has reunited me with my computer keyboard. But more importantly, my voice. Exposure to these unique people and languages changes you. I’m inspired constantly, and this just feels like a record of that inspiration. I’m consuming more than I’m generating, leaving little room for self-consciousness. It feels good.
Last night we had a party at Fengerhus, one of the oldest buildings on the campus. The teachers gave a few students the key and put them in charge of the bar, meaning those students have to run over to the supermarket across the street and buy alcohol to stock the bar. They are responsible for serving the other students and charging them accordingly. At the end of the night, these students also clean the place up. I guess they implemented the same system last year, but I was never privy to the partying details then.
There’s a not so subtle difference between this group and last year’s group. I don’t feel the necessity to drink in order to have a good time with them. I haven’t had a drink in about ten years, and more often than not I feel shut out from the fun in social situations. Certain types of people cannot separate intoxication with a good time, and they feel threatened when someone else tries to manage that separation. Bridget is also a nondrinker, which helps. (Forgive the difference in spelling. We have since become Facebook friends, and I realized that I had originally spelled her name incorrectly.) Last night, she sipped on some nonalcoholic beer she bought earlier in the day, but she was just as vibrant as her drinking counterparts.
Maria and I grabbed two chairs at an empty table in a quiet corner and fell hard into a heavy conversation. She allowed me to play big sister. After an hour of exchanging intimate anecdotes and tactics for managing our fears, she thanked me for listening. “I think it’s better than apologizing for going on and on, so thank you for listening to me.” I was grateful too. Honest exchanges like that aren’t as common or easy to come by as people tend to think, and it’s important to acknowledge its value. Bridget and Valeria joined us once Maria and I relaxed our intense vibe. And then of course, the serious laughing began. I love the laughing!
I don’t know. Maybe it’s the traveling these young women have done, the multiple languages they speak or their willingness to dive straight into introspection, but they have some wisdom well beyond their years.
I thoroughly enjoyed their company last night, but I did pay a price this morning for staying up so late. First off, I fell asleep with my contact lenses still on, so it felt like I rolled in a sandy beach, eyes first. And no, I did not get up early enough to go for a run. No, I did not get up early enough to practice my presentation on Area 51. I even came to breakfast a few minutes later than I usually do. Don’t worry, my presentation still went alright. And yes, you read that correctly, it was about Area 51.
According to a Danish newspaper article, some US protesters are organizing, through a Facebook event page, a charge right into the military base, in an effort to discover whatever the US government is hiding there. It was the first I heard anything of the sort. For the presentation I had to learn words like ørken (desert), ufoer (UFOs), rumvæsner (aliens), and even caught the phrase Det amerianske luftvåben er altid klar til at beskytte USA og dets faciliteter. It’s a quote they translated into Dansk, meaning: The American Airforce is always ready to protect the USA and its facilities. Apparently the airforce won’t reveal what exact measures they will take to ensure that protection. My presentation got the most questions out of anyone’s. A German kid wanted to know if I knew anyone who worked at Area 51. Ha!
I did skip lunch again today to get in the run I missed this morning. Back in California, I’ve been using my parents’ elliptical machine, because—California summer heat and indoor air-conditioning—so my lungs are in shape, but my legs are not. And they’re sore. So sore. But they gave those of us who wanted it a yoga class, and that did the trick. My muscles relaxed, my brain mellowed and now I feel calm and refreshed. Every single time I go back to yoga or meditation, I ask myself “Why don’t you do this every day?”
I do need to get some more sleep though. I’m hoping tonight goes a little better in that department. Vi ses i morgen!
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Another Cold in Denmark
Between the KCRW radio race, writing this blog, talking to my inspiring new international friends, I’ve found little time left to study—the whole reason I came here! So when I get back into my room, I don’t sleep. I do my grammar exercises and I read my Danish texts. Needless to say, it’s impossible to maintain those priorities indefinitely.
Thursday morning, I woke up two hours before breakfast to finish the reading I was unable to get through the night before and I found “nostril gremlins” had made their way into my nose. (“Nostril gremlins” is a trademark phrase borrowed from Maria). As the gremlins grew in strength and numbers, I found my own strength depleting. They were taking over! “They’re going to think you’re some sort of sickie person,” my mom laughed over a recent Skype call, referring to the year before when I had my two ear infections.
But I’m not the only one who’s sick. Kosta, a young Serbian gentleman who sits across from me in class, struggled with his own “nostril gremlins” the following day.
A few days before I left California, my father bought me some Claritin D for my trip. It’s impossible to even get some Ibuprofen in Denmark without a prescription, so I brought my own, as well as some Claritin, just in case. Man, has it been a lifesaver! Between that and some marathon power naps (Unfortunately, I had to skip some afternoon lectures), I can safely report that I’m on the mend. I’ve shared some of my Claritin with Kosta and I think it’s working for him as well.
This is a pattern I tend to repeat over and over again. I try and experience everything I can and figure I’ll sleep once these opportunities are no longer available to me. I approached my studies at UCLA with the same philosophy, taking 20-24 units a quarter. It costed the same no matter how many classes I took, so I took as much as I could get away with. I wanted to learn as much as I could, but that often came at the cost of my own rest. My body is refusing to put up with such treatment here in Askov, so okay. I hear you body. I will try and be more mindful of your rest.
Last night we had an open-mic night, and Bridget took the reins and became our fearless leader. Not only does she speak a multitude of languages, but she also plays guitar, sings and writes her own music. I tried to get a song together, but the nostril-gremlins still had control over my brain function. I could not keep up with even the simplest chord changes. I also just don’t play guitar as well as I play my sweet ukulele. So Bridget played the easy chord progression to The Cranberries’ Zombie and the two of us sang the song together. As many of you who have karaoke’d with me know, I’m quite loud when I get into the chorus of that song. Undskyld!
Bridget also performed a Lithuanian number with all the Lithuanians at the højskole, as well as two more pieces she did on her own. Watching her, I was reminded of myself at her age—but then I needed to correct myself. Sure I might have shared a similar hunger for life, but I wasn’t nearly as accomplished nor confident. I had that fire though, a fire that has lied dormant in me even though it was always my favorite attribute. Somehow seeing it active in Bridget has awoken it in me again. That alone would have made this trip worthwhile.
I have yet to write about Felix—mostly because I’m unsure that I could accurately describe him. At first he seems to be a young soft spoken German, a quiet observer sitting in the corner, but his comedic timing is almost wicked. Several times he’s brought us to tears in laughter with only three or four soft words. His humor is simultaneously sincere and biting, and maybe it’s that unique mixture that has us clutching at our ribs minutes after he spoke.
Don’t get me wrong, time spent in conversation with Felix is never time wasted. He gives a great deal of thought to his opinions before he shares them, which isn’t always the case with the many colorful characters here at the højskole. I collapsed on the sofa next to him a few nights ago, when I was still in my sinus haze. Felix and I began to share some of our favorite quotes with each other, and he began to talk about the strengths and weaknesses of different languages. “We have so many words in German. There’s several different ways that you can say the exact same thing, but Swedish is much more streamlined. Without all those extra words, I find it easier to express myself emotionally. It forces you to be much more direct.” I’ve been thinking about that conversation for days now. Felix has a way of sharing an observation and it will stick with you long after he’s said it.
I’m writing this on the bus to Aarhus, to ARoS, the Museum of Modern Art. Lena and Martina are sitting to my left, the lovely two ladies from Bulgaria. Frida is asleep in the seat to my right. She’s a strong force from Sweden. I’m feeling quite hyggelig (cozy) amongst these lovely people.
Til næste gang, vi ses.
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Farvel Askov. Du skal altid være i hjertet.
I didn’t think I would abandon the blog for as long as I did, but I didn’t want to steal even an hour away from the people I met, in order to write about them. It seemed important to spend all the extra moments I had with my new friends, even if we were just sitting on the couches, delirious and tired, and pressing the tips of our fingers into each other’s shoulders. Or I would make Valerria say “wild” over and over again. With her Russian accent, the W had two sounds in it, like “wh-yild,” and I couldn’t get enough of it. Or Felix would do his best to get some George Michael song stuck in our heads, and for the next hour we’d be humming “Last Christmas, I gave you my heart, but the very next day, you took it away…” Or Hanna would express all of our distaste for the rude adolescent boys across the room in a single glance—a devastating look—a look that could declare war—with the smallest movement of her eyes—and we’d all crumple into each other, howling. I haven’t had laughs like those in years. I thought I had lost that level of silliness with the younger and sweeter person I was years ago, but this inspiring group of people helped me find her again.
I left Askov two days ago. Bridget and I bought our train tickets to Copenhagen together, and I suggested that we take the later train, so we could say goodbye to everyone as they left. In theory, it was a good idea, but in practice, it was brutal. We all clutched onto one another for minutes at a time. There were simultaneous drops flooding out from behind everyone’s sunglasses and knee-buckling laughs. Of course any unexpected laughter coming through a mess of tears shoots snot right out of the nostrils. I had to quickly yank away from Hanna’s embrace to protect her from that very hazard shooting out my own nose.
And it kept happening for two-and-a-half hours, as the waves of different people left: ten minutes of heart-wrench, followed by twenty minutes of recovery, and then back to the ten minutes of heart-wrench. By the time Bridget and I made it to our seats on the train, we were both exhausted and each got a little motion sickness, so we kept quiet for the first two hours of our ride. It was nice to not have to say goodbye to her with all the rest, but I think the other goodbyes might have been easier all in one go.
“I don’t think I have another dramatic emotional goodbye left in me,” I warned her as we got closer to Copenhagen.
She shook her head and said, “Me neither.”
When we got to the central station, we were both looking for our rides, so we didn’t even have the luxury of the tears and such, even if we wanted to. But somehow, I think we both knew that it wasn’t “goodbye, but rather “vi ses” (I’ll see you later).
Thirty seconds after I parted from Bridget, I saw Rasmus’ face at the main entrance. I couldn’t ask for a better transition. I left all my new lovely inspiring friends and came to the kind face of my cousin. He has picked me up a few times from the airport, and I always get a rush of that familiar warmth of home when I first see his face. It still blows my mind that I met him for the first time five years ago, documented several entries ago on this blog, because spending time in his home with his wife and children, I feel the comfort of family. Yes! I know. He is family, but we’ve only actually been in each other’s lives now for a relatively-short time.
I didn’t really know where to begin to describe my experience at Askov, except to say “I met several lifelong friends there.” I brought it this repeating idea of belonging with Rasmus, as he drove me back to Hornbæk. “Why do I always feel more belonging in Denmark, then I do back in California?” Is it just the contrast to the sixteen years I spent in Los Angeles and any difference to that hostility will feel more welcoming, or is it that I actually belong here? For a few years, Rasmus has softly suggested the latter and quietly campaigns for a move. Every time I’m here, I’m always wondering, should I try spending a more concrete amount of time here?
That last night in Askov, after our final dinner, after we had made our bets of who might hook-up at the party afterwards, and after we abandoned those bets and came back to our rooms, Frida and I sat on the picnic-table with Hanna while she smoked. It was our last night together, so I asked Hanna, “How do I continue my Danish studies, if I’m no longer at a university?”
“Well, you said you’ll be applying to grad school soon, right?”
I will be, but Danish is not a popular foreign language in the states. There’s only a handful of universities that even teach it.
“Why don’t you come to the University of Stockholm? It’s a really great school. And no matter what you study, you can also take Danish classes.”
Now I don’t know if I could get a grant to go there or how I’d afford to live there. I don’t know if I could continue studying writing and storytelling there, as I have planned to do at the grad schools I’m looking at in the states. Yet, I haven’t been able to shake the idea since she suggested it. I mentioned it to Bridget on the train ride. I told Rasmus about it on the car ride, and once again yesterday on our walk along the water.
“I think you’d fit in very well in Stockholm,” Rasmus told me. “They have a strong women’s studies program at the university. And it just makes sense to me that you’d get along with the Swedes.” Scandinavian women are strong women.
So here’s what my brain has been working on the last few days. First off, I hadn’t really been able to connect my Danish language studies with my writing studies before—other than—you know—studying another language changes the way you look at your own language. But Bridget brought up something that makes perfect sense, although I hadn’t really thought of it before. She said that you can learn so much more about a person if you talk to them in their native language than you can through and interpreter or even a second of third language. And Valerria talked about when you bring all those different cultures, nationalities and languages together in a place like Askov, you realize there are far more similarities than there are differences.
In my own writing, I’ve been interested in exploring what connects different people. The altruism of storytelling stems from a desire to build empathy—a value I find lacking in many of the conversations about those who differ from us. I’m far more likely to discover people’s connections and similarities, if I interview people in their native language. What if I commit myself first to learning Danish—and then maybe Spanish—and German—or whatever other languages interest me and I visit these different cultures, interview them, learn their stories, and then produce pieces for an American audience to digest. I don’t know if it’s that exactly—but I could feel passionate about work like that. Maybe this is the path I’ve been looking for the last few years.
I’ll be in Hornbæk for the next week, in a small three-hundred year old house on the same property as Rasmus and Helena’s house. The beach is across the street. There’s a trail along the water and an adorable little downtown less than a kilometer away. I hope to relax a little, catch up on some sleep, finally get to some more serious writing, maybe do some grad school research and of course, play a lot with Astrid and Julius.
Until next time, Vi ses!
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Is it weird to say I feel more beautiful here?
Tonight I came to my room early and I’m the only one in the house. I’m lying on my small twin bed, as lightening lights up my window every few minutes. This is the weather I packed for, but it’s the first time it has rained since I’ve been here. On Tuesday morning, Kristen warned it was supposed to be 32 degrees and I should dress accordingly. She did not mean freezing! Denmark has been breaking heat records this summer. I used my phone to convert Celsius to Fahrenheit. Their 32 degrees is my 90 degrees, which even a girl from California will call varm.
Fellow students studying just before dinner.
Ida Louise teaches the beginner’s class and today we went over bits of the week’s lectures that my classmates and I didn’t understand. She’s so patient. She will spend what seems like ten minutes, finding new ways in our limited Danish vocabulary to explain new words. She makes sure all eight of us understand alt. Today she gave a power point lecture noun-verb conversions in questions and after prepositional phrases, as well as subjective and reflective pronouns. I took notes in Danish! Not just Danish words with English explanations, but Danish words with Danish explanations.
On break, Ida Lousie helps two of my classmates catch up to the level of the rest of the class.
In our big afternoon lecture, when all of the students meet to listen, I understood several complete sentences. Henning, one of the advance teachers, gave a lecture on Danish history as it relates to geography, references a Danish world map. The first fifteen minute, I understood some, but then my exhaustion took over. We’re basically active from 7:45am to 8:30pm, and I’m not getting enough sleep.
Henning stays behind to answer a question after his lecture.
Helene, the intermediate teacher, had Kate and I lead a group in yoga. Well, I led a mediation and Kate led the yoga. We got permission to lead it in English, thank God! It’s the first time I led a meditation. I just channelled my regular yoga instructor at home, Angie Vroom, and repeated her words verbatim, just as I’ve heard most mornings for the last two years.
There’s something romantic about old books in an old library. Åskov højskole is over a hundred and fifty years old.
I told Helene how much I loved Denmark and that I not so secretly wanted to live there. “You are welcome to,” she said, “We want you!” She then told me that I might be able to get a scholarship for a six month program, including room, board, and meals, for next year, and there’s a possibility to extend it to a year. My head is reeling from the thought. It’s tempting.
There’s a kindness, a consideration, I find here. Things are just different. Is it weird to say I feel more beautiful here? It’s not that I’m flirting with anyone or getting any of that sort of attention, but I’m free of the insecurities I feel back at home. I’m judged more by my character than any superficial measure. I don’t feel the burden to impress anyone—all they expect from me is to be me. That’s enough.
I do need to make some use of my bed, so until i morgen, vi ses.
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Århus and ARoS
I’m a paragraph shy of finishing a letter to the editor in a local Danish newspaper about how the immigration crisis happening now in Europe echos the plight of German Jews in World War II. Those people who cannot claim a country find themselves in a precarious position—heavy stuff—a complicated vocabulary for a nonnative speaker. It’s some reading I have to do for class.
I looked up the word krudtbrænder and the definition was “weed burner,” which made absolutely no sense to me—especially in the context of the article. So I asked for Hanna’s help; she’s a professional translator and in the highest class level here at Askov. She had to read the entire paragraph before she could help me—basically a man had a mishap burning weeds from his garden in which he had some minor legal trouble for, and subsequently lost his chance at Danish Citizenship.
Hanna squinted her eyes skeptically at me. “You’re in level two?” I nodded. She shook her head, handed the article back to me and said, “This is really advanced! It would take me an entire day to write a translation for this”
Yeah! It really is! I’ve been at it for the last four hours and I still have a paragraph left. Sometimes I get discouraged when I look up and see how much of this mountain I still have left to climb. My successes are incremental and sometimes I wonder if it’s even possible to learn a new language at my age. I know those thoughts can only hurt my efforts—as they never help—so it’s best to just keep my head down and trudge my way on. One small step after one small step. If I just keep moving, I’ll get there eventually, right?
About a week ago, I asked one of the teachers for reading recommendations. I needed something simple. Something short. And something written for an adult. He gave me the names of three authors. Yesterday, in Århus, I had a mission to find at least one of them. We went to three different used bookstores and I found two!
Here’s the thing about Danish books: they’re really expensive. If you think about it, it makes sense. There’s not a lot of people in the world who can even read Danish, so they probably don’t print that many. And limited printing means higher prices. I expected to pay maybe 25 to 50 kroner for a book at a used bookstore, but I bought the two for 150 kroner—which is roughly 24 dollars—I could buy two brand new books for that in the states. It’s not crazy expensive—but it’s a lot more than I had expected. I bought them anyway, because I need to build my Danish-reading-confidence.
We also went to ARoS, the oldest Danish Art Museum outside of Copenhagen. I absolutely loved it there last year and I was pumped to go there again.
However, there was one exhibition that was a disappointment this time, Art and Porn. I’d say there was far less emphasis on the art and much more emphasis on the porn. I’d like to think of myself as a fairly open-minded-sex-positive-kind-of woman—but this was A LOT! There were explicit videos playing on the walls—in public—strangers experiencing them together. I couldn’t really look deeply into the statement they were trying to make with any particular piece, because I felt like my own reactions were also being observed by some of the other patrons. Was that part of the exhibition? People watching each other watch porn? It didn’t feel artistic. It didn’t challenge preconceived notions. It didn’t reveal the humanity of the participants in a way that you hadn’t considered before. It was provocative—exploitative—but nothing more than just that. I didn’t spend a lot of time in that exhibition.
I did spend quite a bit of time in an exhibition called Far from Home. It explored the idea of “home” as both a physical space and an emotional feeling. More and more young people are losing a sense of home, making the way for loneliness and depression to spread reside within them. As someone who is still searching for her place to belong, I found the pieces in the exhibition quite moving. And I might try and incorporate some of those themes into some my writing pieces.
Tomorrow starts our last week her at the højskole. I cannot believe it’s already gone by so fast. I’ll be so sad to say goodbye to all these lovely people, but it’ll be nice to slapper af a little bit. Vi see i morgen.
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I cannot stay away
Once again, I’m on a three hour train ride, bound for the same Danish language program from last year at Askov. There’s a few distinct differences. First off, I had two horrible ear infections, both ears completely clogged. I couldn’t quite catch very familiar English words let alone the complex vowel differences of the Danish language. Second, I had only been studying the language for a year in a distance learning class, and I hadn’t had the opportunity to put it to practical use. So last year I found myself drowning in the strange sounds out of everyone’s mouths, and rarely had a solid grasp of what was ever actually going on. I just followed the crowds to different rooms, on buses, fields or wherever the confident student went. This year I plan to aim higher, as I come with healthy ears and another year of studying under my belt.
I arrived a day and a half ago and it’s the first time I’ve struggled so severely with jet lag. Although I was with some of my favorite humans, Rasmus, Helena, Astrid and Julius, I struggled to keep my eyelids parted during quieter parts of our day. I refused to indulge in a nap though, as I’m sure it would have only made my time-change adjustment more of a struggle.
Rasmus and Helena have moved to Hornbæk, since the last time I’ve been here. It’s an adorable beach town and honestly slice of Denmark I have yet to experience. They now have a house literally across the street from the water, both a front and back yard and even a vegetable garden. We ate homegrown tomatoes and potatoes in our meals. Rasmus showed me the two jars of water he’s germinating avocado seeds in, and I told him about the five I have lined across the sill of the kitchen window back in Greenwood. We talked seeds for longer than any non gardener would tolerate. I mean, you all know how much I love my plant-babies, and now Rasmus has plant-babies of his own.
I have many reasons to study Danish, but most importantly, I want to communicate better with Astrid. Although I still have quite a bit more to learn and practice, we were able to understand each other better than ever before. Even joke with each other. This morning I patted the bottoms of her feet, making a soft slapping sound, and told her “du har en pandekag fode,” you have a pancake foot. “Nej,” she laughed, but “ja” I reassured her. Last year I was spending minutes planning single sentences to say to her and now I have the beginning of a back and forth conversation. I can’t wait till I see her again after my three-week deep study of Danish. We’ll be the best of friends.
Clearly Rasmus and Helena regularly talk about me with her; she was so comfortable with me. On a walk yesterday, her little soft hand reached up for mine and held it for a good thirty-or-so minutes. I practically swooned. And this morning I saw a small stuffed animal horse I had bought her in California two Februaries ago. I asked her “Hvad hedder han?” what is his name, and she answered “Tuxedo,” the name of the horse I rode as a teenager. Another swoon. Her parents had told me that she named it that, but that was a while ago. She hadn’t forgotten.
Rasmus drove me to the train station this morning and in about an hour I will be back at the Askov. I’ll be reunited with a handful of teachers and maybe a few other students from last year. If you guys remember from last year, Henning, the man who drove me from doctor’s office to doctor’s office when my ears swelled shut, will be there. I’m excited to see him again. I’m a little nervous about struggling again the language—but I’m more excited to participate once again in this Danish tradition of the folk højskole.
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