Kunstnerhuset

Grethe was the first person I met in the Kunstnerhuset. An eighty year old smile that might eat the little skier on Blåtind. Arriving so late, she guessed I hadn’t had time to buy food in town. She would make me breakfast in the morning.
       Sure enough, when I woke I found her frying eggs in the kitchen. Tomato and cheese on a plate. Now the toast pops up. We sit at the long wooden table.
       Normally I get up later but it doesn’t matter, I can sleep tomorrow.
       The yellow of the eggs drips on a white plate. Bitter coffee, more eggs.
       I am not really an artist. I paint sometimes but Norwegian Grethe — you will meet her later — she is really an artist.
       So I learn about the two Grethes who will be my godmothers in the Kunstnerhuset. Danish Grethe eats children while Norwegian Grethe reads Romain Rolland in the afternoon. Sea out the window and the glow from the snow radiates a blue cold.
       Wolfish good luck — all to myself, the wooden house on the island of Svinøya. Just three cubs in the lair. We fall into a rhythm. I climb to the Devil’s Stool while they paint. They teach me some words in the evening — perlemor, løvetann.
       I know this place from summer but it is different in the dark. Coming over the bridge, still strange to see the lights on. I used to turn right for the Telegraph House. Now I turn left for the Kunstnerhuset.

Laurence O’Dwyer | Løvetann
Contents | Mudlark No. 79 (2024)