Monumental intimacy
Tone Lyngstad Nyaas Kurator at Haugar Art Museum
Hanne Tyrmi works primarily in installations combining sculptural expressions with film, photography, text, and sound. At the core of her art is a broad spectrum of humanist perspectives on issues of alienation. The objectification arising from problems of gender and consumption are addressed in some works, in others she is concerned with the vulnerability of people in an institutionalised societal structure.
Tyrmi's artistic production can be related to mainstream contemporary art in the 1990s in the way she utilises her own identity and body as a tool for social criticism. Predetermined gender constructions have been at the focal point of works by artists such as Kiki Smith, Cindy Sherman, and Louise Bourgeois, who in very different ways turned the light of artistic investigation on their personal identities. In Tyrmi's case it is specifically issues that impinge on women that concern her. She uses herself in videos, photographs, and performances, and the fragmented body has been a recurring motif in her works since the 1980s. Many of them are staged to highlight and stimulate discussion of particularly female spheres of experience. By introducing utensils from the domestic sphere or employing the house as a psychological and cultural metaphor, she invites consideration of a broad range of existential themes.
Typical of her art is the dominant position given to the corporeal and tangible in communicating with the observer. Her concise, yet charged installations open for reflection on the ways various structures and societal mechanisms impact our identity and behaviour. There is a critical content to them, but it is contained within an artful humour, and can be expressed in media and expressions ranging from the monumental to the intimate and finely detailed. Tyrmi's production is anchored in craft traditions associated with sculpture, such as modelling, moulding, and woodcutting. Each object, marked by the artist's craftsmanship and faith in the particular qualities of her material, has a confident physical presence.
With these tools Tyrmi draws historical precedents into topical issues. One of these is the degree to which the instrumentalisation of the body and of sexuality defines identity – a theme that is at the core of, among other works,
Woodworks (2006).

Architectonic mind map
In 2012 the Association of Norwegian Sculptors invited Hanne Tyrmi to participate in its project Box-stories (seven artists, seven works, seven stories). Her Domestic consisted of an architectonic model of a house attached to the gable end wall that still stood after a building – originally a 19th century orphanage in Oslo – was demolished. The exposed interior wall still had wallpaper and paint on it. Tyrmi had given her model a closed form, as if the house protected itself from people looking in. The oddly positioned stairs and windows also gave it an introvert and dysfunctional appearance. In many of her works the house is a focal point for consideration of various current social issues. The analogy of the house and the body, or the woman and the home, functions as a historical cultural subtext – and one which many take for granted. Her house challenges predetermined assumptions, shifting the analogy towards the psychological and traumatic, and imbuing the contents of the house with subtle, surreal narratives.
The home and its various functions are the central metaphors of the exhibition
The Lost Thing at Haugar Art Museum in 2014. In the installations these become metaphors for mental states, memories, and repressions. The rooms metamorphose into internal landscapes through works as different as massive forms cast in bronze and fragile objects in translucent linen paper; it is a labyrinth of charged expressions which offset each other in calculated contrast, light against dark, lightness against weight. In addition, a striking dynamic arises from the wide spectrum of dimensions Tyrmi has given the sculptures, with objects ranging in size from the miniature to the monumental. On moving from room to room one gradually becomes aware of a nervy disquiet, seemingly imparted by the critique of society that is a pervasive perspective; for what sort of detritus is bunging up the plumbing in the cellar, and why have the bars of the child's cot been replaced with cold neon light? Without resorting to a literary approach Tyrmi strongly suggests that the domestic sphere is a minefield of insecurities. Without directly pointing to the fact that most of the violence in our society takes place behind the home's closed doors, she conveys through the inner tensions and challenging construction of the exhibition a sense of loss, fracture, and melancholy. In these rooms she achieves an investigation of existential themes in ways that are simultaneously architectonic and poetic.

The anatomy of repression
The title of this exhibition, The Lost Thing, suggests break-up and loss. From one perspective it might lead us to issues of growing consumption and materialism, of which the result may be the loss of meaning in, and of our connection to, things. Instead things assume a position on the periphery of the individual's life, seeming to all intents and purposes just as empty of history as they are easy to exchange for others. However the title no doubt plumbs deeper than this into the psychological anatomy for which the house stands. In the cellar there hangs a black shape in bronze that resembles a lightbulb, an extinguished light source that the artist has named Sort sol (Black Sun). It is an allusion to Julia Kristeva's study of melancholy in the book Soleil Noir. Dépression et mélancolie (1987), and to the subsequent psychological models to which her theories gave rise. Kristeva elucidated the connections between melancholy, language, and art. Her thesis is that beneath every depression there is an underlying sense of loss that can be related to the initial separation of the child from its mother. The child's rejection of the mother is a necessary step towards the formation of the "speaking subject". This process has not taken place on a psychological level in melancholics, who therefore reflect sorrow inwards on themselves; a process of identification with the lost object is common.1 The sufferers are unable to recall losing their mothers, but grieve rather over the loss of the "thing", the pre-lingual and symbiotic state, they had before. This semiotic state exists outside of any sign-system, it is the chaotic reality that has yet to be categorised and delimited into self and other, subject and object. It is the force contained in this pre-lingual state that is etched into art and can heal the narcissistic wound. The motivation for creating art, according to Kristeva, is allied with the psychological need to fight separation, emptiness, and death. For this reason, she explains, it is saddening to discover the shadow of a lost, loved object in the face of someone whom one loves now. 2 Only by giving loss a name, through therapy or artistic expression, can the melancholy be overcome. The mark of the semiotic in art, religion, literature, and music can also be compared to love. For, according to Kristeva, there is no writing without love, nor imagination that is not overtly or secretly melancholic.
At the entrance to
The Lost Thing visitors encounter a prologue to the exhibition, The House (2013): a model of a house placed on what seems like a bank of earth. The building, with no windows or other openings, seems impenetrable and closed to the world, instilling a sombre disquiet.
From here one is led into a room where a monumental plumbing system bulges into the room, swelling up and disgorging its detritus. All the plumbing leads to the cellar, the waste of the house body flushed out through the intestinal pipes in the basement. Here and there one sees signs of a powerful discharge, as if the house body has suffered an uncomfortable constipation, then its dramatic release. The monumental swelling organ seems fit to burst at any moment, thereby precipitating an unchecked flood of sewage. However the round container might be said to resemble a womb – an association which again brings into play Kristeva's description of the relationship of the pre-lingual child to its mother's body. This mute territory she calls the chora, Greek for receptacle or womb. The chora contains the primary biological functions necessary for the child's survival; but to free itself from the chora the subject must negate this symbiosis and cross into the language phase. A halfway stage in this process is a chaotic and ambivalent state during which the subject is drawn toward the chora and, at the same time, must go through negation ("abjection") for the self to be formed.
3 Kristeva's theory of the purpose of abjection in primary repression might be used as an analogy for Tyrmi's cellar: here the "lost thing" is the chora itself, a bulge that has got stuck in the workings of the machinery and is disrupting the smooth operation of the house. The metaphor of the house can here be further extended to apply to the social body. Every culture that advocates some ideological system is compelled to marginalise its detractors to protect its chosen hierarchy of values.
The cellar is the basement floor that struggles to keep damp and mold at bay. It is also the space for storing away superfluous objects. It is a room for repression and depression. Not that Tyrmi has approached her theme in any illustrative fashion; she has, rather, chosen an expression closely allied to the abstract play on space and form typical of modernistic sculpture. She weaves together many layers of narrative, reflecting on everything from the development of sculptural media during modernism to the significance of the body in art of the 1990s.
Kristeva's work placed the female experience of motherhood and birth centre stage in philosophical, psychoanalytical, and religious discourses. She has given the pre-lingual a language, and her theory of how the pre-lingual experience is carried over into literature, art and psychoanalysis has also impacted greatly since the 1990s on both contemporary art and art theory. This is most clearly evident in the use of bodily fluids and the fragmented body in abject art. Artists such as Kiki Smith, Louise Bourgeois and Cindy Sherman have, in different ways, considered the traumatic from a feminist perspective, and
The Lost Thing positions itself securely in this discourse. Hanne Tyrmi's topography of repression, her analogy between the body and the house, makes for a powerful visual landscape.

Floating – between materialisation and withdrawal
On entering the next room we are met by intense light. After the melancholy and earthy cellar we rise into a part of the exhibition where the material almost seems to have become weightless. First, Dust (2013), a chair covered in a large mass of iron shavings, spreading unchecked out into the room, that can be seen as an extension of the cellar theme, waste products forming the basis of an aesthetical transformation. And then in Domestic Accidents (2012) the strength of the light seems almost to dissolve the materiality of the installation. Chaotic piles of crockery and saucepans, all formed from linen paper, have been abandoned on the table, and might topple over at any moment. It is a work that spreads a sense of underlying disquiet. The abandoned table suggests a breakdown in social relationships over a dinner. The fragile and insubstantial stacks seem to defy gravity, as if they are floating, suspended between materialisation and withdrawal. The individual cups and saucers are but shadows of their former selves, and there is something ethereal to the whole composition, the light filtering through it to impart a poetic, transcendental expression. This seems a room beyond reality, and invites us to ponder on the philosophical questions of art's ontological and mimetic properties, as well as its function as a tool for the human understanding of existence. The objects – like a mirage of reality, and playing in their illusory way on a reformulation of the readymade – stimulate many thoughts on reality and depiction. At the same time, however, the everyday domestic references pose questions about where we range things in our hierarchy of values.
The notion of achieving a mimetic transformation on the basis of everyday objects is familiar from the works of other contemporary artists. Åsil Bøthun often reformulates items with a marginal status.
Domestic Accidents might also be related to a series of installations by the Dutch artist Tanja Smeets, Domestic Strangers (2013), in which she utilises cups and spoons to create forms that seem living and organic. The columns of red plastic beakers of the installation 'Red Landscape' set up associations to stalagmites and stalactites, curling in a musical duet with the gallery architecture. The transformation seems to cast consumption into the abyss, and up grows a parasitic universe.4 The Danish artist Peter Callesen is also known for his work with paper installations, visual narratives with allusions to literature and religious history. It is a different mimetic practice we observe in Tyrmi's Domestic Accidents. She invites us to take part in the interpretation of a familiar scenario; the play of light between the stacked layers of translucent crockery, a delicate and subtle expression, transports the observer to a place somewhere between dream and reality.

Curtain on a theatre of sorrow
Dusk (2014) is a curtain of lead, draped in waving rhythms along an eight-metre wall. Like a theatre curtain it stretches with architectonic monumentality from ceiling to floor. Here there are associations with the textile medium, but they are woven together with something more, something hidden and protected; we feel that this theatrical sequence has perhaps been frozen to conceal some hidden drama. The sense of being excluded can bring to our reading of the work a certain melancholy, which might be traced to the historical symbolism of lead. In ancient civilisations the metal was associated with Saturn, the planet of melancholy – and of the artist.5
Lead is an ambivalent substance – both an environmental hazard and a metal that, because of its high density, is employed in materials to protect against radiation. Even in small doses it can harm a person's reproductive ability, immune system, and brain.
6 In Dusk the inherent two-edged nature of lead is part of the installation. The corporeal aspect can be construed from the material's soft texture – a metal that can be moulded by hand. It has a similarity to skin that lends to Tyrmi's drapes a rather unnerving quality.
Water pipes used to be made of lead, giving us the word plumber, derived from the Latin word for lead:
plumbum. As in the other rooms of the exhibition, this installation suggests that it will divulge its secrets, only to point back to itself, its form and materiality.
By playing on the impenetrable Tyrmi presents the observer with an enigma. What does the drapery conceal? What drama needs to be protected with this theatre curtain? The sense of negation wakes associations with a book by Stig Sæterbakken, Gjennom Natten (2011). Here the house has become a psychological mirror, a projected surface for the depiction of a bottomless sorrow, and the reader is led through its labyrinth of rooms. Darkness has engulfed the place, giving colours, materials, and smells an exaggerated presence. The main character of the novel, Karl Meyer, finds himself incapable of taking decisions, a typical trait of melancholy, and as we follow him though the house the movement between reality and transcendence conveys the rituals of sorrow. In a similar way the rooms and spaces of Tyrmi's house in The Lost Thing are a psychological projection, and make for a fascinating comparison with Sæterbakken's enigmatic house. When we cross the threshold of the author's house we are confronted with a materialisation of our anxieties. In Tyrmi's installations the projections can be recognised in the sharp changes of direction, the rooms staged with charged contrasts – from the weighty and melancholic to the insubstantial and floating. The impenetrable alternates with the translucent, the material with the immaterial, the light with the dark.
Dusk, with its folded drapes and rich play of light and shade for all the world like a classical sculpture fragment, also actualizes a notion of transformation and movement. Lead is associated with the possibility for metamorphosis. In alchemy it was a material firmly rooted in the worldly and earthy, but could also be a base element enabling transformation. The German sculptor Anselm Kiefer turns the cultural narrative of lead to an allegorical lament for German history in the light of the Second World War. The material becomes part of a mythological universe with metaphysical, political, and moral dimensions. In 1988 Kiefer bought the lead roofing of Cologne Cathedral, and came to employ it in a series of seminal works. For him lead was equated with the human being, an unclean and ambivalent material that adhered to a lowly axis in the cosmos, yet still carried within it a promise of transformation. In the meeting with history lead exudes an existential melancholy, yet still is capable of fulfilling a hope of change and improvement in the structures of society.7 Kiefer is fascinated by the properties of lead: its smell, pliability, and impenetrability. Its paradoxes and capacity to transform support his analogy between the material and humanity. According to Leonora Onarheim lead takes on the symbol in his works of an anthropomorphic symbol, a consideration that seems relevant to the shape of Tyrmi's drapes, as if there were large bodies moving about front stage behind it. One work worth mentioning in this context is his Die Frauen der Revolution (1992), a series of metal beds each with an untidy bed sheet of lead. Utilizing lead to suggest textiles introduces a gender aspect, and indeed to the beds are attached labels with the names of women who made significant contributions to the French Revolution, but who have been forgotten by history.8 By diving down into the meaningful layers of his material Kiefer offers here – as in large parts of his artistic practice – a piece of collective memory, and opens for us a mystical room.9
Kiefer's repeated use of lead might be compared to the grey and intense atmosphere in the poetry of Paul Celan (1920-1970), for instance the famous Death Fugue (1948), in which he bears witness for the victims of the Holocaust. According to philosopher Gaston Bachelard, this created a new category for the sublime, the torment of the war finding expression in the symbolism of materiality.10
Tyrmi, on the other hand, chooses the domestic sphere for her topography of trauma and vulnerability. The textile associations of her wall-mounted curtain lead on to a further connection – with the canvas of the painting. In this one work the traditional boundaries defining painting, sculpture, and architecture are transcended.

Consumption – institutionalisation and human dignity
A social and institutional criticism is evident in many of Tyrmi's works. In Woodworks (2006) she raises questions regarding the way our attitude to human dignity is shaped by the way physical appearance and ideal body shapes are pressed into the service of an aggressive consumer ideology. In Omen (2008), Untitled (1999), Woodworks (2006) and Instrument (1998) the corporeal can be traced in the way the objects refer to interiors and architecture; she sets up a conflict between the intimate and structures implying institutionalisation and anonymization. In Untitled the motif is a child's cot, the bars of which have been replaced by neon tubes that spread their chilling light into the room. With this simple and effective twist the haven of the helpless and vulnerable child becomes a sterile and loveless environment. The electrical wiring is part and parcel of the expression, articulating, as does the intense light radiation, a warning about coming too close. This is techno-hygienic anonymity – a world away from the care and safety we like to think swaddles the child in its first years. In its simplistic construction it suggests a minimalist object, annexing the neon of advertising for a fresh narrative approach. The collision between the dangerous and the vulnerable body brings to mind Mona Hatoum's cot sculptures in metal, rubber, and glass. The cot of Incommunicado (1993) has been realised in steel, the base replaced with thin metal wires. As in Tyrmi's work an intimate environment designed to protect the defenceless is transformed into something that wakes associations with torture, pain, and vulnerability. Hatoum's Silence (1994) is a cot made out of hollow glass tubing, underlining the fragility of the expression.
For
Omen (2008) Hanne Tyrmi has converted a shopping trolley into a pram, spelling out the connection between human dignity and consumption. She has also added a hood to the pram in the same material. With this simple attachment the meaning of the object shifts radically, raising the question of whether a society in which consumption has become ideology, is even capable of protecting human dignity. Consumption has become a pillar carrying important parts of the social structure, not only governing human interaction but also economic development. Spending power has for many become integrally linked to personal identity. Omen places these issues centre stage, positioning what most people would regard as a private matter into a wider political context. It is a subject matter that also illuminates Woodworks, a range of cosmetic toiletry items – all carved from wood. The objects have been arranged in a frieze, starting with the most ubiquitous make-up articles and progressing to Botox, syringes, pills, and other pharmaceutical products. This crescendo builds to a destructive finale: a belt knife, also this carved from wood. It is a tongue-in-cheek depiction, not only of the artist's tool, but perhaps also of a way out. Tyrmi offers an insight, both humorous and deadly serious, into the ways our attitude to our body and our appearance are defined by commercial pressures.
Architecture is a central theme in
Afraid of the Dark (2006). Here a variety of model houses have been constructed, conforming to familiar Norwegian housing shapes. The models – made from painted wire mesh – have been placed on white tables, forming small settlements, and equipped with their own system of tiny lightbulbs. Towering over the house architecture are three large floodlights, creating the impression of a surveillance environment that conflicts with the intimacy of the models. The netting structure of the houses allows for interesting effects of light and shadow, not least when the floodlights are gradually dimmed, leaving the small house lights to face the dark. The repetitive shapes of the models invite reflection on the significance of architecture for identity and human dignity, and the empty, transparency of the buildings suggest issues of exile and homelessness.
While
Afraid of the Dark operates on a different scale than the monumental installations of Palestinian artist Mona Hatoum, there are obvious parallels in choice of motif, materials, and light design. Since the early 1980s Hatoum has used her performances, videos, installations and sculptures – often related to the body – to comment on repressive societal structures and exile. Light Sentence (1992) is an installation constructed from wire netting, across which the beam of a strong searchlight sweeps, giving immediate associations to internment and torture. The broad repertoires of media, expressions and techniques in the careers of both Hatoum and Tyrmi touch at many points. One dominant precept common to both artists is the belief that art more than anything else is about physical experience, with the body at the centre of perception.
For Hatoum the analogy between the house and the body is a narrative of internment, anonymization, alienation – a crucially critical approach to society. For Louise Bourgeois the house was a metaphor for repressed conflict, an arena where pain was ever-present. In house works by Rachel Whiteread the room is a cast of the physical space, an indirect mirror image of the presence it once had. Antony Gormley's
Home (1984) is a life-size cast of the artist lying on the floor, his head – where the soul resides – protected by a house model. It shields life, much as the skin contains and safeguards the inner organs.11 The house is an extension of the social environment of the body, and reflects both economic status and identity.

Objects of oblation and identification
The fragmented body is a recurring motif throughout Tyrmi's art. Her approach has varied greatly, from monumental bronzes referencing breasts, lungs and inner organs, on which she has worked up to the present day, to mimetic and ritualistic pieces during the 1990s.
In works such as
Partitiv (1999), Amulet (1998), and Monday (1998) the dominant themes have centred on the illusion and the fetish. Amulet is a teddy bear formed of human hair and placed on a shelf, while latex is used in Partitiv to imitate skin. Here a wall is covered with shapes reminiscent of bras, the composition an organic, ornamental structure.
Inner organs are the subject of the installation
Metaphors (1999). Moulded in latex, they hang in groups from the ceiling from what appear to be intestines. In these works the fragmented body is considered by Tyrmi from a ritualistic perspective, her approach no doubt having some relation to her two-year stay in Brazil from 1993 during which she became fascinated with local votive traditions. As the vulnerability and impermanence of the body are recurring themes in her art, it may be worth looking closer at the therapeutic function of the votive offering. The votive – a gift offered in supplication or in gratitude for a favour received – may be one of humanity's most ancient forms of crisis management.12 The ritual of hanging a votive gift, often in the proximity of a statue or other miraculous icon, is still practiced in many Catholic regions. After the Reformation such votive offerings were frowned on in Norway as idolatrous, but there is ample evidence that the religious powers struggled to stamp out the practice. Many such gifts were offered in connection with childbearing or illness, and would often be fashioned in the shape of the affected body part. In Røldal Church, for example, there still exist examples of these so-called "identification gifts" – wooden figures of arms and feet, as well as crutches and walking sticks that the cured sufferer no longer needed.13 The focus of attention was a miraculous sweating crucifix which on special occasions would be taken down so that pilgrims could wipe the brow of the Christ figure. At one point the flow of supplicants was so huge that the local bishop had to expressly forbid the practice in Røldal Church.14 In German-speaking countries the identification gift is called Spiegelbildgaben – the mirror image gift – a term that clearly indicates the connection between gift and affected body part.15
In
Partitativ there is a clear reference to mirror imaging, as the objects evidently perform a surrogate function, in a sort of communication process with the objects they represent – typical of the votive offering. David Freedberg, in his book The Power of Images (1989), examines this perspective, lifting art out of its elitist isolation in order better to study the ritual functions of the image down the ages.16 As long as humans have been projecting their emotions and hopes into pictures and sculptures in the belief that these illusions will bring them some genuine satisfaction, then the observer too has been responding to the image as something ontologically real. Freedberg highlights the consideration given to the issue of the ontology of the image by German philosopher Hans-Georg Gadamer in his treatise Wahrheit und Methode (1960). He was of the opinion that the full ontological power of the image was only to found in the religious picture – the divine only becoming "picturable" through word and image. Rather than being a copy of the godly object, the religious icon was in ontological communion with the object.17 Gadamer relates the phenomenon to our own time, asking the critical question: Is it only at the historical moment of a picture's coming into being that such magic pertains, at the moment when the identity of the picture and pictured – their communion – is intrinsic? He maintains that this is not so, that even though awareness of a picture continually distances itself from the "magical moment", it will never be possible for the two fully to detach themselves. The 1990s was a period when artists were particularly fascinated by the surrogate and fetishistic potential of sculpture. The fragmented body attained a heightened social and political significance in relation to issues of gender and identity. In the works of artists such as Louise Bourgeois, Robert Gober, and Kiki Smith emphasis was placed on the impermanent and the abject, such as it is might be expressed by the whole or fragmented body. 18
With his 1993 exhibition
The Uncanny (1993) artist and author Mike Kelly wished to explore mannequin art – revitalising historical forms of sculptural depiction with a common background in fetishistic practice. The magic that clings to a fetish is derived from the belief that these objects perform a surrogate function. Objects were brought from around the globe to the exhibition, many from outside the artistic sphere – idols, amulets, votive offerings, mannequins, dolls, robots, etc. 19 Some were utilitarian objects from everyday life – an interesting perspective in relation to Hanne Tyrmi's adoption of items from the domestic sphere of women that also have a ritual function. Through these perspectives our subconscious patterns of behaviour and the cultural influences governing our relationship to objects are brought to light.20 These were issues at the heart of contemporary sculpture in the 1990s, giving fetishistic, religious, and marginal objects a new prominence. Typical examples might be the knickknacks Andres Serrano submerges in bodily fluids for his photographs, or the soft toys, puppets, and dolls of Annette Messager's installations.
There is a fascination in the ritualistic aspects of culture at the core of Tyrmi's installations. One example is
Amulet, a tiny teddy bear formed from her son's hair. It is a piece that prompts associations with the fetish perspective that holy relics have in Catholicism – magical power being conferred on strands of hair, fragments of bone, shreds of textiles. Tyrmi reworks the connotations of this tradition, using them as a tool to examine interpersonal relationships, in this instance mother and child.
For
Metaphors (1999) Tyrmi attached glass forms to the wall, giving each a short text that interprets them as inner organs such as lungs and eyeballs. Other forms resembling these organs hang from the ceiling from what look like intestines. It is an installation that stimulates thought about the inner workings of the body, and brings to mind Kiki Smith's bronze sculptures of the womb and digestion system, capturing in a poetic manner the soft-lived internal organs in a classic material. 21 At a temple in ancient Corinth archaeologists have excavated a space of 10 square meters filled with fragments of body parts mass-produced in terracotta. Here were feet, breasts, genitals – even a womb and Fallopian tubes, presumably in gratitude for a successful pregnancy. The ancient practices were carried over into the early Christian church, offerings in wax or clay frequently being suspended from a ceiling.22 The artificial dividing line between ancient and modern is removed by Tyrmi in works like Partitiv and Methaphor. She illuminates the fact that in our advanced society the body is still vulnerable and impermanent. Plastic surgery and gene technology raise ethical questions of gender and identity, and Tyrmi is not afraid to ask them.
1 Toril Moi, introduction to Julia Kristeva, Svart Sol. Depresjon og melankoli 1987 (Drammen: Pax Palimpsest, 1994. Original first published 1987), p. 13. English edition: Black Sun. Depression and Melancholia.

2 Ibid., p. 23.

3 Julia Kristeva, Fasans Makt. En Essä om abjektionen. (Gothenburg: Daidolos, 1990. Original first published 1982), p. 96. English edition: Powers of Horror, 1982.

4 Els Hoek, Tanja Smeets. Domestic Strangers (Amsterdam: Timmer Art Books, Amsterdam 2013), p. 27.

5 Kjersti Bale, Om melankoli (Oslo: Pax Forlag A/S 1997), p. 50.

6 Lead has been shown to reduce the intellectual capacities of children. Historians have identified symptoms of dementia among Roman emperors that might be traced to lead acetate being used as a sweetener in wine.

7 Leonora Onarheim, 'Melankoli og metamorfose om forholdet mellom materialvalg og intensjon i Anselm Kiefers verker' in
Norsk Teologisk Tidskrift (Årgang III, 2010), p. 44.

8 Ibid., p. 42.
9 One of Kiefer's central works, Zweistromland/The High Priestess (1985-89) is owned by Astrup Fearnley Museet in Oslo. It consists of two bookshelves, four metre high, on which he has placed books in lead, each weighing about 300 kg, and containing, among other things, photographs and sand. The title refers to the ancient cultures between the rivers Euphrates and Tigris.

10 Alexander Carnera, 'Blyalder. Anselm Kiefers sørgespill' in Le monde diplomatique, February 2014.

11 Andrew Causey, Objects and Figures. Sculpture Since 1954 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), p. 253.

12 Terje Storli, 'TAMA – en viktig del av vår uvitenhet' in TAMA: offergaver og kriseriter. En utstilling med offergaver og kunst (Oslo: CAL trykk, 2009), p. 9.

13 Ibid., p. 77.

14 Ibid., p. 76.

15 Anne Eriksen, 'TAMA – en viktig del av vår uvitenhet' in TAMA – en viktig del av vår uvitenhet i TAMA offergaver og kriseriter. En utstilling med offergaver og kunst (Oslo: CAL trykk, 2009), p. 87.

16 David Freedberg, The Power of Images (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1989) p. 154.

17 Ibid., p. 77.

18 Tone Lyngstad Nyaas: Abjeksjon/kropp/fragment. Kiki Smith - utvalgte verker (1986-1994), hovedoppgave, Institutt for arkeologi, kunsthistorie og konservering (Oslo: Universitetet i Oslo, 2000), p. 76.

19 Mike Kelly, The Uncanny (Netherlands: Sonsbeek, 1993), p. 6.

20 In 2009 a fascinating exhibition was held in the ruins of Hamar Cathedral and the Archbishops's House in Trondheim: TAMA: offergaver og kriserite (TAMA: votive gifts and crisis ritual), for which a group of contemporary artists related their work to votive traditions.

21 Helaine Posner, Approaching Grace. Kiki Smith (Little Brown and Company, p. 14.

22 Cure and Cult in Ancient Corinth (New Jersey: American School of Classical Studies of Athens, 1977) p. 22.