Urban chronicles

Urban chronicles is a mixed media project that depicts the development of Stockholm during the 19th century. The animation will be part of the existing exhibition at the Stockholm Transport Museum and will complement the section dealing with horse traffic. The museum was inaugurated in 2022 and is located in the old gasworks in Norra Djurgårdsstaden, which fittingly is the same era the animation depicts.

The intention is to create an artistic depiction of the time that stands apart from the informative and fact-based archival films available on many of the museum's screens. Besides the animation being meant to draw an audience to an otherwise somewhat dark part of the museum, I personally believe there is a purpose in using different types of storytelling in museums.

The history presented in museums is conveyed based on a selection of existing knowledge and artifacts available, presenting an interpretation of what we believe is closest to the truth. This selection and interpretation are often made from a patriarchal perspective that fits into our Western narrative. An artistic depiction is also a selection of what we know, but with a greater amount of free interpretation. It can create new, interesting perspectives on events that I believe can both broaden our view of our history and create new ways to view our present.

The purpose of Urban chronicles is to depict a mood and a feeling of the time rather than trying to tell how it actually was. A depiction where materials and techniques are at the center of storytelling.

As a proposal, I presented an animation depicting Stockholm's development with a focus on how people's conditions changed during the 19th century. The almost medieval buildings were replaced, and a grid of streets cut through the previously hilly topography. Buildings were constructed vertically, cobblestones were replaced by street stones, and the development of public transportation simplified life for both people and horses. Much improved, but just like today, the poor were moved further out from the city to the benefit of those with capital.

The animation is inspired by the art and cultural expressions of the time. For a long time, Asian shadow theater, created with cut-out silhouettes in paper or leather, was in fashion. This also inspired one of the early animation techniques that emerged at the turn of the century. One of my own major inspirations is Lotte Reiniger, a German animator who created fantastic silhouette animations using the cut-out technique. She was a pioneer in animation and came to inspire a whole generation of upcoming animators. She is also said to have invented the multiplane camera, with which one animates flat figures on several different glass plates to create depth in the image. When I completed my animation education, I built my own animation table based on the same principle, and I animated all kinds of materials: sugar, salt, clay, paper, fabric, chalk, paint, and food. Now, my old table would be dusted off.

Since I am interested in the significance of materials for handmade animation, I saw this as a good opportunity to truly explore how to tell with different materials. The inherent properties and conditions of the materials should take center stage in the work with the animation, and the materials should speak for themselves and be exposed in their raw form. They should not be painted, varnished, or otherwise manipulated with any kind of post-treatment. The work should be done intuitively in front of the camera, where the materials show the way, while I document and write about my process.

The text

Putting words to a practice feels unfamiliar. But when I started my master's at Stockholm University of the Arts, that's exactly what I had to do. I had so many thoughts about what I wanted to explore during my two years at the school, but yet no words.

I had sought to leave a production world where overly clear project descriptions and detailed planning are a necessity. Finally, I would have the opportunity to work freely, intuitively, and exploratively. But long before I even had the chance to work practically, it was text I had to produce. Formulate research questions, methods, and theories. And I wrote as if I knew what I was writing about, because a master's is research preparatory and therefore you should be able to put your creation into words. But the more I was introduced to artistic research, the more incomprehensible it became. Long sentences with difficult English words that I could barely understand even after translating them to Swedish. And texts full of references to philosophers and writiers I hadn't read. I felt uneducated and excluded in the same way I often have due to my lack of a high school exam.

And maybe that's why I initially turned to art. A place where you can formulate your own reality and where no one else can tell you what is right and wrong.

But this was the opposite. It felt like a competition in articulating oneself and showing that one is both educated and masters an academic language.

For me, it's hard to understand what this has to do with my work with handmade animation.

It was when I first started my own graduation project that I could understand for myself. Just as artistic research is meant to stem from an artistic practice, it was through the practical work that I could begin to articulate myself.

Working creatively is a constant exploration where questions come naturally and methods follow.

And just like in other research fields, the insights and knowledge generated are part of the development within the different art forms. The introspective, intricate creation can actually be relevant to someone else, and somehow it should be communicated.

The question is whether this necessarily has to happen through text.

Sometimes I think all the text produced attests to a kind of insecurity about what artistic research is. As if art cannot stand on its own but must be textualized to be valid. The text seems to have a superior significance that even art cannot compete with.

The professional knowledge one is expected to articulate in words can rather be seen as a way to try to control art, as if art can always be explained. The texts tend to stray far from the craft and practice.

I experience the same when artists try to explain their art and works. Is it really important, or isn't it rather the surrounding interpretation that is interesting? That it is up to others to intellectualize and analyze the art.

Placing art in a context and contemporary setting is interesting, but perhaps not the artist's task. Much creation generates a reflection of our present without that being its purpose. Regardless of what one wants to convey or not, what is created will always to some extent represent our time.

During my education, I have read several interesting texts, but I have missed concrete and less theoretical explanations.

This text will be based on the graduation project I am developing in parallel. I will mainly use my practical work to concretize and exemplify my thoughts and insights, and only refer to other texts if I need to support my arguments. I do this to not lose my own thoughts and get lost among theories and ideas. But also because I believe we need new ways to explain things without referring to the same, often male, thinkers. It maintains an outdated description of reality that often stems from our Western template, which favors certain types of art and expressions. It is both excluding for those who do not relate to just our culture or the right social class, and it does not feel particularly free and innovative. 

As I think art should be!

Since this text will follow my chaotic work, the text will probably be just as chaotic. But if chaos is the method that leads my process, I welcome the same method to this text.

The chaos

I've always thought there's something wrong with me. Completely incapable of planning but with the ability to create a chaos that I didn't even think existed. A chaos that evokes feelings of shame and questions my adult self.

And perhaps that's why handmade animation appeals to me. Because it resembles my own life. It's chaotic by its nature and can't be fully controlled. Just like when I clean at home and think that this time I'll keep things in order, my animation process starts the same way. This time I'll make a production plan, a neat storyboard, well-organized folders on my computer, and named layers in my animation software. But it doesn't take long before chaos takes over.

At home, the piles of dishes grow, reminders of bills pile up in the mailbox, and dust bunnies accumulate in the corners. I wade through dirty laundry and wonder if life is all about searching. For AirPods gone astray, the dog leash, my glasses, and most importantly, my phone.

Similarly, chaos spreads when I work, and more and more time is spent searching. For small missing parts for my paper figures, for images on the computer, for scissors and pens. I can barely get into the studio I rented for the project, and I've already caused scratches and stains on the furniture that won't go away.

But it's in this chaos that sometimes a glimpse of perfection is born. 

Just like Instagram's vacation photos with happy children and rosé wine rarely show the chaos that led to the staged picture, you don't see the chaotic process behind animation. I often think that if you were to turn the camera around when I animate, you wouldn't believe your eyes. It's not uncommon to find oneself cornered amidst the remnants of months of work and a tangle of cords, lamps, computers, tools, glue guns, needles, and all sorts of rubbish left behind. But in the camera's viewfinder, there's only a perfect little image that reveals nothing of the stress, patience, and immense effort it took.

It's in the midst of this chaos that I begin to write this essay. A text intended to be about the significance of materials for handmade animation, but which will rather focus on the meaning of chaos for the creative process. 

But perhaps they're intertwined.

Materials are bulky. The bright, beautiful studio I rent at Konstfack soon becomes cramped and overcrowded. Large cardboard boxes and styrofoam blocks vie for space with camera stands, lights, and tangled cords strewn across the floor. The materials become even bulkier when you start working with them. The folded cardboard becomes enormous when unfolded. The styrofoam floats around the studio and sticks everywhere. Tiny, fine grains that refuse to let go.

In this situation, I would have been helped by a production plan, but this time I haven't managed to make one either. I'm embarrassed to admit it because I teach at an animation school where we require students to make a good production plan. The truth is that I've never made one.

But everything feels simple in my head. There should be constructed sets, filmed people depicted as silhouettes, hand-drawn birds, dioramas, and cut-out animation. And then digital effects on top of that. But I have no idea how to put it all together or if it will even work. I start working on all the parts at once, and the studio soon feels too small. After a few weeks, there are thousands of small pieces for the cut-out figures on the desk. The diorama sets are laser-cut from watercolor paper and extremely fragile with small, thin window frames and church towers. They break when I rummage around looking for scalpels and glue. I accidentally cut one of the finest prints. On the floor, there are torn-up cardboard pieces, sticky brushes with glue, and you can barely see the beautiful gray-painted wooden floor. Styrofoam remains stuck after weeks and follows me home in the afternoons.

I curse the chaos, but I know this is where it happens. If it weren't for my inability to keep things orderly, I wouldn't still have the old pizza box that should have been thrown away long ago. Because that pizza box turned out to be the best material for building the old wooden houses that are to depict Stockholm in the early 19th century. Just the right thickness, nice color, and easy to work with. And it´s free. The local pizzeria doesn't charge for the boxes. In the same way, the problem with the roofs was solved. After many fruitless attempts to make roof tiles, the solution suddenly lay on the floor. A torn-up cardboard revealed the wavy middle layer that turned out to be perfect roofs for the houses in the emerging city.

If chaos can be seen as a method, it's an intuitive process that can't be planned or controlled. Choices are seldom thought out but serve as constant experimentation. The work often doesn't develop as expected but happens in the moment.

The Shame

The work on Urban chronicles  feels like stumbling in the dark. The puzzle pieces are not placed one by one; it feels like they're not placed at all. They are scattered, and some are always missing. I have so many loose ends that I don't know where to begin untangling them.

The work is encroaching on my private life, and I realize it's gone too far when my experiments to tarnish copper wire take over the whole kitchen. In the morning, copper wires are stuffed into various containers with vinegar, cleaning solution, alcohol, Coca-Cola, egg, and urine. They jostle for space with breakfast on the kitchen counter, where my children mix cocoa and make sandwiches. Shame washes over me, and I pour my urine down the sink. However, the green stains on the counter will always testify to my experiment.

My chaotic way of working is painful and takes a toll on both my health and my family. I forget to have dinner or sneak my children's abandoned candy bags or the crumbs in old chip bowls. In secret, I take the car for the 15 minutes it would take to walk to my studio. My dog gets only short walks, and I avoid meeting people. But it's not just the practical work that occupies my thoughts. It's the emotional chaos it triggers. The feelings of shame for not being able to maintain control and the devastating doubt.

I work like a machine, as a way to avoid facing the results. I cut out small cobblestones, assemble lamps, fold awnings, cut planks, and wind trees from metal wire. All to avoid the inevitable exposure of myself and my work.

I don't trust myself and need to check everything with my ex-husband, who patiently helps me navigate my thoughts. My children are asked to evaluate animations and experiments, but if they answer wrong, I get upset. Deep down, I know what I want. But my lack of imagination means I can't visualize my ideas in my head and need to experiment. Therefore, the work often happens in the wrong order and needs to be redone. Like when I forgot to mount the wires for the streetlights before building the sidewalk. A step I needed to redo, but since I had bought up the entire stock of clay, I had to instead break up the sidewalk and patch it together as best I could. The next day, all the lights short-circuited, and the sidewalk needed to be broken up again. And so it goes on.

The chaos evokes feelings of shame and makes the work cumbersome. The only time I clean the studio is when my adult daughter comes to help with the project. I don't want to expose my chaos, so I throw away everything in my path. Half-eaten cookies hide under piles of paper together with dried-up coffee cups and old sketches. But there are also many other things to find in the chaos. Small hidden treasures that were discarded at an earlier stage but suddenly untie knots. And forgotten notes that now find their way into this text.

Alexander Fleming's discovery of penicillin was a result of carelessness and chance, where a poorly placed lid on a bacterial sample unexpectedly allowed bacteria to grow while Fleming himself was on vacation. His discovery not only changed the world but also brought an important insight. As he himself expressed it 

"One sometimes finds what one is not looking for."

Instead of seeing chaos as resistance, it should rather be seen as a prerequisite, a necessity. Something one should not fight against but work with. After all, it's a faithful companion in life that never lets you down.

The Materials

The choices of materials have a significant impact on stop motion animation.

In the initial stages, I explore what the materials should express and what possibilities exist to get them where I want. A piece of wood from the beach can have a beautifully weathered look, while a new piece of balsa wood is clean and perfect. The purpose determines the choice, but there are other aspects to consider. Soft materials are difficult to animate because they are affected every time you touch them, while hard materials are difficult to animate because they cannot be bent. Many aspects must be weighed.

The natural properties and expressions of different materials carry a kind of history or culture that speaks to us. Everyone probably has a relationship with a pizza box, and therefore, it tells us something through our knowledge of how it is used. That it is a cheap, disposable material that we see stuffed down in park trash cans after a sunny spring day. If I had chosen to build with popsicle sticks, the scene would have had a completely different expression. Not just because the materials are different, but because they lead our thoughts to what they are used for, where we have seen them before. It may be a far-fetched idea that the pizza box should represent working-class housing by representing fast food that we can associate with eating habits in a lower social group. But it's exciting to think about the associations that can be evoked through materials and how they can be used to tell a story.

My first scene depicting impoverished Stockholm with worn wooden houses and muddy streets was built with the cheapest and simplest materials. In addition to the pizza boxes, I used old leftover painter's paper for streets, mountains, grass, and bushes. For the leaves of the trees, I needed a material that had a certain translucency, not too thin and not too thick. I searched in art supply stores and paper shops but couldn't think of any material that had the properties I was looking for. Until one day, I took dinner out of the oven and saw the thin parchment paper that the potatoes were on. 

Thousands of cut-out leaves from the papers became incredibly beautiful as the trees' foliage, especially when the light streamed in between the delicate leaves.

The way we choose to work with materials also creates a kind of communication.

The result depends on a variety of factors such as the resistance or compliance of the materials in relation to craftsmanship. We use the knowledge we possess to shape the materials according to the idea we have. But during the process, the materials will give us clues and ideas that sometimes lead the work in a new direction. 

A mutual work of giving and taking.

One of my fundamental thoughts with the project Urban chronicles was to explore the meaning of different materials for handmade animation, and how they can be used to tell a story. Above this, I wanted to explore material hierarchies and how one can use our associations with materials in storytelling. For my final scene depicting the more visible bourgeoisie and the modern city with tall decorated houses and straight streets, I wanted to cut out the facades of the houses with a laser cutter. I had experimented with various materials such as MDF, clay, and finer cardboard to find a material that differs radically from the pizza box. The choice fell on MDF board, but my tests looked burnt, as if the city had burned. I tried both washing and sanding off the burnt parts, but then the result was too perfect. I want to avoid manipulating the materials as much as possible and let them be exposed as they are. Therefore, there was no option to paint or putty the surface. But when I finally tried engraving an entire house, a fine dust settled over the facade, making it look a bit old and weathered. Just as I imagine it must have looked during the time when people still used wood for fires in the stoves, gas lamps illuminated the streets, and industries were located in the city or just outside. It must have hung like a kind of haze over the city, and it cannot have taken long for the houses to be covered in ash and dust. 

In this way, the work becomes a collaboration between me and the materials. 

I give them conditions, and they give back solutions. It is a cumbersome and time-consuming method, and often I do the same thing several times to achieve the right result. But suddenly, the material gives me something I didn't even ask for.

The Animation

Animation itself is also a kind of language where the expression primarily depends on who animates it. Animation is not an art of recreating reality but rather an animator's interpretation of a character, a place, or an event. This interpretation is transformed into movement, of a puppet, a paper character, or a clay figure, that tells us something or makes us feel something. The physical conditions of the animator matter, along with other aspects like mood, lighting, and chance. Therefore, a hand-animated character often gets a distinct character that cannot be replicated. It can convey a sense of human presence that I believe we will want to see more of as the development of AI generates uncertainty about what is for real or not. As proof of authenticity, the physical materials used in the animation also exist, which all too rarely get a place in the final work.

My fascination with animation was born from my feeling of the inadequacy of the blank canvas. During my years at art schools, I felt that my paintings became meaningless; I simply did not master painting. I needed to add something more. And animation had everything I lacked—movement, sound, and endless possibilities. Therefore, it may feel wrong that animation easily falls into the category of animated film, which is just one of many different applications. In animated film, the story is often primary and the animation secondary. Even at animation festivals, I can feel that the animation is subordinate. A beautifully animated film has little to say if it does not have a good story. It can feel a bit sad when you know how much work goes into every animated second. Perhaps that's why I want to find a way to create where animation is central and can stand on its own. In handmade animation, there is a kind of storytelling in every detail. The choice of material, how it is processed, and how it is animated create multifaceted storytelling and open up for interpretation on several layers.

For Urban chronicles I have, among other things, three horses to animate. Black silhouettes on glass tables. The resistance to entering animation is palpable and can perhaps be likened to a kind of stage fright. I find different reasons to avoid starting the animation, and the resistance is almost physical. Probably because the work is so focused that you lose track of reality around you. I remember the shock I got when I accidentally activated the wrong camera while standing at the animation table. Instead of photographing my paper figures, my computer took pictures of me instead. It became an animated film of myself with such deep furrows on my forehead that I had never seen, and in every picture, I bit my nails with my hand in the most peculiar angles. Even though I had stopped biting my nails many years earlier. I was so scared to see myself like that, so I threw away the film, which I deeply regret. It would have been a fantastic documentation of life as an animator.

Stop-motion animation is not only mentally demanding, it is physical work. With the back bent over the table, the body becomes almost animalistic. Just as the reflex to open your mouth when feeding a child, you mimic the movements you are trying to capture. With your hands, you get to know your animation object, and with each movement, you get closer to both a personality and the physics of the character you are trying to bring to life. I transform into the puppet and end up outside my own body to such an extent that it is forgotten. Like once when I animated a rat in a long corridor. In the way of the scene were both the camera and the lights, and it was difficult to reach the puppet standing far into the set. The more than 500 movements required for the puppet's movement meant as many forward bends to reach it. Completely absorbed by the animation, I forgot about my large, heavy pregnant belly that followed along with every forward bend. The next day, I had developed inflammation in my back which remained for many weeks.

After much resistance, I finally managed to start the animation of the first horse. I started over so many times that the paper became wrinkled and worn. But some problems can be turned into something positive. My horse therefor got a patina that suits the first scene, which, among other things, is to depict the horse's laborious life as a draft animal pulling heavy carriages in hilly Stockholm. The fact that it became a little worn and used served a purpose.

Unlike digital animation, handmade animation has an additional layer in the form of tactility. Material is a big part of the expression and makes it experienced with more senses than just our eyes. A material can be used to create a feeling of a completely different material. Like when I was looking for a material to build street lamps with. I found a thicker black paper that had a texture resembling forged iron but also had a slight metallic sheen. But often, it is precisely the specific material that should be represented fairly. Wool should feel prickly and light, and a puppets face made of wool will both feel woolly but can also be perceived as smooth skin.

The Subconscious

Working with materials functions as a tool to realize ideas. But it also works as an extension of the body, as a link to something unknown within us. Often, things are shaped that we don't understand where they come from, like a voice from our subconscious.

During the first year of my education, I worked on a project that I called "Leftovers." My idea was to recreate my memories from the time when I worked as a young person in home care. The encounters with the elderly made a big impression on me, and I was touched by their vulnerability and exposure. I began to build a puppet out of balsa wood that nicely represented the lightness and fragility in an old person's body. Like a bird's skeleton beneath its plumage. More realistic animation puppets tend to become quite uncomfortable, which may be a reason why it took me a while to finish the head. But there might have been another explanation. During my first meeting with my supervisor, Martina Muntzing, we talked for a long time about everything other than my project, and we shared experiences of having an aging father. Suddenly, she said she believes it's my father I've built, but I was still stuck in the idea that it was a patient from home care. But when the head emerged from the piece of wood I carved, I realized that it was indeed my dad. His aging has sparked many emotions and thoughts that I believe were unconsciously expressed through my processing of the wood. I remember that in the beginning of working on the puppet, I often cut myself on my fingers, and the blood made ugly marks in the wood. It reminded me of my dad who has always been careless with his hands and often had wounds from nailing or sawing. A little seed grew and formulated. I believe that all creation exists somewhere between the conscious and the unconscious, in a kind of subconsciousness.

Once I reconciled with the fact that it was my father, ideas flowed instead, and I created both an interactive piece where my father puppet processes his memories through animated slideshows activated by touching fishes made of copper wire, but also a mixed media piece, where the puppet was scanned and animated in 3D. I made my father dance, as I imagine he has always wanted to dance. He danced swing alone in a black space in the form of a hologram.

The Techniques

The concept of material hierarchies feels relevant when I look at the results of my work. But I also ponder on what the different techniques can contribute to.

The first set is entirely hand-built, creating a fitting skewness and a sense of human presence. But for the subsequent scenes, depicting industrialism and the emergence of the modern city, I didn't just want to find suitable materials but also appropriate techniques. Instead of the motley handmade feel, I could process the materials mechanically, as a parallel to the time's transition from craftsmanship to more automated processes. The work thus shifted from my hands to the computer. I spent endless time creating illustrations for the facades and an equal amount of time was devoted to engraving and cutting them with Konstfack's large laser cutter.

The relationship I developed with the large machine can almost be likened to a secret romance. Several days a week, I sneaked down to snatch spare times, on graces. I borrowed a teacher's key card and had another teacher's login. The large machine reminds me of an old tractor or a faithful workhorse. We argued and became friends, and I spent countless hours watching as the laser beam swiftly and smoothly follow my drawings. Together, we fill the city street with beautiful facades, which provided a great contrast to the earlier cardboard houses.

In this scene, even the digital animation can reveal itself. The arduous life in the early 19th century gradually became easier with smoother public transport and other modern conveniences. Animating the first carriages by hand made sense. Journeys by horse-drawn carriage bumped along the cobblestones, and stop-motion animation tends to be a bit jerky, which fit well. The last carriage is a tram running on rails. Its movement is therefore represented between two digital keyframes, creating a smooth and even animation. The expressions differ, but so do the techniques used. Stop-motion animating the carriage would require nearly 250 movements and take at least a day. Animating the same movement digitally takes only a few minutes. Transitioning to digital techniques and looking back at the cumbersome stop-motion animation has some resemblance to Strinberg's description of Stockholm's development.

"Also, the agony of walking on these streets made the distances seem so long, longer than the now much more extensive Stockholm," "For a Södermalm resident, it could take years before they reached Kungsholmen or Ladugårdslandet."

Stop-motion animation and digital animation are two completely different techniques but can work very well together. However, there's a conservative culture within stop-motion animation where digital solutions shouldn't be revealed but rather mimic the 100-year-old workflow. Despite almost all handmade animation undergoing digital processing, it must not be visible. But one can't deny that digital animation offers fantastic possibilities and radically simplifies the work. For me, it was happenstance that I started blending techniques. I was working on short animated segments for a children's series, and in two weeks, I had to produce 2 minutes of animation. There was no time to build sets for my characters to move in. Instead, I built miniature sets and animated my characters against a green screen.

It became something else, but not necessarily worse. Since then, I gladly mix techniques, and I enjoy it most when the cumbersome stop-motion animation enters the computer. Urban chronicles is an animation that hinges on digital possibilities, and the visibility of the digital also serves a purpose.

The Room

Animation can not only depict spatiality but also physically create space. In my project Urban chronicles the idea is to open up the existing space through the animation projected on a 4-meter-long wall. The animation itself has a perspective into the image to extend the room, as if we are there.

The three-dimensional sets create depth, much like my paper dioramas. The multiple layers of cut white paper don't look like much at first, but with the right lighting, something entirely different emerges. However, lighting is also one of the most challenging parts of stop-motion animation as it can determine how the animation is perceived.

The animation includes a sunrise and two sunsets. They are created by moving a spotlight up or down behind the set to recreate the natural shadows and light of a real sun. On the computer screen, it looks nice, but the idea is for you to actually feel the changes in the day, as well as the intended seasonal changes.

The lust

the work is going slowly and I doubt if it will ever be finished

But it is, after all, a driving force that stands above all others. Lust.

The desire to put your hands in the materials, the desire to try new solutions, the desire to see how something unknown emerges. A childlike eagerness that I sometimes doubt still exists. But suddenly it awakens.

I wake up early in the morning and run down to the yard in the cold April morning. I can't wait to see if I've managed to get the iron spikes that will become downspouts to rust in the dewy grass. At night, I sit up late and fold paper streetlights or crumple painter's paper into cobblestones. However, curiosity easily makes me lose sight of the whole and focus on completely the wrong things. Instead of finishing the scene that will be filmed in a few days, I go to the store to buy a gas burner. I just have to see how the iron spikes are affected by being heated. It takes time for the spikes to turn that red and beautiful, and then I can't help but read about the iron atoms sliding symmetrically over each other and transforming the material from magnetic to non-magnetic.

It's an almost manic feeling that ignores the chaos and reality outside.

The end

I look at my almost finished work, putting the final touches on my text. I have never before articulated my work or even considered my process. Instead, I have avoided thinking about it and focused instead on how I can do everything differently next time, do everything right. Never again will I create such chaos, never again work so unplanned.

But the words I felt compelled to write have given me insights. This is my way of working, chaos is and always has been my companion. When I come home to my neglected and messy apartment, I look at the mess with a kind of tenderness and self-respect. Even though it may not seem like it, one can actually navigate quite well in chaos. It may take more time and energy, but along the way there is much worth discovering.

The text has been a companion through my work. It has stressed me and demanded of me. But it has also served a therapeutic function and helped me understand the chaos.

I have been as honest as I can with the text, but it is far from a truth about my work or my process. Rather, I believe the text can take away from the work the direct experience. I have not created for people to think about the choices of material or technique, or ponder the underlying chaos.

I have made an animation to be experienced, interpreted, and questioned.

It should stand on its own!

A big thank you to my ex husband, Ola Schubert, and my daughter, Vilda Schubert. Without your help and support, Urban chronicles would never have been possible.

The text is inspired by what I have listened to, read, or experienced during the work on Gatans Rum in the spring of 2024. 

Bo Rothstein – en timid retsticka Söndagsintervjun Sveriges radio 26 feb 2021

Bogdan Szyber Fauxthentication – Konst, Akademi & Upphovsrätt 2020

Sami Said – om tvångstankar, flykt och pennans makt Söndagsintervjun Sveriges radio 

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Dimmer på upplysningen- text, form och formgivning Andreas Nobel

Röda Rummet, August Strindberg 1879

Byta däck, Vigdis Hjort 2022

Faysa Idle- poeten som bröt tystnaden Söndagsintervjun Sveriges radio 26 mars 2024