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Yesterday morning, my grandmother died. My mother’s mother. She died quietly in her nursing home in Bergen. I remember when I was four years old, and I was in her house in Fana outside Bergen. She was living in her big house that she had built with my grandfather in the 60s. I was sitting in a little chair, a children’s chair made of wood, and I had this little table that I was eating from.

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I remember having the big book of faerie tales – of Asbjørnsen & Moes collection of folk stories from around Norway – with me on that table. I would look at the classic illustrations and I would try to make up my mind what story I wanted my grandmother to read for me that evening.

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I remember when my grandmother, who was an art historian and author, would take me to the University of Bergen close to her work at the Museum, and we would eat in the canteen at the Arts faculty. I remember being allowed into the part of the canteen that is for employees only, and I remember the sandwiches with brown goat cheese I would eat there, and the little boxes of yoghurt.

My grandmother meant so much for me while I grew up. My mother and stephfather were not great readers, but my grandmother’s house was filled with books. I remember when she still lived in Fana. I would walk around the house, look at the books. As I began to be able to read myself, I would start reading in the books. At random. And I would be told – over and over – to remember to place the book at the same place where it was. To not make a mess out of her books.

My grandmother was a very strong woman. A few decades ago, while she was the house wife with four girls to take care of, she would start studying again. She would eventually take a doctorate’s degree in art history. I remember reading in the book she got published of her phd paper – it was about Norwegian wall carpets. And I particularly remember her other presentation – which was to be of a topic of her own choosing – and (I cry while I write this) I remember the pictures she showed me. The pictures she took in Zurich of this graffiti artist who went by the name of “Der Sprayer von Zurich”. She happened to visit Zurich at a time when he was very active, and she took these beautiful pictures of his paintings.

Here is a small description of Harald Naegeli’s fate:

In September 1977 strange “wire frame” figures where appearing in all the concrete walls of the city of Zurich (Switzerland), always fitting in nicely with surroundings, and only painted with black paint. A vast majority of the residents of Zurich did love theses graffiti which they did see as an embellishment of the ugly grey concrete walls.

But a minority (mostly the owner of the walls…), the police and the Justice department did not see it that way.

The police went searching for the unknown painter. And in May 1979, he was arrested. About 900 paintings where then counted on the walls of the city of Zurich. Harald Naegeli fled to Germany to avoid trial. But Heinz Kreiss, the Attorney general for Zurich, was determined to get Harald in jail, notwithstanding of all protest from cultural circles and the people of Zurich.

In both countries (Switzerland and in Germany) Harald Naegeli was then seen and understood as an great artist. Museums and art galleries were exposing his work. Great artists such as Jean Tinguely and Bernard Luginbuhl did start an hunger strike in protest for the action of the Justice department. The Swiss TV made a special program to show his work. He also received a prize “for his outstanding contribution for the environment of Zurich”.

(source)

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My grandmother would once talk with Naegeli and he would tell her that she had one of the most beautiful collection of photos of his work.

This was my grandmother. Academic, always curious. Mixing her interest for the classical with the modern.

I had a rather strained relationship with her at times. We had arguments. When I lived in Bergen (1998-06) she used to invite me for dinner at these nice restaurants in Bergen, and we would talk. I would tell her about whatever I was doing at the time – be it being the active student politician at my university, travelling across Europe as part of my international responsabilities – or I would tell her about my eternal quest for ‘what I wanted to do when I grew up’.

All of yesterday I tried to find pictures of her, here. Seems like I have none left. I remember she had given me tons of books in the past, I only have a few left.

I will go to Bergen to her funeral – I do not know the date yet but it seems like it will be monday or tuesday next week. The whole clan will gather.

Last I visited my grandmother was last christmas. I knew back then that it would probably be the last time I saw her. She was senile, she couldn’t even recognize me. I hugged her, she would not recognize me.

My grandmother, the artist. She would write these poems or plays, and she would have them published, and she would have her friend, Arild Haaland, which is an important character himself – I will write about him later on – write about her work in the local newspaper. She used to tell me he was one of the few who really noticed her work.

But she would keep at it, book after book. In the end she had 17 books published. Plays, poems, or a book about angels.

My grandmother died yesterday, 88 years old. I will talk more about her here, and I will talk with relatives about her. The last years she was stuck in that home for the elderly, and she hated it.

My grandmother was stubborn.

She kept me sane during my childhood. With books, with folk stories, with visits to museums.

One of the things she taught me was to observe. To take notice. Of the life around me. While she was alive I did not manage to fully do that. Maybe after she now has died I will be able to.

Now, right now, I miss Norway. My own country. I miss Bergen. Good I will be going there in a few days for her funeral.