Orange grove, Kapo, 1975

“Herbarium” by Stig Lindberg in white wallpaper by Boråstapeter

Originally designed by Stig Lindberg in 1947, this pattern is still as popular as ever. One colourway that now has iconic status is the white  variant, which had not previously existed, and was specifically created  by Madeleine Sidemo as part of the process of realising the design as   wallpaper. This variant is still sold and is also printed on textiles. Madeleine  Sidemo describes the project as an exciting, instructive journey in  which they had the opportunity to curate the design legacy of one of  Sweden’s most acclaimed designers as wallpaper.

Source: borastapeter.com

stig lindberg

swedish design.

Eric Hallström (Nov. 22, 1891 - 1984) was a Swedish artist. He was associated with the Naïvist movement in the 1910s and 20s, but his art developed into a more Expressionist form of realism, as shown in the portrait of a young sports fan. Hallström ws a member of the group Färg och Form and is represented in all major Swedish museums.

Above: Sportsnyheter, 1943 - Tempera on Masonite (Moderna Museet)

Where do you draw your inspiration from?

Good question! I don't have any specific source of inspiration like many artists do, like "I love this artist's style and try to learn from it". My inspiration pools from many small sources of inspiration, interest, my own existence, art etc.

For visuals, I really like late 70's and early 80's manga and anime style. You should see at least some little influence from them. Also, the early 2000's anime expressions are a big thing for me. I was so happy to see Jujutsu Kaisen using them!

I've tried to give a little careful look at Frank Miller's way of using high contrasts and mixing detailed with minimal in his art. He has a wonderful way of using minimalism in his art so that he leaves things out, doesn't draw them, but either the negative space or our mind fills the "missing" parts. It doesn't have to be detailed to tell the story or tell what you are looking at.

Another great source of inspiration is Japanese naivistic & cute art, which I see a lot of during my trips and on Twitter. It's all about shapes and conveying the message, not about realism. There are many wonderful artists in this genre, outside Japan, too <3 Like Oddrabbits and @momoro66 here in Tumblr.

For Primm, I'm taking inspiration from a manga Sweat & Soap. For aesthetic, you see lots of punk, metal, anything with simple lines (as those are easiest to draw repetitiously) and bit of Japan with Grimm.

where do you play your games on?

i don't have many personal belongings, i am wageless and expatriated, reliant on the generosity of another, loosing silicon and paper traces, transmitter imprints. a daemonic attachment to the sensuous, the assail of intuition with drudgery and consumerism, the hoarder's false icons, make me feel like the unfolded haplotic and unstipulated sincerity/reality put to a long art or lifework (bildung, too fraught a term?) is capsized and stung to sea, seven of pentacles reversed. everyday i wish i had the courage to crush my electronics with a sledgehammer. solitary gaming is not as open in creative capacity or spiral staircase entry nailings to a self remade time, such that i would channel energy toward console acquisition, i take pride in loyally resigning myself to my snes and pewter. i have a fondness for archaic adventure games, druidic mysteries and visual novels for laughing matters, relished through a windows 98 install on my partner's IBM personal computer 300GL, or by the phosphor ghost blots of a senior partner. it even smells gamey to shuffle through secondhand floppy disc galleries in total dark, waiting for the occasional weird raster hatched erotica to perk up on screen, at which we cheer grotesquely, snarling at the scroll of a mutating relationship to sexuality and the pleasure of seeing from its shining chest. a few years ago i wanted to extract the audio files from the disc image for the apple II GS version of dream zone, but that never came to fruition. our latest tiny task was to burn LSD dream emulator onto a CDR to run on a scrap playstation, its function frontally for a shop display but tacitly for the elevation of the tinker's enterprise, inspired by a recent hangout/accompanied guy time, prowling through his friend's save after questioning him on the unmistakable jewel case tucked atop a shelf to which he confessed its artifice. a chain of CRTs flashed the signal in unison, tied by a wire baton. i tried to yank him over but he was too determined to beat solitaire for old time's sake. magnetized, looping his appearance, the grey man strung a sightline to my rehearsals of fragmentation, arterial gown trains unbunching at the happy town tunnel, a pulse caught under steel. the day after my birthday, riding the tryptaminic ease out, parting the beaux arts sculpting the energy transmuted and consolidated in everything, we passed back and forth a cigarette of damiana, mullein, mugwort and skullcap as the sidewalk furrowed in droves of feet around us, alterior forms aflit, reduced to fluid evaporating to city air and poison fume curvature, the cut and concourse of skirt and skins, egrets nimble under raincloud parasols, porcelain scales tiptoeing. suddenly we saw heaven, must have been choked with the hilarity. a republic of gamers sign suspended, golden, guarding over an otherwise unmarked and rather diffident black door. we pressed our palms in the shape of prayer and bowed madly, finally there was our patriotic salvation, our asylum from the warmongering of the senses. a spatial special fit for the homophone from which ojigi reached reverence in the stitch between motion and the telepathic speech act. gratitude flies me, makes me weightless over the magnitude, the rock split on the activity to which i am lent, weighed with how much is lost, an impossible proportion when your blood, importance is barred and equanimity toward enmity, the nobility in withholding, whittles its sentinel smoke to an ineffective hell. the cow toils, having total access and acclimation to the sensuous and knowing its bounds against the hope for knowledge.

this is all too internet, i need naivist abandon, smarter than any lionized sprezzatura for it is not false, unspoiled by any social simulacral mediation of the network and its orgiastic, explosive exchange of desire pumping its endlessly denied and yet compulsively prioritized platelets into a vile differencing creature suspended in a vat. apathetic to the body, sterile for its oversight, spying on cellular caresses, dalliances swallowing over the lines of separation, sporelike. i want a reality innocent for its inheritance of every ill of the inwit flayed across arrangements of matter and time, the well of history, memory drawn out and in. so that i may be the ὀπαῖον ῥέπον, lantern hole, heaven entry, night heavy, lowered as a sleepy maid's fragile eyelashes on silver moonpan'd summer, the scale dipping and the counter weight forcing a flounce, folding desolation and dissonant intension to rest. i refuse to allow the unrelenting bloodloss of the worldly profane to stain me, but i can hope to be its small medic.

Push him out of the way.

MEASUREHEAD - "THAT IS RIGHT." He doesn't even flinch. "YOU SHOULD LEAVE THE STAGE OF HISTORY WITH DIGNITY -- BY INVITING THE OTHER RACES TO A *GREAT WORLD WAR*."

"BRING YOUR TROOPS TO THE SEMENINE ISLANDS AND TO BOOGIE STREET AND WE WILL PULVERIZE YOU. WHEN YOU ARE GONE WE WILL BUILD A MUSEUM FOR YOU."

"THE WALLS WILL BE LINED WITH BOTTLES OF *AL GUL* -- YOUR BELOVED BEVERAGE. INSIDE WE WILL STORE THE ODES TO HOMO-SEXUALITY YOU CALL ART AND YOUR MICROCEPHALIC SKULLS."

"You serve the Union, don't you? Aren't they... white?"

"What are those tattoos of yours supposed to mean?"

[Conceptualization - Medium 10] Subscribe to his advanced race theory.

[Physical Instrument - Formidable 13] Knock him out.

[Leave.]

MEASUREHEAD - "DON'T BE VULGAR. WHITE OR NOT HAS GOT LITTLE TO DO WITH THIS. THE *RACE ENIGMA* RUNS MUCH DEEPER THAN THAT." He turns his eyes towards the harbour, seemingly bored with you.

AUTHORITY [Medium: Success] - There must be *some* friction there. He's keeping it well hidden, however...

"Yeah but you still *serve* them. How does that factor into your life?"

"You keep telling yourself that."

"I'm sorry, of course. I understand now. Deeper."

MEASUREHEAD - "MR. CLAIRE IS A MAN OF VISION AND MEANS. HE HAS THE WILL TO CONFRONT POLYCULTURAL CAPITAL -- SOMETHING *YOUR* RACE NAIVISTIC COMMUNISTS NEVER DID."

"ALSO -- TO SERVE IS NOBLE, IT TAKES DISCIPLINE. YOUR PETULANT INDIVIDUALISM HAS ONLY CONTRIBUTED TO YOUR *RACE FAILURE*. IT IS LAX AND MORONIC."

"I'm no communist."

"Communism is pretty cool."

"Individualism is my jam."

"My jam is a mysterious *fourth* thing."

"Enough of this."

Going to assume I know what would win here based off of previous polls.

MEASUREHEAD - "IDIOTIC COMMUNISM IS THE SINGLE GREATEST CONTRIBUTOR TO YOUR RACE DESCENT. EVERYWHERE AROUND YOU, THE FRUITS OF ITS FAILURE TO CHALLENGE THE WORLD ORDER: INDIVIDUALISM, ROCK AND ROLL MUSIC, SEXUALLY TRANSMITTED DISEASES..."

"ABOVE ALL -- RAMPANT MULTINATIONAL FINANCE STILL REIGNING LARGE. TELL ME, WHERE HAVE YOU GOTTEN YOUR LOVE OF PATHETIC COMMUNISM FROM?" He leans closer. "DEGENERATE YOUTH CULTURE? ROCK AND ROLL MUSIC?"

I'm back to rec a swedish language fic, is that unhinged enough for you? 😂😂😂

Vi skulle klara vad som helst, vi skulle aldrig säga nej by @ageminiheart

For all the duolingo Swedish learners! This fic is extraordinatily good. Its chapters are mostly on the short side, apart from the second last one, helpful for learners. It's told in a naivistic style, lile a fairy tale, but the language! It's to die for. The dialogues, the tension, Simon's inner monologues, the metaphores!!! The flow, the pacing, Simon amd Wille!!! EVERYTHING!!! 💖💖💖💖

Seriously, it's worth learning Swedish just to read this fic. (And @eypril-eypril 's fics too they're insanely good)

Thank you so much for a Swedish rec! I haven't tried to read any Swedish fic (I don't feel ready yet) but this sounds great to start with!

Vi skulle klara vad som helst, vi skulle aldrig säga nej by ageminiheart 59,763 words | Unrated

Please send me asks with absolute favorite YR fic recs!

Hey K!

What’s the story behind the daisy house pic?

Hi anon!

It's a museum! 😍

Currently they were having a "naivistic" art exhibit and I guess these outside decors were a part of it. 😊

Vintage midcentury Hornsea Pottery mugs by John Clappison

Art exhibition ”Äimän Tähkä” by Jan Anderzén @ Tiketti Galleria, Helsinki (2018)

LENA CRONQVIST

Born in Karlstad, Sweden 1938,  she lives and works in Stockholm, Sweden.

"From Giotto to Ionesco, from Becket to New York Boogie Woogie – the links between literature and art history are plenty in the works of Lena Cronqvist. Since the mid-sixties Cronqvist has been stellar to the Swedish art scene. Active in a variety of media her artistry runs via painting on to textile works and sculpture. Despite tradition-bound techniques and crafts, such as egg-oil tempera and oil on canvas or bronze castings, Cronqvist’s boldness is apparent in her artistry. Not least is her bravery visible in her daring colorings. Through a somewhat naivistic expressionism her brush strokes and palette contrast to the often sore and harsh contents. Cronqvist re-introduced the private and the personal in a Swedish climate dense with political slogans and general do’s and dont’s. She opted to depict deindividualized hospital environments, suburban Madonnas and girls involved in morbid games, hinting towards reversed power relations in bourgeois family constellations. Supposedly biographical and most likely necessary subject matter in the ideologically suffocating environment that constituted the late sixties, early seventies Swedish art world. Portrayals of anguish and suffering are frequent subject matters in Cronqvists works.  Still, they are always rendered in the tempered and yet intense tonality associated with the renaissance, amounting to atonement.

Lena Cronqvist studied at the Royal Institute of Art, Stockholm (1959 - 1964) and at the College of Arts - University College of Arts, Craft and Design (1958 - 1959). Her work have been exhibited extensively in international and Swedish exhibitions at Liljevachs, Stockholm, Sweden; Norrköping Art Museum, Sweden; Proarta Galerie, Zurich, Switzerland; Forum Gallery, New York, and at Nancy Margolis Gallery, New York, United States."

http://www.galerieforsblom.com/artists/lena-cronqvist

Lonadsay Portland, Kapo, 1967

Klemens interview about his furniture, 24.5.20

On May 24th, an interview with Klemens about the furniture he’s made was published on mbl.is. It’s a pretty interesting one, as he mentions having ADHD, talks a lot about his thoughts on art in a way more elaborate manner than any previous interview, and makes some quirky jokes such as declaring that one of his favorite things to do at home is picking his nose.

Below is a bullet point translation of what's said in the interview (not a word-for-word translation of the entire thing, but everything new said in it is there, and there are a lot of full quotes).

(Content warning: bodily fluids mention.)

The intro explains that Klemens thinks visually and contributes stylistically both to Hatari and his home. He learned carpentry before he joined a band, and he's worked on designing furniture alongside his composing.

"I learned furniture building at the Technical College Reykjavík and then went into product design at the Academy of the Arts, but found my passions lay elsewhere. I needed a broader spectrum to create and found an outlet for my ADHD in visual art. My wife Ronja Mogensen and I are classmates at the Academy of the Arts."

Klemens has always been creating things, for as long as he can remember. "I've always found joy in creating, and nothing is as creative as a childlike nature. After all, you lose your innocence somewhere on an abandoned playground and then spend most of your life trying to find it again. Creativity makes the world go round endlessly in our heads and sparks our imagination, which lets us have the most magnificent adventures, express and cope with loss, grief, fear, disappointment, joy, hope, the entire spectrum of emotions that are often so difficult to spit out. I've always sought out music as an outlet for that, but also carpentry and visual art, whether it's making cucumbers out of mud, making sculptures out of semen and hair, or making chairs out of wood."

The interviewer asks what makes a good home in his mind. "They say that home is where your family is, and there's a lot to that. Some years ago I might not have said that, and would never have imagined being a father of two and engaged in a passionate relationship, but the home and love go hand in hand, and you need to decide on where you want to live and die, so I see the home as more of a state of mind. A good home is a decently healthy mind, but if I were to imagine my dream home as a physical place, it's a house in the countryside with a workshop, a place to make music, some chickens and maybe a goat called Old Túbal, a brook that we can wade into naked, a vegetable garden and a greenhouse with fruit, a giant treehouse castle that we can climb in, and we built the house and everything in it ourselves."

He first discovered carpentry in a woodworking class in primary school; as far as he can remember, the first thing he made was a lamp for his parents with a face carved into it, though he's not sure if it was meant to be a self-portrait. He also made a baseball bat, which was subsequently stolen. The first proper furniture he did was for the Technical College when he was nineteen, a chair and a cabinet in a 70s-esque style with a modern touch. He found joy in creating a unique, useful object that you could carry with you throughout your life and perhaps even longer.

The interviewer says she heard his graduation project was sold on the spot. He corrects her and says he actually made a second copy to interior designer Thelma Friðriksdóttir's specifications, because he wanted to let his grandkids inherit the original.

Klemens recites a poem that he wrote with Matthías to encompass the core of Klemens' art sensibilities. It reads thus: I am a naivist perfectionist. I take making a fool of myself very seriously. I contemplate my own navel with humility. I'm willing to do the work of pitying myself. I capitulate to art. I want to have perfect control over my art.

"I notice that when I myself am in frame, it takes on a different tone than when the painting, the sculpture, the furniture, the evidence get to speak for themselves. On the one hand, I myself take on the role of the artist and the subject, comment on the medium through the medium and poke fun at myself while I'm at it. The artist Klemens creates a photo series that parodies the concept of photo series and simultaneously parodies Klemens. When Klemens takes on the role of 'pop star in a political supergroup' it means a radical staging where he embodies the sexy porn boy, a perverted narcissist in the depths of self-pity. Even if you use humour as a shield, you have to face that in the end, art comes from yourself. Thus, you're always vulnerable before art. It becomes an endless navel-gazing at the same time as I hope it encompasses some wider context - is bigger than my own personal experiences. When I step out of frame you see a totally different tone, like with the cabinet or the sculptures. I'm more humble before my creation and I seek a texture that could simultaneously be called naivistic, expressionistic but also formalistic and colored by a palate-driven compulsion. Unrestrained figures emerge and take on a life of their own without being commentary on the medium of painting and parodying the one who paints it."

When the interviewer asks about his studies at the Academy of the Arts, he admits he was on paternity leave for a year and also missed the second half of the first year because of Hatari's ESC journey, but it was fun and he's looking forward to continuing in the fall.

What can you tell me about the furniture you've made for your home? "It gives the house a certain character and I'm proud of it."

During the COVID-19 epidemic, he made a set of bookshelves for his parents, which he says was mostly them wanting to support a poor unemployed artist in a difficult time. Originally he was going to do something very simple from existing components but then he just kind of unthinkingly started making it all from scratch without even drawing up more than a rough sketch, and he was as excited as his parents to see how it'd turn out.

How would you describe your home? "Muy grandioso!"

Who lives in your home and do you and your fiancée have the same tastes? "The pillar of the household is my wife Ronja, and then we share it with our daughters Valkyrja and Aþena, 'V-kay and A-J'. Aþena doesn't have much in the way of taste yet as she's only ten months old, two-year-old Valkyrja admires everything and thinks everything is art, so she's not picky except when it comes to precisely how you dunk Graham crackers into a glass of milk. Ronja and I may not have similar tastes, but her strengths make up for my weaknesses and she's very patient with my perfectionism."

What's your favorite thing to do at home? "Watching the kids laugh and cry, watering the plants, picking my nose and passing time."

Klemens doesn't currently have his own workshop, but the owners of a small furniture business have kindly given him access to their workshop, and the Academy of the Arts has a good one as well.

As far as Klemens is concerned he's already living the dream, asked if there's anything he'd do with nothing holding him back.

Klemens will mix together furniture he's received for free or bought used and tries to make it work. He tries to avoid mass-produced furniture even though it can be beautiful; what he loves most is uniqueness. He wants to build as much himself as he can.

What time periods in furniture design appeal to you most? "Mid-century modern and slick."

When you look for ideas, where do you look? "Into the depths of my subconscious and to Foucault."

Is a garden or outside area important when you have kids? "Oh yes. The new trampoline, admittedly mass-produced, has really delivered."

What's your favorite kind of wood to build out of? "Oak."

What's your favorite color to paint your walls? "That depends completely on the context of the room, the lighting and the shape of it, but I love really bright colors and want a lot of those."

Is there anything you're good at at home that nobody knows about? "I'm naturally very limber."

Hans Scherfig (April 8, 1905 - 1979) was an ardent Communist Danish writer and artist. Best known for his satirical novels, Scherfig’s first love was painting. But as an eye disorder threatened to render him blind, he used his facility with writing as a fall-back option for a career in the arts.

Above we see one of Scherfig’s jungle fantasy canvases, Junglebillede (Okapi) from 1953 (privately owned).                                                    

In you, still not knowing, spun in mere impressions. Effected more by blood than by beauty, more by distance than reflection, seeing still. What is what? Hope, in your preciousness content. Has your energy been usurped, if only for love or its promise shying? No wisdom to impart, is its depth instilled? A friend, ever-searching, and in your presence healed.

the gulf of spezia folded me under, made my skin into a sieve and needled my pores. not long ago i was bouncing through an electronics store and looked to the resistors, thinking aloud how they should be used for acupuncture or as a component in a type of electrical therapy that introduces a current to your cerebrospinal fluid. the impressions often come from above, everything else gives way courteously, almost cradling the fallen vessel. for a moment, your words were linked together, iron whorled to a feather anchor that miraculously saved me in a dream. the sky's unfolding sigh, light flipping over the book of a glade, you made it clear in a kind razor flash, undid the weight as my ankles dangled from the chevalet. more than my energy has been usurped, i keep searching for the chainlink gauze, an insulation that could fortify the chambers of what's been lost and make sense of its black mold crawling at the corners of this inwit, i am usually my own robertsman. a palace at the bottom of a blood lake, the nubile star at the center of a kwao krua tube bobbing at the surface, a train of open palms lacerating the sands that go to the end of the world. the idea that words are deceit, that the body is the truth at the bottom. a sister of the sentiment, "you don't understand music, you hear it. so hear me with your whole body." somehow i didn't get the jeff moore line, "why must you die for happiness like a flower in the snow" for a while, it passed by, rock parting, every time until the current finally crashed. i want these words to wrap around me and become my cartonnage. a carnation crossed with the ash from an herbal cigarette, crushed and scattered into a blizzard's deadly dance, a highway lady lost to a wilting velvet nightfilm, cast down with some judgment on the brink of flight. she was waiting to become the queen of the sun. i want my judgment day already but it's never coming because i want it. there's simply a lot of work waiting for me, as i try to temper the erasure that's been showing up in my somatic fray, tugged between naivist directness, the secret garden beyond service's gate, and the desperate calls that creation draws into a chorus, promising collective understanding as much as it risks misleading you from what's important in the world. if bread is the rawest image of hunger, then a child's smile is the potential for unthinkable loss. proverbially taking it a day at a time and trying to pick out myself in the establishment of form, a real routine. i am lucky to be given time with someone who gets at curing my heart with gentle sternness, sharing with me in daily labors and honesty. vein, path, whites outlining a future in coffee grounds. crinkled letters from an exile working to work, something to see in the dark spots of each fold. it's supposedly my jupiter return right now, down to the degree, running up to kiss chiron. maybe i will see god stop the sun and set my fortune cookie on fire. in little gidding, "the dove descending breaks the air, with flame of incandescent terror, of which the tongues declare, the one discharge from sin and error. the only hope or else despair, lies in the choice of pyre or pyre, to be redeemed from fire by fire." i am held up in your offering, a hand in bloom, an awareness worth every emotional grain of sand stirred from a lonesome, gummy sleep, where only dreams could pull back the flashes of reality testing the medium to be made. the nonsense whose smoking edge whistles when you lose control, to be flayed out of choice and eaten by flame. we must all be prepared to burn and hope our core stands among the rubble, chastening glory. who then devised the torment?

#american design#sculpture#metalwork#wall art#midcentury#mod#naivist#albert leon wilson13 热度