Art

House of Dagmar & Matthias van Arkel at Stockholm Art Week Natalia Muntean House of Dagmar unveiled the artistic story behind its sculpted silhouettes, inspired by Swedish artist Matthias van Arkel’s dynamic three-dimensional works. Translating his exploration of form and materiality into fashion, the brand crafted structured yet wearable pieces from innovative scuba fabric, each designed for timeless appeal. During Stockholm Art Week, the collaboration came to life in a pop-up exhibition, merging art and design while highlighting House of Dagmar’s commitment to sustainable, seasonless craftsmanship. CEO Karin Söderlind reflected on the natural synergy between van Arkel’s organic shapes and the brand’s minimalist ethos, proving that great fashion begins beyond the runway. Natalia Muntean: What makes Van Arkel’s artistic vision such a natural fit for House of Dagmar’s design ethos?Karin Söderlind: We’ve always drawn more inspiration from other creative fields, such as architecture and art, than from the fashion industry, where form is often the primary source of inspiration. What captivated us in Matthias’s art was precisely the form he managed to achieve, the organically rounded shapes that emerged in the process of creation. Through our material, our way of sewing, and the person wearing the garment, organic forms are also created in the clothing itself. NM: The Sculpted Tube Top is a centrepiece of this exhibition. How did your previous work with Van Arkel inform its design, and what makes this iteration unique?KS: Our first collaboration was nine years ago, and the brand was in a different place back then. We were more interested in colours and patterns at the time, which we no longer are. Today, we create clothes based on a completely different design philosophy, where bold expressions are less central. Instead, the garment’s design, fit and quality elevate it, rather than colour and pattern. NM: You’ve experimented with structured, sculptural fabrics before. How does the new scuba-inspired material push boundaries further?KS: I don’t believe there are any limits to what we can do with this material. We develop new products with it every year. It’s soft, stretchy, comfortable, and smooth to work with. NM: House of Dagmar is committed to responsible fashion. How does this collaboration align with that mission, especially regarding material choices and production?KS: All our products are developed with a sustainable perspective in mind. The sculpted styles, in particular, are crafted from partly recycled materials and produced in Portugal, ensuring high-quality craftsmanship and ethical production standards. These styles are seasonless and part of our permanent collection, making them truly timeless. Longevity in our garments is something we really value, as it encourages mindful consumption and helps reduce the demand for fast, disposable fashion. NM: What do you hope visitors took away from this fusion of fashion and art, especially those who may not typically engage with both worlds?KS: I hope people can feel generally inspired and see how beautifully different worlds can influence one another. The works by Matthias that we had on display are our favourites, they’re quite unique for him, as he’s mostly worked with patterns and colours in the past. These pieces are monochrome, and some are in bronze. Truly beautiful! NM: How does Stockholm’s creative scene influence House of Dagmar’s identity, and why was it important to debut this exhibition during Art Week?KS: It was exciting to showcase our collaboration; we haven’t talked much about it before. Stockholm Art Week, which I think is an exciting event that keeps getting better each year, was quite a fitting occasion to present it. It’s wonderful to gather art from across Sweden in one week and show what we have. There’s so much more than people realise or are aware of. I think the Swedish art scene is becoming increasingly interesting, but I also find Swedes themselves inspiring. When travelling and meeting people, we feel very proud of ourselves, we’re creative, stylish, and cool.

Stockholm Art Week: Ayan Farah Lets the Materials Speak text Natalia Muntean “I’m not preserving materials,” says Ayan Farah, “I’m extending their histories.” Farah’s art lives in the space between memory and transformation. Using natural pigments, weathered textiles, and geological traces, her work embraces the poetry of process, with rust, indigo, and clay becoming active collaborators. As she prepares for her upcoming exhibition at Galerie Nordenhake during Stockholm Art Week 2025, Farah discusses imperfection as liberation, slowness as resistance, and why every artwork is a seed for the next. Natalia Muntean: Your work often incorporates materials with deep histories: antique linens, sitespecific clays, or indigo from Senegal. How do you navigate the tension between preserving these material histories and transforming them into something new? Ayan Farah: In an abstract sense, tension is where the work happens, parallel to this I try not to think of it as tension, but as a continuum. I’m interested in the idea of material memory, how something seemingly still can hold a geography, a weather and a body. Transformation then becomes a way of listening. It’s not about controlling the outcome, it’s about letting something emerge through the process. My process isn’t about preserving them intact but about extending their histories. By working with them, soaking, staining, and layering, I’m allowing new stories to emerge. It’s not a transcendence but a continuation, one that acknowledges both the origin and the transformation. This method not only grounds my work in specific landscapes but also raises questions about the geopolitical and environmental implications of sourcing and utilising these materials. The process in itself draws attention to these materials and sites. NM: You describe your works as “questions” rather than statements. Which artists, writers, or thinkers have influenced this open-ended approach? Are there non-artistic sources that shape your practice? AF: Writers like Édouard Glissant have influenced me, especially his ideas around opacity and relation. I’m drawn to thinkers who allow for multiplicity, for fragments rather than totalities. Artists and writers who move in the space between the visible and the invisible, repetition and differences. Roni Horn and Walter De Maria’s sensitivity to scale and silence, René Daumal’s ascent toward the unknown – these resonate deeply. Their work doesn’t resolve, it opens. I tend to navigate towards non-linear systems of knowledge, how something can be both grounded and speculative, rigorous and ephemeral. I’m interested in the natural sciences, geology, botany, and meteorology. The way sediment layers tell time or how rust records air and salt. NM: You embrace irregularities, blurred photography, “mistakes” in tie-dye, frayed edges. Is there a beauty in decay or incompleteness that feels particularly urgent in today’s culture of perfection? AF: There’s a kind of freedom in relinquishing control, especially in a world preoccupied with polish and permanence. I’ve come to understand imperfection not as failure, but as honesty. The blurred line, the uneven tone and the under-processed. What’s incomplete is often what triggers my interest. I’m drawn to moments where a linear form begins to dissolve, these are places where time becomes visible. This does not mean I’m not intrigued by the opposite, but I still want to leave space for what’s unresolved. NM: Your works often involve slow processes: growing plants for dyes, weathering fabrics, or waiting for rust to form. How does the slowness of your practice challenge or enrich your relationship with the art world’s fast-paced demands? AF: Slowness allows me to step out of the linear time of production and into something more cyclical, more attuned to natural rhythms. The art world can be urgent but my process insists on waiting, on listening. That space, where materials change at their own pace, becomes the work itself. When I wait for rust or for dye to deepen in the fabric, I’m attuning myself to forces beyond my control. This time is full of potential as I trust in this natural rhythm that is often tied to the seasons. I adapt my work to it and in the process allow new ideas to grow. There is always another part of the process to hold my attention in the in-between hours. NM: You’ve described your practice as experimental, where “each work is a seed for another.” How do you anticipate this cyclical process evolving for your upcoming exhibition in Stockholm? Are there unresolved questions from Seeds that you’re carrying forward? AF: Seeds opened up new material relationships that are still unfolding. Certain clays I only just started working with and other materials have resurfaced. I’m currently integrating new elements of embroidery while further developing abstraction, allowing larger fields of “quietness” in each work. Working with diptychs and twin works that reference each other. I tend to work through a spectrum of techniques and pigments and this hasn’t changed.

Stockholm Art Week: Mike Kelley: An Interview With Hendrik Folkerts text Zohra Vanlerberghe Extracurricular Activity Projective Reconstruction #10(Group Portrait), 2004-5 photography Robert McKeever courtesy of the artistand Mike Kelley Foundation for the Arts© Mike Kelley Foundation for the Arts/Bildupphovsrätt 2025 Emerging from 1970s Los Angeles, Mike Kelley tore apart the myths of education, class, and mass culture, exposing the psychological undercurrents beneath their sanitised surfaces. His art was never just about provocation; it was a relentless excavation of memory, trauma, and the absurdity of the systems that shape us. Ghost and Spirit, a major retrospective at Moderna Museet, delves into the artist’s multidisciplinary practice and the challenges of presenting his expansive body of work. Hendrik Folkerts, curator of the exhibition, highlights Kelly’s exploration of identity, memory, and the underbelly of American culture, while also emphasising Kelly’s enduring relevance, particularly in today’s era of deconstructed myths and critical discourse. Natalia Muntean: Could you start by telling me how this exhibition came together? What was your approach to presenting Mike Kelley’s work? Hendrik Folkerts: There are several important layers to this. Moderna Museet has a long-standing relationship with North American art dating back to the late 1950s, though historically this was very New York-centric – focusing mainly on white East Coast artists. In recent years we’ve consciously expanded this perspective to include Los Angeles, Chicago, the American South, and other underrepresented narratives. Mike Kelley’s exhibition fits perfectly within this expanded vision. The scale of this retrospective made international collaboration essential. We’re working with Tate Modern, Centre Pompidou, and K21 because such an ambitious exhibition simply can’t be done alone today. The works come from collections worldwide, and the logistics – particularly transportation costs – are enormous. When Tate first approached us about collaborating, the decision was immediate. It made perfect sense for our program, especially as we already hold several important Kelley works in our collection. NM: Given Kelley’s multidisciplinary practice and the breadth of his work, how did you approach the curation? Was there any adaptation for Scandinavian audiences? HS: Kelley’s work operates on multiple parallel tracks, examining how we construct identity, challenging institutional structures, and questioning art’s role in society. He rebelled against the dominant minimal and conceptual art of his student years, seeking more expressive forms. We conceived this as a “focused retrospective” – not attempting to show everything, but diving deep into key bodies of work that represent his evolving practice. The exhibition moves chronologically from his early performances in the late 1970s through his explorations of memory and trauma in the 1990s, culminating with his final installations from the 2000s. The architectural design, created with Formafantasma, is crucial. We’ve used perforated steel walls that create transparency between sections while maintaining intimate viewing spaces. The walls float 40cm above the floor, creating this dual sensation of being in a specific moment while remaining aware of the larger narrative. Regarding Scandinavian audiences – our primary responsibility was to Kelley’s work and its context. We’ve invested significantly in interpretive materials, assuming most visitors won’t be familiar with 1980s-90s American culture. Interestingly, there’s a strong Swedish fascination with American culture that creates fertile ground for Kelley’s critique of its seductive power and hidden darkness. NM: Kelley’s work balances humour with profound melancholy. How did you maintain this tension in the exhibition? HS: That duality is inherent in the work itself – things are simultaneously funny and disturbing. We’ve been careful not to over-explain, allowing the pieces to speak while providing enough context for viewers to engage critically. Kelley’s Detroit upbringing was crucial. Growing up in a working-class suburb where the American dream was already failing gave him an innate understanding of its contradictions. He transformed this personal experience into a broader critique of national mythology. In each gallery, we connect the specific works back to these central concerns, helping visitors see both the immediate impact and larger significance. NM: With such an extensive body of work, how did you select which pieces to include? HS: Kelley worked in clearly defined series, which became our organizational principle. His late 70s performances evolved into installations like Monkey Island (1982-83), where he diagrammed human knowledge. The stuffed animal works of the early 90s marked his breakthrough, leading to deeper explorations of memory and trauma, often expressed through architectural forms like Sublevel (1997) – arguably the exhibition’s centrepiece. This approach allows visitors to experience the depth of his investigations while understanding how each series connects to his broader practice. Of course, some important works fall outside these groupings, but we’ve prioritised giving a coherent sense of his artistic development. NM: Performance was so central to Kelley’s early work. How did you translate this ephemeral aspect into a museum exhibition? HS: It’s challenging because Kelley resisted traditional performance documentation. We’re fortunate that he often created sculptural objects as performance props – transformed everyday items like birdhouses or megaphones that became minimalist artworks. These objects, along with rare photographs Ahh…Youth!, 1991 photography Robert McKeever courtesy of the artistand Mike Kelley Foundation for the Arts© Mike Kelley Foundation for the Arts/Bildupphovsrätt 2025 and films, help evoke the original performances. We’ve also dedicated a central gallery to his writings – journals, diagrams, and scores that reveal his obsessive thought process. This quiet, velvet-lined space provides intellectual grounding for the more visceral works surrounding it. The performance section opens the exhibition, establishing foundations that resonate throughout. We’ve designed sidelines so visitors can literally see connections between galleries, and labels frequently reference these relationships. NM: What surprised you most in preparing this exhibition? HS: His incredible contemporary relevance. I’m constantly struck by how many young artists cite Kelley as a major influence. His multifaceted practice offers so many entry points – whether performance, installation, social critique, or institutional interrogation. We’re living through what feels like the culmination of processes Kelley diagnosed decades ago, the unraveling of national myths, the exposure of institutional failures. His work provides tools for understanding this moment, which is why it resonates so powerfully now. NM: What do you hope visitors take from the experience? HS: Above all, a critical perspective. Kelley teaches

Alexandre Diop About Truth, Keith Haring and His Creative Process text Natalia Muntean In Puer Veritas creates the space for a dialogue between Keith Haring’s legendary Subway Drawings and Alexandre Diop’s assemblages on salvaged doors. Though separated by generations, both artists share a kinship: creating with found materials, in public spaces, for a world they refuse to accept as it is. On display at CFHILL Gallery, Stockholm between May 14 and August 8, 2025, the exhibition frames their shared urgency – Haring’s chalked figures dancing across subway ads, Diop’s nail-pierced doors bearing witness to forgotten histories. The French-Senegalese artist discusses why “good enough” never is, his creative process and the creative dialogue with Keith Haring. Natalia Muntean: In Puer Veritas suggests an unfiltered honesty, which is often found in children. How do you think this idea manifests in your work?Alexandre Diop: I think it’s not just about unfiltered truth; it’s also about a genuine point of view. In French, we say that “the truth comes out of the child’s mouth.” This reflects the conviction that, as a child, you still have positive, pure intentions, while the adult world is often corrupted by many things. I see this in my work. I always strive to have fun and to please myself above anyone else because I believe in my aesthetics and what’s important for me to create as an object. NM: Were you always confident in your work?AD: Not at all. Even today, I still have moments of struggle and doubt. I think it’s part of the practice to experience doubt. It’s like a child’s doubt, perhaps. NM: How do you overcome those moments of doubt?AD: By distancing myself from it and trying to understand where it’s coming from. Doubt is just that – doubt; it’s not a concrete reality. It feels similar to anxiety or fear about how others will react to your work. I remind myself that I don’t create art for others. As Sartre said, “Hell is other people.” His idea suggests that many of our problems arise from how we perceive the opinions of others. Of course, art prompts discussion, so you can’t create an artwork without considering the audience, but I always create for myself. My journey began because I was truly inspired by many artists, musicians, poets, philosophers and filmmakers. I loved their work so much that I wanted to try creating my own. When you’re passionately interested in something, you naturally want to explore it yourself. Each piece helps expand my archives and process, and eventually, I will consider sharing it with others. NM: Keith Haring worked quickly with chalk, and your art looks like you work in layers; it seems more intensive. How do you balance spontaneity with craftsmanship and deliberate actions?AD: It often starts with a spontaneous and fast sketch. Everything comes from a sketch, a drawing, or a painting I’ll do directly on the surface. It’s about playing with the contrast of how the drawing becomes sculpture and how the combination of the initial drawing with applied material creates a visual effect. There’s a lot of rushed action because it’s physically demanding. If you start overthinking how to place each object, it takes too much time. After years of working with these techniques, it’s become practical for me. Most pieces take one to four days; some even one night, especially with pre-cut materials. There’s also destruction – sometimes I apply something and destroy it. Most of my work, even when physically demanding, is made extremely fast. If I spend too much time on the sketch, I’ll never see what it could become. Sometimes, the sketch is so strong that it carries the message itself. For faces, hands, or symbolic parts, I take more time to choose elements that match the composition and visibility. NM: So you kind of start with a plan, but then you let your intuition guide you?AD: Yeah, sometimes I do. For example, I have an idea, I start working on it, and then it becomes something totally different because I realise it’s not good, or I find something much more interesting in the composition. This happens often. The work becomes complex, with many layers, and it can take weeks or months. Sometimes I can’t even work on the piece – I have to hide it. But when I start working, I’m completely immersed and it affects me, in good and bad ways. NM: Do you work on several works at the same time, or do you dedicate yourself to one?AD: I like to work on different things, but when I start something, I want to finish it because I’m already dreaming of the idea. I think it would be nice to see this come to life soon. I also do it for myself because I want to see this beautiful object on my wall.When I was younger, I started drawing because I lived in a white apartment in Berlin and thought it was so sad. I didn’t want to put up football posters, so I drew. Now, I work on many things at once because some pieces need to dry, or some aren’t working well. It’s easier for me to work in a series – it keeps me from being too fixated on one piece. NM: You’ve said these doors lived lives before you. Can you share a story behind one in this exhibition?AD: I started working with doors thanks to one of my oldest friends from Berlin. He knows how I work, how I collect materials. Back then, he helped me carry wood when I started painting on doors. Later, in Vienna, I grew bored with pre-made wood panels. I asked him to help me find old doors, raw wood, because I want to return to my initial practice. Early on in my career, I only did black work, hard, big pieces. In Vienna, entering the art world pulled me out of my darkness, my anger. When I was young, I thought I’d never paint in colour. NM: Why were you angry?AD: I’m still angry because there

Stockholm Art Week: An Interview With Amy Simon text Natalia Muntean Amy Simon’s work is a profound meditation on identity, memory, and the fluid boundaries between self and other. In her latest series, Io (Italian for “I”), she redefines portraiture through reverse selfrepresentation, stripping away preconceptions of age and gender while drawing on the symbolism of hair, evoking mythic figures like Medusa and Rapunzel. Represented by Wetterling Gallery, Simon is presenting a solo exhibition at Market Art Fair, from May 15th to the 18th. Natalia Muntean: In your Io series, you describe the works as “reverse self-portraits”; that explore identity, age, and gender through self-representation. How does this concept of reversing traditional portraiture allow you to delve deeper into the complexities of identity, and what challenges did you face in creating these works? Amy Simon: Portraiture, per se, has the intention of capturing an individual through physical attributes and expressions that are then perceived to relay an inner thought and emotional state of being. Presumptions are made. In “Io” I have the intention of reframing the concept of identity. Without preconceived information, space is created for exploration and reflection. The viewer is now complicit in becoming part of the work in front of them, imitating the exact position of the figure, looking ahead and beyond. Sharing an imaginative vista. The assumption of age is taken away. Gender is exhibited via the stereotypes of hair and the sensuality it represents. My thoughts and imagination are locked within this representation, the audience’s addition of their history is their key to unlocking the experience whether with complicity or reluctance. The series was initiated during a period of limited travel. I have previously focused on the “other”, the step to redirect my work using myself as the subject created a new challenge regarding the exposition of the more introspective and private aspects of my persona as an artist. More than just a signature, the self-portrait is a revelation. “Io” (I in Italian), first person, like the id, is the primary self with no buffers. It’s only when I’m making art that an authentic sense of well-being surrounds me. That’s when the hundreds of alternative thoughts cease, and a calm non-distracted focus sets in. I can sit and draw for too many hours, losing all sense of time. NM: In the same series, Io, you draw on Surrealist techniques and the symbolism of hair, referencing figures like Medusa and Rapunzel. How do these symbols help you explore themes of identity, gender, and self-representation in a personal and timeless way? AS: When I begin a series there is an organic development as to the direction the works will take. With art historical knowledge, I’m always unconsciously tapping into  artists that I admire and move me. The specific references are more of an afterthought while viewing a series of my works and finding a thread connecting them to a more psychological level. The references to both mythological and fictional characters pinpoint a contradiction of strength and power balance than that which is usually assigned to women. NM: Your practice spans photography, drawing, sculpture, and documentary film. How do you decide which medium best suits a particular concept or series, and how does working across such diverse formats influence your creative process? AS: Drawing has always been a mainstay in my practice. It is where I started and continue to find my most natural voice. Other mediums are often offshoots from drawing. When I feel it would be an added expression, or even more interesting to experiment with another medium to fully accomplish a conceptual idea, I pursue it. I have a long history with several mediums and feel comfortable in each. That said, my drawing “technique” is the same as I have been applying to my work for more than 45 years. The materials are identical to those I’ve used for drawing since 1978. Using very malleable pencils, layer after layer, allows me to paint by drawing in the most intimate of ways. Having direct contact with handmade paper serves as an unbroken line between myself and the artwork. Creating “timeless” work is always a given if the work is true and the best I can create. NM: You draw inspiration from Renaissance artists like Dürer to modernists like Magritte. How do these historical influences shape your contemporary practice, and how do you reinterpret their techniques to address modern themes of dislocation and impermanence? AS: A great artwork is always a great artwork, no matter the era. I never attempt to imitate another artist’s style or method but use those references as a threshold and goal for what I hope to reach. I have always had the concept of home in my mind when making work, be it physical, psychological or emotional. The feeling of impermanence and longing for roots is a concept that has driven my exploration of people, cultural artefacts and societal assimilation since the very beginning. Where we find ourselves in the world along with what material things we take with us or leave behind help create a picture or story of who we are. A portrait of a more existential kind. Within my imagery, I feel that I ask the questions. The process and eventual finished works allow me to come to a greater understanding of my subject matter. Presenting this “evidence” in art has given me a greater reach towards the viewer, inviting them into my world by allowing space for them to create their own story or answers, whether they coincide with my own or are specific to them. That’s when I consider a work successful.

SPECTRUM an Interview with Julie Quottrup Silbermann Natalia Muntean CHART, the Nordic art fair, has become a cornerstone of the area’s contemporary art scene since its beginnings in 2013. What began as a collaborative e!ort among five galleries to showcase Nordic art has evolved into a dynamic, multi-faceted event that transcends the traditional art fair model. Today, CHART not only highlights leading and emerging galleries from the Nordic region but also integrates a rich public programme of performances, talks, and exhibitions, all aimed at making contemporary art accessible to a wider audience. In 2023, CHART welcomed an impressive 22,000 visitors, reflecting its growing influence and appeal. As Julie Quottrup Silbermann, Director of CHART Art Fair, explains, “We aim to be more than just an art fair. The fair itself features 28 to 40 galleries, but around it, we’ve expanded into a larger public programme that includes performances, music, and talks – all free of charge.” CHART is dedicated to fostering collaboration among galleries, rethinking public spaces, and prioritizing sustainability, all while creating an inclusive platform for Nordic art. As Silbermann says, “We’re not just building an art fair; we’re building a community.” Natalia Muntean: How has Chart evolved since it started in 2013?Julie Quottrup Silbermann: Chart is an annual art event that began in 2013, created by five galleries to showcase the Nordic art scene. Initially focused on collaboration among Nordic galleries, the format evolved three years ago to include a broader program and a partnership with Tivoli Gardens for outdoor exhibitions. Today, Chart invites Nordic galleries to participate, emphasising that it is more than just an art fair. The event features performances, emerging musicians, and a talks program with discussions relevant to contemporary art, all free to the public. Additionally, collaborations with other institutions allow visitors to explore new exhibitions and attend previews during the event. NM: The Nordic region is often seen as progressive and forward-looking – how does Chart reflect or challenge these ideas?JQS: We aim to present a broad view of Nordic art by inviting both established and emerging galleries from the region and beyond. There’s a growing trend of galleries balancing art and design, with artists creating functional sculptures, particularly in small, artist-run spaces like Coulisse Gallery and Public Service Gallery in Stockholm. This reflects an increasing interest in unique artworks for personal collections. While emerging galleries are thriving, mid-tier ones face challenges, while established galleries have a steady audience. Since Chart’s inception, both invited and self-nominating galleries have participated. I visit Nordic capitals annually to discover new spaces and gather recommendations from established galleries, ensuring we showcase the most exciting new Nordic talent at Chart. NM: What do you think is the role of CHART in shaping the Nordic art market?JQS: For the participating galleries, it’s an important part of their year to take part in a fair that specialises in the Nordics. We create a community around it, and it’s not just about the fair itself. Throughout the year, participating galleries present their exhibitions, and we collaborate on art calendars. We also reach out to art professionals, organising online curator meetings five times during the spring to introduce galleries to them. I feel the galleries are part of this community, and they’re introduced to art professionals in a meaningful way. I hope and I feel we’re giving a lot back to the galleries by fostering collaboration and mutual support. This is reflected in the fair’s design. When you enter, you don’t see long aisles or booths. Instead, you step into rooms that might feature three galleries at once, creating a cohesive exhibition experience. This setup allows art professionals, collectors, or firsttime visitors to engage openly with the galleries. You’re essentially walking in and out of different gallery spaces seamlessly, without the barriers of traditional booths. NM: This is the last year for Chart Architecture why did you decide this would be the last year?JQS: CHART Architecture has been running for ten years. Over this time, we’ve Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Ut elit tellus, luctus nec ullamcorper mattis, pulvinar dapibus leo.

Spoiled Image – Photography Unbound at Konstnärshuset Text by Natalia Muntean In Spoiled Image, photographers Sofia Runarsdotter and Diana Agunbiade-Kolawole surrender their archives, professional and personal, artistic and accidental, to reimagining. Stripped of original intent, their images mesh and collide, freed from categories like photojournalism, fashion, or private snapshots. Here, a forgotten self-portrait, a celebrity snapshot, or a Tokyo train sequence demand attention not for what they were, but for what they are: singular, unresolved, and electric in their new dialogue. Curated by Ashik Zaman, the exhibition is part of a broader focus on contemporary photography and runs from May 10 to June 7 at SKF/Konstnärshuset. What happens when we stop labelling images and simply let them speak? Sofia Runarsdotter Natalia Muntean: Your Girl Battle series captures raw, physical tension between women. In Spoiled Image, how does this visceral approach translate when your images are divorced from their original narrative context?Sofia Runarsdotter: Girl Battle is a personal project, photographed in my home village. From the outset, the selection and presentation of the photographs in the Girl Battle series were intended to be experienced both as a whole and as singular photographs. I did the selection together with curator Ashik Zaman. Our aim was for each final image to be so powerful that it could stand alone, independent of its original context. In this exhibition, the photograph Spider is shown in a new context, which brings fresh energy and opens it up to new interpretations. I believe that change and transformation are positive forces. The motif, to me, represents something far beyond sport. NM: The exhibition pulls images from your personal and professional archives, even snapshots never meant to be shown as art. How did this process of recontextualization change your relationship to your work? Were there photographs that surprised you by gaining new meaning when freed from their original purpose? SR: I have an archive spanning over two decades, comprising approximately 300,000 photographs (though that figure is admittedly an estimate). These images were captured with a variety of cameras and stored across multiple formats: CDs, hard drives, and negatives. When Ashik invited Diana and me to do this exhibition, I anticipated the complexity of the process. The first step was to make a preliminary selection, a process that revealed how profoundly my way of seeing and reading photographs has evolved.One particular photo stands out: a self-portrait taken in Slovenia in 2005. What struck me was how the passage of time had recontextualised the image. For me, it is saturated with personal memory, so much so that I could barely recall taking it. Suddenly, I was confronted not with a photograph, but with a younger version of myself gazing back. I found myself wondering: Could this image hold meaning for someone else? Might it resonate beyond my narrative?This experience repeated itself with numerous photographs – images made in passing, never intended to be anything more than fragments. In that sense, the act of stepping back became essential. It was a relief, even a necessity, to allow a curator to engage with the work from a fresh perspective, unburdened by my associations. NM: The title Spoiled Image suggests a corruption or subversion of expectations. What does “spoiled” mean to you in this context? Is it about disrupting the hierarchies of photography (art vs. commercial vs. personal), or is it more about the viewer’s encounter with an image that refuses easy categorisation?SR: I find it liberating when images are allowed to be seen simply for what they are – photographs in their own right, without being forced into predefined categories. Having worked in the space between art and photojournalism, I’ve often witnessed how powerful images, especially those by colleagues in similar fields, remain unseen because they don’t fit neatly into institutional or disciplinary frameworks. There was simply no room for them, no “appropriate” category.With Spoiled Image, those boundaries are loosened. The images are no longer judged by conventional hierarchies or expectations, but encountered on their own terms. That openness allows for a greater generosity toward the image – a richer, more inclusive space of reception. In that sense, it becomes almost like a manifesto: a call to recognise the value of photographs that resist being pinned down. NM: Does the Girl Battle image change meaning when separated from the full series and shown next to Diana’s work?SR: I believe that when placed in dialogue with Diana’s archive, the Girl Battle image Spider gains a new and unexpected energy- one that I fully welcome. This kind of interplay has been a defining and enriching aspect of the entire process. It opens the work to new interpretations and connections that wouldn’t have emerged within the original series alone. NM: Were there old or forgotten photos that suddenly made sense in this exhibition?SR: They were, indeed. One example is a photograph I took in Tokyo in 2008, during a freelance assignment for various magazines. While going through my negatives, I suddenly came across a sequence from a train ride in Tokyo, images I had never seen before. And yet, as I looked at them, I began to recall taking the photo. Or did I? It’s strange, perhaps I only imagined capturing that moment, projected the memory onto the image itself. The line between memory and imagination can blur so easily when revisiting old work. Ashik was immediately drawn to it. It’s just three exposures from that trip, separate from my digital files made for work, but they carry a distinct energy. There’s something timeless about watching the two children in motion, suspended as if flying. In a way, it mirrors the exhibition itself: a journey through time, fragments, and rediscovery. Diana Agunbiade-Kolawole Natalia Muntea: Your work often documents Black diasporic communities. In this show, do these documentary images transform when displayed as fragments divorced from their sociopolitical context?Diana Agunbiade-Kolawole: I think in the company and context, the images hold up and produce more questions than offer the expected resolution answers. My work is centred around lived experiences and as a Black woman in the West, making work on the spectrum

Månvarv: Lotta Törnroth’s Dialogue with Loss text Natalia Muntean Lotta Törnroth’s exhibition Månvarv at Konstnärshuset explores grief, memory, and the lingering presence of loss following her father’s death. Through photography, she reflects on absence, particularly through images of her mother, who evolved from a reluctant subject to a central figure in the work. An intimate installation features a photograph of Törnroth with her father, a “lens lice” who loved the camera. The moon, captured annually since his passing, becomes a recurring motif, symbolising both solace and continuity. Curated by Koshik Zaman, the exhibition is part of a broader focus on contemporary photography, together with Spoiled Image, and runs from May 10 to June 7. Natalia Muntean: The exhibition centres on your annual tradition of photographing the full moon, which started as a way to cope with your father’s impending death. Has the act of photographing the moon shifted from distraction to something else? Lotta Törnroth: It has been a shift from distraction to something I really need to do, almost like an obsession. Photographing the moon has become a treasure to me, almost more important than going to my father’s grave. NM: From what I gathered, in the exhibition, your father appears directly in only one photograph, yet his presence lingers elsewhere, through your mother, the moon, or the “spirit” mentioned in the text. How did you decide what to exclude from the visual narrative? LT: My father is all over the exhibition, as you say, but I decided to present only one image of him in this show. It’s a photograph of the two of us together, and this image is crucial for the narrative of the exhibition, so I chose to let it shine on its own. NM: Your mother, initially reluctant, became a recurring figure in the project. What dynamic were you trying to capture through her? Did her role change after your father’s death, and did the camera alter your relationship with her?LT: I started photographing her at the same time as my father. In the beginning, I was inspired by Freud and the theory of psychological projection. But photographing her has always felt more violent, and when it became clear that it was my emotions I wanted to show through her, I focused on my father. Then, when he died, something happened. After a while, she was happier, and I saw her through the camera in a different way. Which also made those photographs lighter and more playful. NM: You’ve committed to photographing the moon annually for the rest of your life. Has the ritual itself become a form of dialogue with your father, or does it serve another purpose now? LT: I write in my book Lunar Cycles that I photographed the moon to show it to my father. I know how much he would have loved to see it. And I find the act of photographing is a way of returning to that feeling I had at first. That act is in my body, not so much in the framed photograph. NM: Are there moments of grief you couldn’t photograph, or chose not to? What did the medium fail to capture, and how did you navigate that absence?LT: Yes, many times, it has been many scenes I wanted to photograph that I wasn’t brave enough to capture. There have also been times when I did take photos, but I failed with the exposures. I always photograph with analogue medium format or large format, and many things can go wrong. But that is also what I love about photographing with analogue film, the images that did not get exposed are still in my mind. They become memories, and sometimes that is the best image.

Stockholm Art Week: An Interview With Mark Frygell text Zohra Vanlerberghe Mark Frygell’s art thrives in the liminal space between the grotesque and the playful, where ambiguity sparks open-ended narratives. Born in Umeå’s punk scene and shaped by years as a tattooist, his paintings, vibrant, textured, and teeming with surreal characters, invite viewers into a world where fantasy collides with the uncanny. From Renaissance graffiti to surreal memes, his influences are as eclectic as his output: a testament to a practice driven by curiosity rather than convention. Natalia Muntean: Your work often blends the grotesque with the playful, exploring ambiguity and fantasy. How do you approach creating these contrasting elements, and what do you hope viewers take away from your art? Mark Frygell: I hope that what the viewer is taking away is very subjective. To a large extent, when you grow as an artist, you drift further and further away from designing an artwork to have a certain effect on the world and, instead, the outcome of your process becomes something you trust the viewer will find its way in relationship to. Nowadays, we are so used to having things packaged and served to us and, in that sense, artistic work is more important than ever to break that habit and help us see things for what they are. It’s a “shields down” kind of approach, I suppose. In the studio, I am most interested in experimenting and discovering where it leads and what the outcome might be. Then, of course, I have my background, taste and hang-ups that colour the aesthetics of what I do. I rarely think too conceptually about what a piece should be or what is good or bad, a failure or a success. Curiosity and interest in the medium, whichever that is, are what drive me to the studio every day. I have some sort of obsession with the imaginative and grotesque that colour my work, not as an intention but more as a consequence. I have thought about it a lot and there is something in it that feels transgressive and limitless. Ever since I was a kid, I have had a huge interest in the wonky, weird, and odd. From Garbage Pail Kids and Weirdo Comics to underground roleplaying game illustrations, renaissance graffiti, the Neue Sachlichkeit of the early 20th century, and even the surreal memes created by teenagers in Blender, I am drawn to unconventional forms of expression. A couple of years ago, I discovered that the word “grotesque” originates from “grotto-esque,” an aesthetic trend from 15th-century Italy. This trend started when a farmer fell through a hole and found a hidden festive building built by Emperor Nero, with walls adorned by surreal paintings of plants, animals, and humans. Initially, these images were seen as strange and fantastical, but over time, the word began to take on a negative connotation of “ugly,” influenced by conservative views seeking to uphold the status quo. NM: Growing up in Umeå’s alternative music scene and working as a tattoo artist, how have these diverse experiences influenced your artistic style and multidisciplinary approach? MF: It has shaped everything I do! One of the advantages of being part of the alternative music scene is its small size, which encourages participation. This creates an environment that is very supportive of creativity. Even if you’re young and inexperienced, you receive a lot of encouragement to explore your talents. As far as tattoos go, I think it has coloured my work less. When I started working professionally with tattooingvaround 2011, the “wild style” was quite new, and adopting a more artistic approach was an interesting way to work. In that sense, the art coloured the tattooing more than the other way around. Around 2015, I was also very lucky to become friends with Emil Särelind (Frogmagik) of Deepwood Tattoo in Stockholm. He had studied at Konstfack and was very dedicated to working in a similar vein. It was an interesting time when most other studios focused on traditional tattoos, while the entire scene began to feel stale. He played a significant role in shaping the tattoo landscape in Sweden that we have today, particularly by consistently inviting tattoo artists with similar ideas from all over the world for the past 10 years. NM: During your residency with the Mack Art Foundation in NYC, how did the city and its art scene influence your creative process, and what was the most memorable part of that experience? MF: It’s an amazing city, very inspirational, and many people are extremely dedicated to what they are doing in a way that just boosts your creativity. I spent a lot of time walking around all over Brooklyn, Manhattan and Long Island. This is my favourite thing to do in general when I am travelling. You see so much and a new interesting discovery is just a corner away. Of course, it is a luxury to be able to see amazing art shows, alternative music scenes and all the awesome food but it all pales in comparison to just exploring the streets in a city of this magnitude. It maintains its universe somehow. Mack Art is also a fantastic residency that was so supportive and made my day-to-day life and work very easy. Christine who runs it is a super active person who just makes things happen. NM: You’re collaborating with A Day’s March and have a unique relationship with clothing. How does fashion intersect with your art, and what can we expect from this collaboration? MF: I have a terrible fashion sense myself. Most of the time I just dress in things I have stumbled upon. I don’t really go shopping, and I think most of my clothes are basically memorabilia from my travels, printed shirts that friends have made, and sportswear because it’s comfortable. Plus, I tend to mess up my clothes with paint and stuff anyway. With that said, I love looking at people and how they express themselves, and in my paintings I like to come

YOU’VE will come. GOT THE LOVE, An Interview with Liselotte Watkins  Natalia Muntean images courtesy of Liselotte Watkins and CFHILL “I am a kiosk,” says Liselotte Watkins. For Watkins, a kiosk is more than a nostalgic nod to the disappearing newsstands of Italy, it’s a metaphor for her art, a space where history, memory, and everyday objects collide to tell stories that bridge the past and present. Her need to see new things and experience new places has taken her from a small town in Sweden to Texas, New York, Paris, Rome and now Tuscany. “Moving around has shaped me,“ she says. “I’m like a treasure hunter. I collect experiences, and they come back to me years later.” Watkins says that challenging herself in new environments has done her good and that she enjoys diving into the culture wherever she finds herself. “When I came to Tuscany, I wanted to learn everything about the Renaissance, the Medici, Florence. I immerse myself in it, and that expands my world,” she says. In her latest exhibition, Edicola, at CFHILL Gallery in Stockholm, Watkins tells stories, of which she has many, all kept in “a bank of memories” she draws from. She weaves together fragments of art history, personal narratives, and pop culture into a tapestry that is as thought-provoking as it is visually stunning. In Edicola, stories both old and new are confronted, engaged in dialogue, creating a bridge between what has been, what is and what YOU’VE will come. Natalia Muntean: You started as an illustrator, working with big names like Vogue, Prada, and Marimekko. What led to your transition from illustration to becoming an artist?Liselotte Watkins: When I moved to New York, I was just surviving. Fashion was exciting in the ’90s, and I got my first job at Barneys. I didn’t know much about fashion, so I studied everything: designers, editors, history. Knowing my stuff helped me a lot. But over time, fashion became less about knowledge and more about being part of the “cool” crowd. I got bored. I’ve always drawn and painted, so the transition felt natural. I didn’t think, “Now I’m an artist.” It just happened. The discipline I learned as an illustrator still helps me – I get up in the morning and go to the studio. That’s what I’m used to. NM: What happens when you get to your studio and there’s no inspiration?LW: Inspiration doesn’t just come. You have to work for it. If you’re constantly working, thinking, and immersed in it, it’s more about curiosity. If my curiosity ever faded, I’d be really upset. If I woke up and felt like, “Oh, I don’t want to know or see or think about anything today,” that would be sad. But inspiration… I don’t even know what that is. I can feel inspired to clean the he house, but inspiration to paint? That’s just what I do. NM: You don’t see it as something that randomly visits you. It’s more like a muscle that you train.LW: Of course! I don’t think any artist would say it just comes and visits like a muse. It’s not like the old Greeks, where you’d pray to the Muses and hope they’d show up. You have to put that idea aside. If you start thinking like. that, you’ll just sit there and do nothing. Nothing’s going to come if you wait for it. No one’s going to knock on your door and say, “Hi, I’m your muse.” And I think that’s depressing for some people to hear because they think artists just sit around and wait for inspiration. I can’t speak for everyone, but I don’t think it works that way. By doing, you make things happen. NM: Do you have any rituals to get you in the mood to work?LW: I drink coffee, and I need to have some quiet time. I take walks with my dogs and think about what I need to do that day: what’s a priority, what can wait. But when I’m in my studio, it’s my little bubble. NM: Do you usually have a plan for what to work on, or is it more intuitive?LW: Everything is planned. Even if the plan doesn’t always go accordingly, I have an idea. I research, think, do more research, and have different projects going. I also try to have a project that involves other people so I don’t isolate myself completely. You have to include people in your work. It’s better to share and collaborate because if you keep everything to yourself, it can be hindering. NM: Are you comfortable with feedback?LW: Yes, but that’s something I learned as a commercial illustrator. You get harsh feedback sometimes, and it taught me not to take it personally. Now I’m more stubborn because my work is more personal. I argue more. Now I think, “Why don’t they get it?” But you have to stop that. The people I work with now are young, and they know so much about today. You have to be open to that. I can’t sit here thinking I’m some kind of veteran. NM: What is your earliest memory of creating something, or painting?LW: I didn’t grow up in a very creative home. My mother was a dog trainer and painted dogs for other people. She was quite good at it, but it wasn’t a creative environment. We didn’t have art books or go to exhibitions. But I was always drawing. In a very Swedish way, in the 70s, nobody acknowledged it. It was just something you did. I always had the highest grades in drawing, but no one said, “Oh, you’re really good at it.” It was like, “Everybody’s equal. Don’t make anyone feel special.” That’s kind of why I went to the States. I needed a break. I knew I was good at drawing, not a genius, but it made me feel good. It was a big part of finding out who I was. I explored myself through drawing. It was a place where I felt good about myself. I didn’t even know it was something you could do