While we were in Copenhagen, I took a solo daytrip to Louisiana. I didn't like any of the exhibitions, and I had an absolutely marvellous time.
Louisiana is almost magical, for me. As soon as I step inside - almost as soon as I see the building from the outside - I breathe out and relax. It's a combination of two things: I know I'm about to see some possibly fantastic art, and I know I'm about to spend some really awesome quality time with myself. It's a good place for thinking about life. I'm good at thinking about life. ("Det är en tillflyktsort och en fristad för mig, ett sätt att koppla bort allt som är svårt och samtidigt komma närmare det", I wrote in 2013.)
The exhibitions matter, of course; but they don't matter as much as being in this space. And this time, I experienced something interesting. The exhibitions were not very interesting to me - not because they weren't great exhibitions, they just didn't speak as much to me personally ("The Cold Gaze - Germany in the 1920s" was exactly that, cold; August Sander's portraits were too same-y, and Richard Prince just seems like an asshole).
Because the exhibitions didn't inspire me, they became a backdrop, almost neutral, and instead, the rooms themselves started speaking. All the halls at Louisiana are different in shape and size; I saw, almost felt, memories of past exhibitions that I've seen in each space, as I entered them. It was quite spectacular. After I noticed it happening, I had a beautiful experience. This is what I saw:
This is part of the Cold Gaze exhibition, in the south wing.
But in 2014, the south wing was filled with Olafur Eliassons Riverbed, a strange world to step into, nature captured within stark white walls; the effect was powerful. (Blog post from that visit here.)
And earlier that same year, I saw a Hilda af Klimt exhibition in that same space. Marvellous! The colours! (Blog post from that visit here.)
This is part of the August Sander exhibition.
And in 2015, this room housed parts of a Yayoi Kusama exhibition which I LOVED. Or, at least ... I think this room was part of it! That exhibition transformed the spaces so much that I actually don't trust my memories from that visit entirely. (Blog post from that visit here.)
I've never understood that trampoline.
But in 2017, this room housed an artwork called Mutual Gaze, part of an exhibition by Marina Abramović. Experiencing that work was life-changing; I write about it here.
The west wing was closed - which is a shame - but I only need to walk past to remember the David Hockney exhibition from my very first visit to Lousiana, in 2001, two days before my 17th birthday. Now that was an experience that probably changed me for life.
And then there's Gleaming Lights of the Souls, of course, my favourite. I didn't take any photos in there this time, but I've taken many before, like this one above. This visit, by the way, was the first time I realised how low the ceiling really is in there. That is how transfixed by the ambience of the room I have been every time I've stepped in there.
And then, of course, all the memories of individual artworks, of the sculpture garden, of all the people I've spent time with at Louisiana, and the view of the sea from the garden. All of the small memories that I mostly can't tell apart, that together form this idea of Louisiana that I carry with me.
Until next time, Louisiana!
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