Merror: The Hybrid of Mirror and Error

Today, a walk through the Fotografiska museum will first take you through exhibits displaying beautiful portraits of fashion models, followed by an exhibit with awe-inspiring conservation photographs of the ocean and its creatures. While viewing these first few exhibits, I appreciated the technical savvy behind the work, but nothing felt quite as surprising, surreal, and masterful as Evelyn Bencicova’s exhibit Merror.

Right as you enter the exhibit, you are greeted by a chilling display of a few photographs from a larger series titled Ecce Homo. In each photograph in the series, naked models, always with hidden faces, appear stacked, piled, or interwoven in the midst of a sterile and bleak environment.

One such photograph depicts models woven on top of a desk in a muted brown conference room, with harsh fluorescent lights lining the top of the frame. Bencicova calls her work ‘fictions based on truth.’ Influenced by her upbringing in post-Soviet Slovakia, this photograph from Ecce Homo instills a fear of a deindividualized world. In a room full of distinct lines and sharp corners, the curves of the models' bodies naturally relieve a viewer's eyes, but ultimately fail to bring relief to the grotesque mood. Ghostly pale and without faces, it feels as though the bodies are oppressed by the room they are placed in. You might leave wondering, if this photograph were part of a longer story, would the bodies in this scene appear less and less human as time goes on?

Bencicova’s favorite themes seem to revolve around the idea of identical human copies. In her series Asymptote, she uses less grotesque but equally surreal scenes to ask her viewer to question conformity. One photograph from the series has children standing in line before a bench, with matching sportswear on. The children are wearing identical masks and all appear to be hunched forward.

At first, the photograph doesn’t appear as shocking or chilling compared to the shots from Ecce Homo. After all, seeing children in matching gym clothes is not unusual, and wearing a gym uniform is something many of us have personally experienced. What takes this photograph beyond the image is the story it offers. Though children in school are all expected to follow a similar and strict path, we see in this photo how matching outfits fail to conceal their differences. The children still have different heights and postures, which reveal something about their personalities. We begin to question why we expect our systems of education to be uniform for these multifaceted beings.

Overall, Merror is a refreshing exhibit that invites its audience to investigate their society, play with their imagination, and become a storyteller. At first frustrated, I now feel thankful that Bencicova displays her work without explanation. In her words, her work is all about "a little fraction, a little crack which is destroying the perfection, and it’s barely visible but it’s actually the way inside, the way deeper, the way under the surface where you can find what is really important."

The Orange Glow of Monday's Interactive Iteration of Järnpojke

Järnpojke, a sculpture that stands only fifteen centimeters high, is nearly impossible to find. Located in the courtyard of The Lutheran Church in Gamla Stan, Stockholm's tiniest public monument is accessible through one of two passages: a narrow alleyway named Bolhustäppan, which leads from The Royal Palace, or a tiny garden gate hidden at the end of Trädgårdsgatan, a dead end. It is rarely mentioned in any of the various ‘Top Ten Swedish Art’ lists and is cataloged, infuriatingly vaguely, as being “only few meters off the Stockholm Palace” when described online. Järnpojke can be most easily located by its coordinates: 59°19′31.85″N 18°04′20.43″E.

The necessity of refreshing one’s boy or girl scout knowledge of latitude and longitude in order to find the sculpture is crucial to the piece’s impact. What makes Järnpojke special is the intentionality with which the viewer must begin his or her trek to Liss Eriksson’s hidden sculpture, paired with the way in which the observer chooses to interact with the piece. Järnpojke, literally meaning “iron boy” in Swedish, features a figure sitting on top of a table with his knees pulled up into his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs. He looks upwards and through the canopy of late-August leaves. In Stockholm, it has become a tradition for visitors to create a piece of clothing for the boy, whether it be a raincoat, tiny knit scarf, or pom pom hat. For those who are less adept at sewing, leaving coins, foodstuffs, or other nicknacks is also common. This practice is arguably problematic, however, in that visitors often make artistic additions to Järnpojke not out of tender affection for the boy but rather for individualistic gain.

Järnpojke has become a quasi wishing well. Travelers traditionally rub the boy’s head in the hope that touching his iron crown will allow them to return to Stockholm at some point in the near future. Others believe that caressing the boy will bring five years of good luck (something I learned from a passing tour guide). One of the dangers of Järnpojke becoming a popular pilgrimage locale is that the original artistry of the piece could easily get overlooked. After visiting Liss Eriksson’s sculpture myself, however, I found that there were three whimsically artistic features that make it a must-see: its intricate detail, the reverberations of the surrounding space in the microcosm of Järnpojke, and the human odyssey that is visiting the iron man.

Alternatively titled “Little Boy Looking at the Moon,” the tiny art piece seems to be tackling fairly banal subject matter at first glance. The figure is indeed looking upwards at what could be the moon. He sits uncomfortably, however, on top of the table. The viewer is left to question whether or not he has climbed to higher ground for safety, pulling his legs into his chest for warmth. The small table upon which he sits is also located on the right side of a huge slab of marble that further minimizes the sculpture. The boy is in an isolated dream-state, unable to see what anyone has placed under his table nor around his body, and looks upwards for answers.

Left: Husband helping wheel his wife into the courtyard of the Lutheran Church to visit Järnpojke

Right: Family interacts with Järnpojke while a man walking his cat looks on

Aside from the interesting proportions and miniature vastness portrayed in Järnpojke, the sculpture infallibly reflects the vibe of its surrounding courtyard each day. During my late-afternoon visit to the sculpture a golden sunset bounced light off of the pale orange homes across the street and gave the little iron boy a faint orange glow. Someone had noticed the color and brought three huge, ripe oranges to leave by the boy’s side. Paired with the glow of bronze coins, peach cookies, and Korean candies with orange wrappers, Järnpojke, in part, became a shrine to tangerine fluorescence.

The third reason to venture to this tiny sculpture is to witness other human interaction with the space. Meticulous placement of coins, gentle pats of the iron man’s head, and careful re-adjustments of the boy’s cap are what bring Järnpojke to life. Visitors tend to look at the sculpture from across the courtyard before moving up close to it. Then, realizing that staring down upon it does not do the tiny piece justice, they crouch down and often mirror the iron boy’s exact pose. To engage fully with Järnpojke means to come away with a newfound appreciation for the minuscule and a consciousness of the power of the petite.

The Vasa Museum: A Historical Shipwreck

The Vasa Museum, first opened in 1990, is one of the most visited museums in Scandinavia. Located on the island of Djurgården in Stockholm, the museum displays a Swedish ship that was salvaged from the bottom of the Stockholm Harbor after 333 years of sinking deeper into the mud and sand. On August 10, 1628, the Vasa set sail on its maiden voyage and unfortunately sank after it filled with water less than a mile out to sea. Most of the bronze cannons were retrieved during this time, but the location of the ship remained unknown until it was discovered in a busy shipping lane just outside the Stockholm Harbor. The ship was recovered in more or less one big piece thanks to the polluted water that was low in oxygen, as wood-attacking fungi and bacteria couldn’t survive in such conditions. After the Vasa was salvaged from the water, archaeologists spent 17 years restoring and preserving the ship, then an additional 9 years waiting for all of the water to evaporate out of the wood. During this time, one million pounds of water evaporated away, leaving 200,000 pounds of oak. After the long process of restoration was complete, the museum proudly features the Vasa, with 98% of the original ship still intact.

Figure 1: Vasa ship inside museum

The Vasa can be seen from four different levels, each one offering different views of the ship as well as focused exhibits on the design, people, and special features of the ship. The entrance level takes visitors to a mid-level view of the ship where the top half is visible. The gray museum walls enclose the Vasa quite snugly, which makes the 226-foot long ship look even larger.

In addition to the numerous interactive exhibits, there is great dedication to showcasing the care that went into crafting the Vasa in the early 17^th century. Majority of the ship’s hull (the main body), is covered in sculptures of Greek and Roman figures, as well as some remarkable creatures including mermaids, sea monsters, and lions. Many of the 500 total sculptures are featured in exhibits with their symbolism and significance, as the sculptures were designed to glorify Sweden’s authority, wisdom, and martial abilities while also taunting and intimidating the enemy.

Lions are a prominent recurring theme as King Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden was called “The Lion of the North” and “The Golden King.” Two lions can be seen grasping the Swedish royal coat of arms on either side of the boat, as well as on the figurehead and on the inside of every gun port door. One statue in particular is of a soldier with a shield in one hand, and the other fist proudly in the air (Figure 2). A puppy curves around the base of the soldier’s legs to convey the idea that a ferocious lion would take pity on a puppy, just as the powerful King Gustavus Adolphus would take pity on a significantly weaker opponent. This sculpture illustrates that the king’s enemies are often so inferior, that they are not even worth battling. Almost all of the heroic imagery on the Vasa, including the fierce lions, are identified with the king to revere him as a powerful ruler.

Figure 2: Soldier and puppy sculpture

A 10-foot long lion is also placed as the figurehead of the Vasa, which is a wooden carving set at the prow of a ship. The lion’s body is stretched upward and looks as if it is mid-leap. The Vasa’s lion figurehead was so large, it was carved in several parts and fitted together with bolts. Figureheads are often related to the name or role of the ship, and are also believed to ward off evil spirits. Vasa’s lion figurehead holds the Vasa dynasty coat of arms in its front paws, as the lion has been a symbol of the Swedish monarchy since the Middle Ages. In addition, the museum has placed a replica of the figurehead in an exhibit so visitors can get a closer look at the details. This changes the perspective of onlookers, as a 10-foot lion on a 226-foot long ship seems quite proportional, but seeing this wooden lion on its own really confirms the magnitude of both the lion and the ship.

            Face to Face is an exhibit that is focused on some of the 145 sailors and 300 soldiers that sailed on the Vasa. This section offers powerful yet eerie replicas of Vasa’s passengers through 3D rendering using information from skeletons found on or around the ship. A short animation shows how archaeologists made conclusions about eye color, mouth shape, as well as muscle and fat composition based on a person’s skull. The animation first showed a skull, then progressively added more and more pieces of the face, layer by layer, until it was painted and completed with a head of hair. Each head came with a short description that included age range, signs of malnourishment, and their gender. This exhibit is particularly overwhelming, both because of the realistic heads, and because it encourages visitors to contemplate each and every one of the lives on that ship and the 50 or so that tragically died.

            The Vasa Museum offers a close-up look of the ship’s design, as well as the people and artifacts that also give great insight into what life was like in 17^th-century Sweden. With interactive exhibits, life-size replicas of specific rooms in the Vasa, and descriptions translated into almost 10 languages, the museum invites people of all ages from around the world to learn about the 17^th century ship. The museum has also worked to modernize the exhibits by including “Selfie Spots,” where the lighting and framing of the Vasa was specially composed, that many people made good use of (including myself). A visit to the Vasa museum is emotionally heavy and highly educational, while also conveying the significance of the Vasa, which has become a symbol of an important period in Swedish history.

Right at Home with Lost Things

Stepping into the Shaun Tan exhibit at Dunkers Kulturhus felt like stepping into a childhood fantasy.  As a child, I never read Tan’s books myself, but I still effortlessly step into Tan’s world because it fills me with childlike wonder.  The exhibit, “Lost Things,” centers around Tan’s children’s book, The Lost Thing, written in 2000 and adapted into an Academy Award-winning short film in 2010.  However, the exhibit also includes framed pieces of Tan’s book The Arrival, as well as individual artworks.

The first room consists of pages from The Lost Thing, painted in oil with the words written out in pencil.  The shining colors and textures on the page bring the book to life; I wonder whether all of my favorite picture books as a child were initially exquisite paintings before being transferred into book form.  In addition, the way the graphite words catch the light enchants me.  The use of pencil rather than pen seems both childlike and immediately personal, like reading pages out of a child’s diary.  Even though the pages skip and jump to different parts of the story, I still get a sense of the narrative and the feelings of the story.  The setting of The Lost Thing is so rich with detail, convincing me this world must exist.

The most convincing part of this exhibit, however, was the living room.  The red walls were adorned with pipes and an eclectic mix of road signs; there were red velvet lounge chairs oriented in a circle around a fake TV, glowing with one of Tan’s images of a garden; and in the center of it all was a coffee table with all of Tan’s books, in Swedish and English.  The setup of the room was undeniably cozy.  Something about sitting in this room in a circle—even with complete strangers—in front of the TV, reading the same books, made you feel like part of the same isolated world.  This room felt like a sanctuary; like a corner of the world forgotten and discovered by just you and your fellow visitors.  It made me feel an immediate connection with my fellow strangers because we were equally immersed in this world created by Tan.  These interactive, immersive element to this room of the exhibit is undoubtedly what made it so effective.

 Living room

What makes the story of The Lost Thing so compelling, especially for adults, is the message at the end of the book.  After the narrator parts ways with the Lost Thing, the story fast-forwards to years later, when the narrator grows up.  The story ends with the lines, “I see that kind of thing less and less these days though. Maybe there aren’t many lost things around anymore.  Or maybe I’ve just stopped noticing them. Too busy doing other stuff, I guess.”  As we get older, we lose our ability to notice lost things—perhaps because our day-to-day concerns of surviving and managing our busy lives become more immediately pressing.  But when we are kids struggling to find our place in the world, we notice many lost things because we ourselves are lost.  We are able to empathize with both the narrator and the Lost Thing because we have all felt lost before.   

There is a sadness and nostalgia to finishing the book.  The coming-of-age at the end of the story is bittersweet.  After turning the last page, I wonder how many things I no longer notice in the world because I have habituated them and blocked them out.  It makes me wonder what adulthood has robbed me of, and whether children actually see much more than we do. 

An Evening in Tivoli Gardens with Barenboim and the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra

          Amidst the rollercoasters, carnival games and fancy restaurants, Copenhagen’s famous Tivoli Gardens house a gorgeous concert hall with a seating capacity of over 1,500 audience members. It was there that I recently attended the nearly sold-out performance of the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra with conductor Daniel Barenboim.The program opened with Debussy’s La Mer, followed by Bruckner’s Symphony No. 9. These two composers, in combination, embody the transition from late Romanticism at the end of the 19th century to the Impressionist movement at the turn of the 20th century. Yet, despite my knowledge of this musical connection, I had never heard a full Bruckner symphony before, let alone a Bruckner symphony paired with one of Debussy’s orchestral works, so I was eager to hear the two composers together in concert.

          The orchestra’s rendition of La Mer was incredibly energetic and sentimental; having performed this work before, I was highly impressed by the group’s clear dynamic contrasts and impeccable balance, allowing melodies to rise out of the composition’s many textural elements invoking images of the sea and sky. The louder sections of the piece were particularly well-paced, with forte moments played less turbulently than others marked fortissimo. However, the orchestra failed to remain in-sync during several melodic and rhythmic transitions, an unfortunate trope of many youth orchestras. The most obvious of these mistakes occurred during the final movement, including during the well-known 8-violin solo and even during the final notes of the composition. These missteps surprised me, given that Maestro Barenboim's directions appeared remarkably easy to follow. 

          In fact, Barenboim’s physical expressivity combined with his calm and collected energy during cues or changes in tempo were easily my favorite aspect of this first piece. His connection to the orchestra was extremely palpable from my balcony seat in the concert hall, seemingly reaching all the way to the musicians at the back of the stage. Furthermore, I appreciated his humility during the orchestra’s final bows before intermission, as he stepped off to the side of the stage to let the young orchestra members bask in the spotlight.

Daniel Barenboim and the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra

          In Bruckner’s Symphony No. 9, I must admit that my attempt to critique the orchestra was offset by my disdain for the work. From the predictable key changes to the interminable surges in dynamic intensity, the symphony was, for lack of a better word, cliché. The fact that the symphony was left unfinished also resulted in an awkward conclusion to the concert, with the final key of B Major being in no way related to the home key of D minor. Despite my negative opinions of the composition, I appreciated that the orchestra played every note with full conviction and musical intention. To me, the most engaging part of the performance was the string’s constant physical agitation, from quick down bow strokes to endless sections of fortissimo tremolos. 

          A moment that particularly struck me was at the end of the 1st movement, when an elderly stranger seated next to me leaned over and whispered to me how strange it was to watch this work being performed. “Their bodies are the music,” he said. Reflecting upon this performance today, I could not agree with him more; the orchestra ultimately worked together to bring the symphony to life with their physical movements and their unwavering expressivity. In many ways, this second half of the program testified to the importance of the visual experience during a musical performance. Without sufficient visual stimuli, attending concerts of any genre or style would often seem lackluster or uninspired. Audience members would dwindle, as they would begin to find audio recordings equally compelling. Fortunately, this orchestra’s performance in Copenhagen was both aurally and visually exciting, and thus continued to keep the power of live performance alive. 

          In brief, my impression of the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra and Daniel Barenboim in Tivoli was extremely positive, despite a few ensemble problems during the Debussy and my dislike for Bruckner’s unfinished symphony. I highly recommend attending a performance by this powerhouse of an ensemble to anyone interested in supporting an inspiring youth orchestra in summers to come. 

Improv Comedy Copenhagen: A Team Affair

The audience is abuzz with anticipation and alcohol-induced chatter when the first improviser takes the stage. It is Friday night at Improv Comedy Copenhagen, and the crowd is here for the promise of a show that has never been seen before and will never be seen again. The first improviser, an older gentleman, takes the stage and announces the order of events for the evening: a long-form show followed by a series of short games. For the unindoctrinated, long-form improv is a form of improv where the actors create a series of linked sketches, or at times an entire play, based on a single suggestion from the audience. This form has taken off in the United States through the work of popular improv groups such as the Upright Citizens Brigade (a group with such prestigious alumni as Amy Poehler and Aziz Ansari), where Stefanie Grassley, now the artistic director and co-owner of Improv Comedy Copenhagen, formerly trained.

Having studied this form of improv myself, I am sitting in my seat in anticipation, waiting for the actors to build a world with simple tools: the words “yes” and “and.” Even those completely new to improv will most likely recognize this iconic phrase, a trademark of improvisational theatre. “Yes,” is crucial for improvisers to practice because they must always accept the reality created on stage. For example, if an improviser says “My arm has fallen off!” one cannot respond “No it hasn’t.” That kills the scene, and there is very little one can do to regain the trust of the audience. The improviser might instead say “Wow, it has!” and then to honor the “and” of “yes and,” will add something to the story, such as, “maybe it was that dinosaur bite from earlier.” As the improvisers walk onto stage this is what I am most excited for, the positivity and support amongst improvisers who are trained to accept and add to a world.

The team of 6 is made up of 5 men and 1 women, most of them Danish, with a visiting Canadian actor, Rob Norman. They ask for the obligatory audience suggestion and receive the word “chicken nuggets.” The one woman on the team steps forward, and I am surprised to hear her launch into a monologue (which somewhat involves chicken nuggets). Perhaps it is just the cold audience, but it seems somewhat jerky as far as monologues go. None of the other improvisers jump from the wings to aid her as she speaks. While this was most likely the result of a decision to format the show in this way, I find myself wishing the other improvisers would jump in. When the monologue is over, I breathe a tiny sigh of relief. Thankfully, the improvisers at ICC begin to hit a groove during the group scenes. The first group scene involves a child and his “out of touch” dad, who can’t seem to understand why all of the cafeteria’s options are vegan, but looks at his kid lovingly even as his kid laments that his dad’s generation has ruined the earth’s climate. When the child asks, “When is mom coming home?” as if she might be home any minute, the dad expertly responds “Soon… one of these days,” in a classic twist which gets the audience laughing. While the dad doesn’t reject the kid’s reality, he finds a way to make it even more intense and startling.

As I watch the various group scenes, a common theme emerges: this team is best when they’re building on each other seamlessly (either making the world more absurd or elaborating on a teammate’s creation) and worst in the scenes where the teammates are pitted against one another or left hanging. In improv, it is of course fine to have improvisers in conflict within scenes, so long as the improvisers are working together behind the curtain, but sometimes that line can blur. In one particularly jarring scene, an improviser stands on a chair in a staff cafeteria, drained and fed up with his job, while one of his coworkers tries to coax him down. Meanwhile, another improviser calls out, “ten bucks you can’t get him down.” The coaxer takes the bet, “ten bucks I can,” and continues to coax him down. But now, his motivation has changed. While before it seemed as if he was coaxing him down out of genuine compassion (albeit with a bit of frustration), now he is doing it to spite the other coworker. The adversarial move from the improviser broke my trust in the character’s motivations, breaking my trust with the world they had built as well.

On other occasions, however, improvisers joining in from the wings was a delightful surprise and show of support. For example, one hilarious scene begins with a woman miming eating at a restaurant while a man stands to the side gesturing with his hands, in a way reminiscent of a priest. The improvisers on the wings of the stage clearly notice this gesture, and walk across the stage miming the waving of ecclesiastical incense. Suddenly, the improvisers make it clear we have the merged realities of a church and an italian restaurant, resulting in a strange cult scene. The scene finally comes together when the two improvisers stare into each others eyes and simultaneously say, “church of the magdalena,” waiting for each other as they speak slowly so that they can agree, as they speak it, on the name of their cult. It is a wildly successful moment, in a very bizarre scene, which only works because the improvisers did not allow the strangeness to reroute them; they simply ran with it and worked together. These types of moments demonstrate what good improv looks like: funny, bizarre, and impossible without intense collaboration. When these improvisers became adversarial or stood alone, they seemed to fumble, but in these moments of pure cohesion and delightful strangeness, ICC truly shined as a team. 

Curiosity Without Bounds: Thomas Winding's Portal into Childlike Wonder

                Hidden behind a closed black door in the basement of The Black Diamond Royal Library is a vibrant immersion for the senses. The Thomas Winding exhibit is an art experience part installation, part exhibition, and part interior decoration. Made for the child in all of us, it features hidden games, colorful stories, and the life’s work of one of Denmark’s most beloved children’s authors and producers.

                Visitors are transported down a rabbit hole after paper mâché trees and playful music confront them upon opening the heavy dark door to the exhibit. Each of the almost 10 rooms offer a new–and often garishly clad–reality. First, visitors are invited to open and peek inside a series of cupboards containing Winding’s photos, collages, and storyboards–a mishmash of inspiration and context for the stories available for reading contained in drawers below.

The first cupboard upon entering

                The exhibit is a winding maze of cozy nooks and artfully installed structures, all the while displaying Winding’s prolific and exuberant works. Just beyond the cupboards is a room with floor-to-ceiling distorting mirrors, featuring photos of Thomas Winding’s producing days, and a large projection of some of his films. Viewers are invited to observe the polaroids on the wall and notice their distorted reflection alongside them–equal parts serious and playful. Wandering beyond the mirror room, visitors can climb into a boat in a illustrated swamp full of pillows, books, and a movie screen; peer into a tree trunk with a doorway; contemplate a room with giant paintings presented salon-style; and relax in a fabricated bedroom in a painted forest.

The boat for viewing, relaxing, and reading

The tree-portal

          After observing Winding’s imaginative works, it’s clear this exhibit’s animated presentation brings alive his craft. By physically inviting visitors to look into, touch, and explore his stories for themselves, his life gains color and depth alongside his paintings.

                A quick Google search provides what couldn’t be found in the exhibit’s descriptions: Thomas Winding was a multimedia artist and storyteller who got his start at the Danish Radio writing and reading stories for children. He later moved into film and children’s television while continuing to write children’s books; many of his works, books and films, went on to achieve distinguished awards. He seems to an American audience to be a Danish version of a Dr. Seuss. Putting these pieces together within the walls of the Black Diamond’s basement, though, even without Google, allows a visitor to experience the universal joy of enjoying and exploring a new story, reality, or problem.

                 The exhibition illustrates the myriad of ways Thomas Winding was a storyteller: through books, painting, drawing, photography, and film. He embodied what it means to be a trans-idiomatic artist. The immersive experience of the installations was a bold and playful way to relay that very message. English speakers will notice that all of the captions and descriptions in the exhibit are only in Danish. A thin packet in English was provided upon entry, which is not the translation of the placards or captions, but rather is a set of mini games and puzzles that visitors can navigate throughout the numerous rooms.

One of the pages of the packet of interactive games handed out to English-speaking visitors

                 In any other type of exhibition, this would surely forge a rift between the visitor and the pieces. But in this one, it poses to the English-speaking viewer an ultimatum: experience this as a child, or don’t experience this at all. Putting together the works and stories oneself illuminates a part of the imagination that some adults rarely visit; it peaks curiosity and heightens a reliance on the senses.

                 But of course, this is a Danish exhibit meant for Danes. The English speaker gets to piece together the world of Thomas Winding, while the Dane is fully immersed in the stories. For the Dane, this exhibit might feel closer to the Dunkers Museum’s Shaun Tan exhibit. There, the pictures are equipped with captions, descriptive names, and dialogue. The works give instructions on what to notice and what narrative to assign to each image–giving space to explore a world, while also providing a story framework to hold onto. Thomas Winding is a storyteller, but somehow in such a sensually rich and content-filled exhibit and installation, a language barrier feels almost like an asset, giving the exhibit a different and interesting flavor (but then again, an English-speaker would never know). Instead of the providing of a historical context and artistic narrative for the vibrant works and rooms, the English-speaking visitor is given a game, their senses, and a true immersion in imagery and color.

            The museum’s description of the exhibit says (loosely translated from Danish) that this exhibit’s presentation is meant to provide adults and children equal footing. In creating a world from the prolific images, stories, and imagination of Thomas Winding, it gave adults of all nations a free pass to join children in finding even the ordinary awe-worthy and curious.