I looooove Spring. These early mornings when the sun rises warm and golden behind the still bare trees, and kisses the mirabelle blossoms. When Mr. Frost has covered the land with white, sparkeling crystal kisses as traces of these desperate encounters with his love Miss Spring. They are a beautiful couple, and yet their time together so short.

Birds are nesting, and the view from my morning writing room never gets better than at this time of year, when the mirabelle tree is in blossom.

The last week has been good. My plan of a storytelling tour is starting to move as I want it to, more work is coming in, and today I have a three hour tour with some German students. Hans Christian Andersen is the topic and that means I can spend at least two hours outside in the sun this morning, walking and talking…in German.

The rest of the day will be spend shading on a massive drawing I am working on at the moment. It looks a bit like a sculpture made out of granite. Lots of power, lots of space.

And Mirabelle must be a name constructed out of Spanish and French, Mira = look, belle = beauty. It was first spoken many years ago, when the Spanish girl Elena went to France to visit her cousine Phillipe. It was Springtime, but still too early for many trees to blossom, and yet in Phillip’s garden there was a tree with blossoms as white clouds drifting by on a lazy summer’s day. “¡Mira belle!” said Elena as her French still gave room for improvement. Phillip looked down as his cheeks turned red.
Great was his disappointment, when he found out she hadn’t called him belle.

Pirate painting

No, I do not illigally copy other artist’s work, or copy in any other way. The pirate theme is due to a minor accident in my garden the other day. I was trying to dig up a small tree, – really small treel, so small it should rather be called a bush, or three twigs with common root system – when the unbreakeable fork’s shaft suddently broke and slammed me right in the face and broke my tooth. It is a fork which constrution workers use. It is buildt for extreme conditions, built for the strain of strong men’s harsh and ruthless use of the tool. It is built to withstand any kind of challenge. But couldn’t stand then use of a female artist, less than 160 centimeters tall, around 50 kilograms, with no arm muslces (I cannot do one single push-up). Slam bang SMOCK it said and gone was my tooth. Broken in half. I now look like a real pirate.

Pirate with broken tooth

A new picture is on the way. Theme: Dance, colours and distroted perspectives. It is a challenge for me, and therefor fun.
“The Inner Judge” and “Feet in Earth, Thought is Sky” are now finished. I am satified with the result and it has been a instructive process as regards to anatomy and light. Have a look:

Oil on canvas – 50 x 70 cm – 2014

The Inner Judge – Oil on canvas – 50 x 70 cm – 2014

Oil on canvas – 60 x 45 – 2014

Feet in Earth Thoughts in Sky – Oil on canvas – 60 x 45 – 2014

The Woman Who Collected Signs

It all started one summer morning. The sun shone through the open window, showering my room in a golden light, and made the brim of the clouds look like burning red iron hammered out with the most delicate tools of the heavens. My love lay sleeping, his kindness and love obvious to me in his youthful, relaxed features. I kissed his shoulder. He turned and held me. I smiled.

It that moment a poem came to me. A poem about a rune which holds within it all other signs and letters needed to write good stories with happy endings. I grabed my pencil and wrote the poem. Then realised there was a story hidden behind the words, a story that wanted to be told.
The story of the woman, who collected signs. Who misreads the signs she finds, looses herself in the maze of signs and significance, until she has no choise, but to leave her home and lean to read the signs, and change the course of her destiny. The story had premiere this Thursday evening at Besttellers in Copenhagen. Up

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until the day before I had been working on the story, changing the story board, finding the voices of the different caracters, finding better and clearer images. “When she opend the door, she was overwhelmed by the smell of dispair, as the stench of rotten lemons…”
Eventhough the audience is not used to magical realism, it worked out well. May there be many more opportunities to tell the story about the Woman Who Collected Signs.

Getting ready

There are few things in this world as beautiful as a sunrise. Some would argue that the difference between a sunrise and a sunset isn’t that significant. I find it is.

On a normal day I wake up around 7 or 8 am, and rarely see the sun rise and part the darkness with the first beems of light. I rarely experience the subtle understanding between the morning larks on the bus, or feel the morning breeze on my skin. 
This morning was different. 
When the alarm went off it was still night, not a sign of the sun anywhere. Orion had moved to the South and everything was still. As I got on the train, the sun had come so close to the horizon, that it turned the velvet black sky cobber green and soft peach. The clouds stod as lead grey giants at the brim of the horizon, and the mist covered the fields in their magic vail. The sea was quewering as if it was about to wake its sleep.

This weekend was filled with art as I had an opening of a new exhibition and took part in two different workshops, one on making torsos, the other was a art relay. Results are shown below.
banner torso Stafet

Traveling again

Skitse Cornwall
Sketch from the Coast of Cornwall

Last month I went to England to do a proformance in Cambridge and give a workshop on how to create pictures with words. It was fun and very exciting, and mixed up with a long hike in Cornwall as I wrote previously.
This month I am going to Austria to visit my relatives who live in Vienna and Salzburg, all due to the mutual wish of my father and sister to visit Austria, now they both are turning a corner, 70 and 40 years! It started of as a short holiday, where we hoped to connect with my father’s cousins and their children. After some e-mailing we found them.
I had hoped they would meet up with us for lunch on Saturday. Bearing in mind that I have never seen them in my life, yet alone spoken with them, meeting them would be a succes. My sister has seen them once, and my father has not had contact with them for decades. The years just slipped by.
So I thought, if they would set an afternoon aside to meet with acutal strangers, related distantly

by blood, it would be the hight of what I could expect of them.

Turns out that family ties are stronger than I expected. They have organised a complete plan for us, having taxi picking us up from the airport to takes us to their home, then lunch, then with train from Vienna to Salzburg to visit the other branch of the family, then dinner at a place my father went to when he was there on holiday in his youth, and then lunch at a country inn the next day, all the time staying with them. I am overwhelmed by their kindness, and looking forward to actually meeting them.

After four days of family visits, I continue on from Salzburg to Basel to proform with the talented Indian singer Santwana Karr and the Iranian composer and pianist Morteza. I will tell Rhythm of Tango and another story aimed at an adult audience. There will be wine and candle light, and I can already feel the good vibrations this event will generate.

Back in England

It was midwinter, when I bought two tickets to Eddie Izzard’s show at the Eden Project in Cornwall. I could have seen his show in Denmark, but it was the perfect excuse to travel to Cornwall again. Cornwall equals breathtaking beauty to me, and cream tea with scones, clotted cream and jam. So with the tickets being half prize compared to Denmark, I decided to go and have a short working holiday.

I started off in Par foCornwallr one night, with Pam and Vic at Emm’s Cottage, which has a tiny garden. Sometimes I feel my garden is too small for all the things I wish to have in it. I want a pond, a pergola, lots of different flowers and trees, a conservatory, a small garden annex, where I can sit and write. All of this Pam and Vic have in their tiny garden. It has no lawn, but paths winding through the flower beds, under the pergola, to the small wood consisting of a bonsai pine, that once broke out of its’ pot and grew tall and strong, and the hedge to the perennials and a terrace. From the garden annex you can see the sea and enjoy the exuberant clematis. A place shielded from view and very inviting on a summer’s day. So I shall now never complain that my garden is too small, instead I will diminish the size of the lawn and make more room for flowers.

The next five days I walked from Penzance to Mawnan Smith along the South West Coastal Path, also know as the SWCP. Walking alone gives me time to think and relax, time to stop and sketch the rock formations in the azure blue sea, the seagulls – posing in hope of a bit of my lunch –, and then walk on it the fair hope, that I will find somewhere nice to sleep during the night.
I got one blue toenail, two blisters, and a bruise over my left knee. Measuring the success of a hike in the amount of scrapes makes my inner child feel very adventurous.

The second ticket for the Eddie Izzard show I had bought, because I was sure to meet someone who would love to join me. My friends in Britain did not want to, or could not come, so for five days I said

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to all the people I meet, – and found interesting enough to spend some hours with –, if they wanted to come along. It was not until the very day of the show, that found my “partner in crime”. I found her in Truro.

Strolling along the streets of the cathedral city, I noticed a narrow alleyway. It was just after midday and the sun shone down on the white houses. Three women were sitting outside a gallery drinking a cup of tea. Time was abundant, so I went to have a look. Hugh whales on canvas, sketches of nudes, graphic paintings, at least five different artist sharing and working in the small space. One of them Ann, had never seen Eddie Izzard live, and when I mentioned the extra ticket, she looked exactly as I would have, if someone had offered it to me. Very excited. So the ticket was hers. It was a fun and memorable evening, and every time I see Eddie Izzard, I remember: Being imperfect is a quality of its’ own.