Finishing date: September 2023.
I happened to be in town running some errands one Saturday. I happened upon one of the smaller art galleries in Bergen, Hordaland Kunstsenter. There was a participatory glassblowing art project happening there. I had nowhere I urgently needed to be, and it seemed interesting, so I entered the gallery, struck up a conversation with one of the artists, and learned that they still had some spots left in the project.
And so, without having planned to, I ended up joining a glassblowing art project. It was called “Arkiv av pust” (‘archive of breath’ in Norwegian). The participants, including me, were helped to blow three glass bubbles in a small, portable furnace: breath made visible through glass.
Having such precise control on my breathing. Not blowing just a little, that would not move the glass. Instead, with force, but slow, sensing the shift in pressure when the melted glass started to give way. It reminded me of classical choir singing, controlling volume and length of notes through the breaths we would take, conductors who made us mark down exactly where and how we were supposed to breathe, because, a choir’s breath can also be part of the music. It was fascinating.
A couple of days later, we were asked to return, to pick the one of our bubbles that we liked the most, bring it with us to different places in town and reflect on a couple of questions. I went to Nordnes, a neighborhood in central Bergen, and wrote:
As far as you can go on Nordnes. This was one of the first places I found in Bergen. There is so little green here. The city is dense. Someone must have decided differently, here, planted beeches, a long time ago, oak, maple and elm. Allowed them to stay. A lung in the city, the crowns catching the wind from the sea.
They are reflected in clear surface of the glass. I turn my frozen breath, it catches the wind. Starts a dialogue with the tree crowns. A soprano harmony added to the melody of the leaves.
I can land here, suddenly. Between sea and trees. The breath cool and smooth in my hand.
I am asked to bring the bubble to a community I belong to. I bring it to my favorite yarn store, write:
A community: We, who make things out of yarn. I forget time, in the store among all the colors. Others walk around me, quiet conversations about gauges and needle sizes. We share a language, an activity that gives us space to breathe.
That is how I create. With wool, colors, agile fingers. Blowing glass is foreign to me. Here: The hard thing created from breathing. The soft, created through movement. The contrast.
And finally, I bring it home:
Sometimes, it is hard to find the time to breathe. Just breathe. To sit, still, and let my body land, calmly, into itself. And it is not about me not having the time. It is that I know that as soon as I stand up again to continue with my day, the tasks will line up in a line of responsibilities and problems to solve, like the pearls in a necklace. Being in that, it is hard to still my mind. Even with my body sitting.
I am having that kind of week.
My glass-covered breath lies on my kitchen table, waiting for me to find the breath in my body. To catch up. To see something, in the emptiness that is embraced by the spherical glass.
I cannot. I am stuck in the everyday.
After a week of bringing the breath of glass to places, we return to the gallery. All the participants, and the two collaborating artists who are leading the project. We take a walk together, a long line of people holding bubbles of glass, walking through the streets and small parks of Nordnes in the setting autumn sun.
And then we have dinner together, sitting in the gallery at a long table, eating from hand-made art-ceramics, and talk, and listen, are surprised and inspired and delighted.
All in all: A very nice experience. Trying something new, reflecting on it, sharing both time and food and thoughts with others.
And being a participant, delightful! I am usually the one organizing meetings like these, for research and not art, but still. A joy, being present and not having to oscillate between now and the big picture.
Katja Malmborg 