IMPULSES – OR THE CONNECTION BETWEEN KURT JOHANNESSEN HEADING THE
BALL STRAIGHT INTO THE GOALIE’S ARMS ON MINDE FIELD, 15 MARCH 1995,
AND HIS INCREASING INTEREST IN ASTRONOMY IN SUBSEQUENT YEARS
© Øystein Hauge
Wonder is the point of departure. Do you believe in coincidence? Or in
luck, experienced synchronicity and manifestations? To Kurt Johannessen,
all coincidences are akin to miracles. Both categories represent a mystery
that changes our reality in greater or lesser ways. Indeed, we live in
the ordinary world, but remember: The ordinary arises from and rests upon
a foundation of the extraordinary. Spirit and flesh, soul and personality,
the uncommon and the mundane, magic, work and play – these are all
aspects of one reality, an unstoppable stream of energy and events in
a fundamentally unified existence.
In several books, the sociologist Peter L. Berger tries to show how initially
religious themes live on in secularised forms, and come to establish new
mystical-symbolic constructions. The Human being is, in some strange sense,
“out of balance with itself”, claims Berger. This may be seen
in a human being’s relation to his or her own body and to the world.
Because we are all “incompletely programmed”, we are never
able to find rest in ourselves. A human world must be construed, repeatedly.
This world is, of course, culture.1 We take it for granted, but in reality,
it is the most frail of all worlds on the planet. This is why we need
professionals to maintain it, to unplug it and start it anew. To everything
there is a season. And here the artist enters. The artist is a custodian
with a football or a master key in his tool chest.
The avant-gardist under Beitelen
In the top of a tree
sits a performance artist. A man holding a pen in his mouth walks around
the tree. Simultaneously as the man circles the tree, the artist turns
such that his face is always turned towards the man on the ground.
The question is: After walking once around the tree, has the man also
walked once around the artist?
Let us say the artist is named Kurt Johannessen, and I am the man with
the pen. We did some rounds together, Kurt and I, in the spring and summer
of 2006. Kurt fabulated, I formulated. Kurt breathed in, I breathed out.
Kurt talked and dreamed, I tried to simplify, to get Kurt’s sophisms
down on paper and leave his creative wrong conclusions for others to evaluate
and judge. We were like mythos and logos, song and text, poetry and prose.
An uneven battle. Mythos always had the upper hand. It was as if the crux
of the issue ran away every time I tried to pin it to paper. The words
scurried hither and yon, and ran down blind alleys. The links of logic
fell apart. The text had to be built out of fragments.
Nevertheless, I believe I got most of it. About his childhood in Dale,
Norway, surrounded by precipitous mountains that in the boy’s imagination,
always threatened to fall while he ate breakfast. Never during lunch or
dinner. Always at daybreak, when sleep tarried in his limbs and fragments
of dreams lurked behind his eyelids.
The course of a person’s life has its high points and turning points,
its “epiphanies” – forces beyond ones control intervene
in everyday existence and change it for all time. Was it perhaps Beitelen,
the steep crag reigning over his family’s house in Dale, which incited
the intrigue in Kurt’s art?
One day, sitting alone at the breakfast table, the thought struck
him that he should check to ensure whether the threatening mountain was
sufficiently balanced. Actually, he was quite sure it was. For bygone
millennia it had failed to collapse – why this was so, he thought,
must be because its backside was considerably heavier than its front.
Like a saggy beanbag. But he was wrong. Terribly wrong. Beitelen was mercilessly
steep on all sides. Thus nature and the landscape became something more
than mere visual shapes for the young Kurt. They began to grow in all
directions: into the sky, down into the earth’s magma, and into
the grownup artist’s life, his intestines and bloodstream. This
was an experience of fear and trembling, but also of joy. For after the
initial shock had subsided, there came a dawning assurance that he was
capable of giving form to this intensity for life.
The story could continue. Johannessen told about his time at the National
Academy of Fine Art, Bergen, in the early 1980s, where he started cautiously
with fine art printing, involving specifically workshop-based media, but
gradually stepped into the imprecise “interface between media”,
and experimented with installations, artist’s books and performance.
1984 saw his debut at the Annual Autumn Exhibition, with one of his (then)
so characteristic “earth works” – a dramatic and highly
animated performance, in which light, dark, earth and breath comprised
the most important elements. The Earth Book came out at about
the same time, a collection of “earthsounds” codified with
pencil in Kurt Johannessen’s own shorthand.
Inspired by avant-garde artists such as Yves Klein, Joseph Beuys, Robert
Fripp and Brian Eno, Kurt Johannessen began to cultivate his artistic
expression as a process of awareness more than as objects. With the help
of refined experimental methods, where “duration” was an important
criterion, he could expand art’s space of action so as to include
a multiplicity of operations. In 1985, in the crypt of St. Paul Catholic
Church, Bergen, he stood on a chair, neighed like an excited stallion,
and threw himself into thin air! Kurt Johannessen no longer felt anchored
to the earth and to matter. The law of gravity was rescinded. He could
begin to draw invisible circles with his head, directly over a desert
or a glacier, or in a forest at night.
I peered at the notebook. Metaphors, symbols and allegories swarmed on
the paper. Page after page was filled with mental sketches (earth, water,
moon…) and art historical cross-references (religion, rituals, gestures,
performance…), places (nature, the village, the city…) and
epochs (Romanticism, Modernism, Postmodernism…). How to map all
this? How could I give the reader a fairly representative picture of what
I experienced as Kurt Johannessen’s artistic program, his strategies
and visions? To give an account of Kurt Johannessen’s original world
of ideas from A to Z would put him in a box, it would shackle one of our
most unpredictable and multi-talented artists to a program that in all
likelihood will continue to challenge the reigning order of things, both
in the artworld and in the “squarer” part of culture. Nevertheless:
The Kurt Johannessen this text is about must necessarily be a Kurt in
a textual room, a figure in a contemporary art history that is
permeated with critique and media attention, such that almost all attempts
to escape become impossible. Even so, expectations of genre will not have
the last word. Just as important are stories about Kurt Johannessen in
an art room, the story about an illusionist in a field of events,
in which cross-references, leaps and discontinuities are more natural
than any linear progression.
Between magic and melancholy
Two well-known Renaissance pictures can serve as a stage setting for Kurt
Johannessen’s artistic mentality. Botticelli’s painting Primavera
(1477–78) and Dürer’s copper etching Melancholia
I (1514). In his article on Botticelli’s Mythologies, E.H.
Gombrich exerts himself to read Primavera in the context of that
era’s magic-religious cosmology. Central to his analysis is a letter
written by the Renaissance Humanist Marsilio Ficino, where various renderings
of the Corpus Mundi (Body of the World) are praised for their beneficial
influence on viewers. The Corpus Mundi is one of art history’s unsolved
mysteries, but most likely it was a large wall or ceiling fresco depicting
magical arrangements of heavenly bodies, such as the Sun, Jupiter and
Venus. Executed correctly, equipped with knowledge and skill (Saturn and
Mars must be avoided!), an artist could control the influence of stars,
which would in turn benefit the public, through robust health and sound
morals.2 In Primavera, we can see a Renaissance visualization
of natural magic, a picture of the world, ordered so as to only transmit
healthy, rejuvenating and “anti-saturnalian” influences to
Dürer’s copper etching represents another form of magic, a
“genuine construed magic” (Yates) linked to mathematics and
natural philosophy, Pythagorean symbolism and complicated astrological
calculations, geometry and Saturn. Here, what appears to be genuine applied
science, based on knowledge of real maths, is added to the Renaissance
magician’s “tool chest”. “Melancholia sits at
a construction site, surrounded by tools for creative activity, but she
dwells upon the sad, dark feeling of not having accomplished anything.
Her wings are folded”, writes the philosopher Kjersti Bale, in her
thesis Melancholia as a Literary Configuration.3 The picture’s
melancholic figure is a “genius” who finds herself at the
first stage of a rising, aspiring movement. In notes Dürer left to
posterity, he writes that there are false aspects in our knowledge; darkness
is so deeply ingrained in us that we make mistakes, even when we seek
after knowledge. This would be a good epithet for Melancholia I.
To place Kurt Johannessen in a Renaissance tradition can swing in several
directions. Classical philosophical problems remain steadfast. It is never
too late to revitalize the thought contents in old traditions. In a culture
such as ours – where there seems to be overwhelming agreement about
the impossibility of having a perspicuous view of existence, that existence
is fragmented into conflicting goals and values – there is a call
for a deeper principle of unity in and behind sensible, empirical reality.
It would be tempting to flee to a past with a souled cosmos, where specially
chosen people could intervene in nature and steer its intrinsic powers
and energies. Kurt Johannessen however follows a different strategy. He
is a contemporary artist with a critical task, namely, to surmount the
divisions between intuition and logic, nature and humanity. He achieves
this “Mission Impossible” against all odds. His performances
are successful because they make visible a field on the verge of disappearing
– a magical impulse vis a vis the world.
“EVERYTHING IS THE SAME, IT JUST LOOKS DIFFERENT /
EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT, IT JUST LOOKS THE SAME”
Inside one of Johannessen’s recent works, a mirrored corridor where
words surround us in an unending repetition, the artist’s task takes
on a concrete, visible form. Everything rests on the premises of sense
experience. The message is sensed more than read. The movement oscillates,
from the inner to the outer to the inner… in an unending loop. Dream-like,
empty, but still with room for everything. It is only a matter of stretching
On the outskirts of all sciences, we find one or another uncontrollable
nomadic character with an artistic disposition. Some people ascribe great
significance to them, when it comes to explaining scientific revolutions.
Perhaps this is an exaggeration. But it is more than likely that without
them, many deep insights would be unthinkable. Against this background,
Kurt Johannessen becomes a ponderer, a thinking artist, a pictor doctus,
who, manages to create emphatic art for thought, on the basis of somewhat
The art historian Dag Sveen uses a kind of structuralizing theory for
Kurt Johannessen’s highly diverse production. By emphasizing striking
shapes such as the circle and the sphere – first as constructive
structures early in his career (a good example is The Second Air 2
from 1988), and later on as deconstructed and reconstructed “cosmic”
events in works such as Sleep (1997), Dweeh (1999) and
Untitled (1999) – Kurt Johannessen’s world acquires
both direction and a framework.4 The direction is vertical, that is, down
to earth but directed towards the heavens (as in Zeth 1 and 2,
1993/97), and the framework is horizontal, i.e., internally focused as
well as distanced (as in The Twelfth Conversation, 2002). Now
and then, what is concentrated is united with what is expressive. A good
example of this may be found in Dag Sveen’s discussion of Head
with Open Eyes (1994). Here Johannessen sat on the waterfront at
Lista lighthouse. Partly buried in a mound of rocks, he gazed out to sea.
Around his head was fastened a plastic tube filled with water and live
fish. The tube covered his eyes like an absurd pair of glasses; nature
was simultaneously near but distant, focused but distorted.
Johannessen’s universe is, however, not only geometric, it is largely
anthropological, in the sense of being subjective, bodily and speculative.
The French philosopher Maurice Merleau-Ponty, in his book Phenomenology
of Perception, distinguishes between a “geometric room”
and an “anthropological room”.5 The geometric room is easy
to recognize. Here we move about in a stabile configuration of elements,
a perspicuous set of almost universal rules. The anthropological room
is different, for there the body makes the decisions. A body is defined
according to its tasks, situations and completed actions, a body is the
precondition for time and space, or, as Merleau-Ponty puts it: “A
body that occupies time and space”. Related to the performative
art scene, we can say that viewers no longer stand in front of an object,
rather, they allow themselves to be surrounded by a process of meaning,
or a production of symbols – a work “under construction”.
The dual performances Whispering and Silence, first
presented in 1998 at the (then) Bergen Art Society, now, in later years,
appear to be two of Johannessen’s key works. This was the first
time he provided only the manuscript and staging, while others provided
the action. Approximately 300 children participated in Whispering,
whereas 35 elderly people participated in Silence. Before the
dual event the children were asked to think about something they believed
was important. In the space of a week, six to nine children at a time
laid on their backs, some for 10 minutes, others for a whole hour, in
one of the gallery’s large rooms, and whispered their personal thoughts
into large paper trumpets. Simultaneously, in the room next door, the
artist had installed five tons of ice from Jostedal Glacier. The elderly
participants walked or sat around the ice, silently reading to themselves
from books with white dust jackets.
“The pieces need no further explanation. They were pictures of themselves,
as everyone could see, and dealt with age and human qualities”,
answered Johannessen, when I asked for a deeper explanation the following
year.6 True enough. The contents were clearly linked to a psychology of
aging, from the initiative and excess energy of early school age, to a
more vulner-able segment of life, where life experience and in-depth understanding
are constantly threatened by physical decay. But this is just words, not
the expression itself. Whispering and Silence are remembered
most definitely as more than mere words. For this viewer, there and then
in the middle of life, it was a kind of active experience, an experiment
that punctuated a difference, an experience that in theory neither allows
itself to be fully understood nor explained. These well-tempered performances
addressed spiritual as well as existential aspects inherent in the life
projects of human beings. For my own part, it seemed as though Kurt Johannessen,
with these works, tried to grasp hold of what I in practice believe,
without drawing upon metaphysical and theological arguments. To be a human
being today is largely a self-initiated project, seldom is it a ready-made
solution packaged in a normative context.
An installation at Hordaland Art Centre in 2004, Open Eyes and Closed
Eyes, took its point of departure in Kurt Johannessen’s hypnotic
story with the same name. Once again the viewer was drawn into an unending
story, where words became shuffled a bit from side to side, and where
the ending was seamlessly sewn into the beginning. “That is how
it was. That is how it is. When did you close your eyes last?” A
soothing narrator massaged your thoughts while you wandered about the
gallery, viewing the numerous rectangles of red light through special
glasses that made all the contours fuzzy. A wall of mirrors, strategically
placed in the middle of the installation, transferred your own shadow-picture
back to the red light. The picture captured. Words from the hidden loudspeaker
paralysed you: The pictures become more complex and more real. They
are still fuzzy, but you can recognize what they are. That is how it was,
that is how it is.
This was yet another interactive experiment; an exploratory use of language
as a means, a device. A text arranged like a room that locked the viewer
into the work. It was literally about being integrated into language,
about words functioning like mirrors and lights. About sensing nuances
or a word with a particularly subtle character. In short, this was a speculative
experiment not grounded on empirical fact, but nevertheless fully reasonable
in any subjective sense of the word.
A Playful Fool
With all his scepticism of strict intellectual analysis, Kurt Johannessen
is nevertheless not completely devoid of philosophical reflection. While
touring Japan in 1996, he was immediately attracted by “the generous
emptiness” in Zen Buddhist landscaping. Zen is, as we know, a practical
art of living. A spirituality that emphasizes returning to “original”
human nature, and to reality in its “suchness”. Zen is alert
presence. Kurt Johannessen experienced the sand and stone gardens of Kyoto
as optimal expressions for this attitude. Gardens with specially selected
rocks placed in asymmetrical rectangles of raked sand often give the initial
impression of being untouched nature or wild beaches, but eventually one
begins to seek a system in the openings between the gravel ocean and rock
islands. Perhaps there is a secret meaning, but it always slips away.7
The Japanese call this bonseki, or “cultivating stones”. For
the author of Jordboka (The Earth Book), who knew the
sounds of the earth, and who had spent years of his artistic life transcribing
them into his own shorthand, this was pure déjà vu.
Zen in text form (such as in koan and haiku poetry) comes to expression
through small glimpses into a universe where humour and seriousness are
equally important. Behind this intense effort to find meaning there is
a playful author’s voice: “Many words give many thoughts/but
do not lead anywhere”.8 Those who are learned and cultivated have,
according to Taoism, lost contact with what is original, while simple,
primitive people have retained – or found their way back to –
what is original, and are therefore in harmony with Tao.
Outside of everything is nothing. Everything borders on nothing. Everything
has its limitations. The border between everything and nothing we call
a fog ball. The lecture Everything and Nothing was Bergen School
of Architecture’s contribution to the Research Days 2004. Kurt Johannessen
drew pictures and explained. This was a scientific thought-game where
the imagination masked itself in the guise of academia. Yet another of
the artist’s many hallmarks is that he turns small absurdities into
surprising improbabilities: The fog ball is a thin layer on the surface
of everything. It is delimited between an outer and an inner membrane
of fog. This fog ball is not nothing. Neither is it in everything.
Several of Kurt Johannessen’s numerous artist’s books, such
as Encounters (2001) and Other Discoveries (2007), may
be seen as Zen-inspired practical notes, in the sense that he simply and
foolishly tries to surmount the distinctions between those things which
are determined by nature and those determined by culture. He does this
by trying to write his frustrations away: Humanity’s journey
towards understanding the dimensions of the universe encounters a tear
(from Encounters). The soap bubble’s disappearing act
(from Other Discoveries).
Poetic science and the art of making something manifest
An important aspect of Kurt Johannessen’s experimental method is
that the distinction between everyday events and the unbelievable is erased.
The mundane becomes fantastic and the fantastic becomes mundane. There
is therefore a democratization of the unbelievable, and this is a natural
consequence of humanity usually appearing as the centre of art, at least
as far as Johannessen is concerned. As such, nothing is more human and
mundane than the unfinished project Skansemyren Football Club 1992–2014.
To make a long story short, this is about investing artistic energy into
the traditions of amateur football (soccer), and transforming game rules
into creative energies. For example, one could include the mathematician
/ meteorologist Edward Lorentz (discoverer of the “butterfly effect”)
as one of the club’s venerable ancestors, along with local hero
Roald “Kniksen” Jensen, or operate thus-far unknown “gleam-threads”
into player’s eyes. “Football with a gleam in the eye”
is a game played according to the rules of Chaos Theory. It is a logical
game and plays with the physical laws we have become familiar with through
phenomena such as black holes in the universe.
“The scientific experiment stopped serving the quest for truth and
creative activity when art and science went their separate ways”,
wrote the German sociologist and historian of science, Max Weber, in his
article “Science as a Call”, from 1919.9 Completely at odds
with common opinion, Weber claims that science appropriated the experimental
method from art. Here it is tempting to go full circle and claim that
Kurt Johannessen has stolen the experiment back from science; he has reinstated
it in its old role – as a means for investigating reality in order
to reveal the truth. In Kurt Johannessen’s artistic practice, experiments
opens up for reality, whereas so-called normal science uses experiments
to isolate reality, to cordon it off. Kurt Johannessen dreams about a
new substance, an inexplicable manifestation in the test tube. The scientist
trusts only what he himself has put into the tube.
A manifestation can seem to happen by coincidence, it has an aura of magic
about it, and therefore appears to be something miraculous. Like when
you win the lottery exactly at the same time as your bank account hits
zero, or when you run into the person you are secretly in love with on
a street corner in a foreign city. The everyday begins to dance. By drawing
attention to such manifestations the word becomes enchanted.10 Kurt Johannessen’s
catalogue is full of just this sort of small and large everyday miracle:
from the video The Egg (2003), where, in the manner of an amateur
magician, he causes an egg to levitate, to more spectacular performances
at the interface between rituals and magic, such as Eighth Speech
and Blu 8 (both from 2005), or Lumen (2006).
Second Conversation (2006) is a series of films showing believers
from various religions concentrated in prayer. All the persons are filmed
with a heat-seeking camera. Their heads shine like candle flames. The
setting is romantic, spooky and fascinating, but it can also be viewed
as a bridge metaphor, between the two cultures of hard science and poetry.
In the video Light (2007), the artist stands inside a forest
at dusk. A light faintly glows from his mouth. Eventually, as darkness
increases, the light intensifies. The installation Second Memory
(2007) is about dust, insignificant amounts that merge to form a sort
of language. Dust cultivation.
It is almost impossible to not notice an increasing use of holy signs
in Kurt Johannessen’s latest works, e.g., ceremonial performances
with water, light and incandescence, in the context of the body. “And
God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night”, says
Genesis 1:5. “Lumen Christi!” the Catholic deacon sings, as
he lights the great Easter candle at the start of Easter Vigil. “For
dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.” Stories about passing
on light or a lamp are also characteristic for many types of Zen literature.
There are, e.g., metaphors for Zen’s unbroken succession, from the
present master back to Buddha himself. These texts are also intended to
function as concrete expressions for awakening and inspiration: “At
his birth a golden light filled the room and disappeared into his mouth.
Therefore he is called the Drinker of Light.”11
Notwithstanding, it is too simplistic to claim that Kurt Johannessen is
a particularly religious artist. His art has more to do with relating
to a universe of imagination, which includes chaos theories and football,
creation myths and the implosions of quantum physics. His works seem to
tend towards a system, but it is almost impossible to say exactly which
perspectives would make it possible to grasp them systematically. Slightly
more than one-hundred years ago, when several Norwegian artists (including
Edvard Munch) went to their work excited by ideas of protoplasm, X-rays,
radio waves and wave motions in ether, we would perhaps have seen an explanation
in that epoch’s Vitalist movement for the phenomenon of Kurt Johannessen.
Today, when this type of over-involvement in art is suspect, and distance
to the work is the ideal, one must follow other game rules, other discourses,
and manipulate art in new ways.
Art, life and everything else
Glancing back to the early 1980s, one of the pioneers of performance art,
Allan Kaprow, claimed that the avant-garde had followed two paths and
therefore could point to two histories, “one of artlike art, and
the other of lifelike art.”12 His own experiences all suggested
that the old conflict between art and life had to be false. The conflict
has nevertheless dominated our Western culture for over two-hundred years,
since early Romanticism. Kaprow’s definition of the two parallel
avant-garde histories is that the one (“artlike art”) envisages
an art separated from life and everything else, while the other (“lifelike
art”) admits that art must be connected with life and everything
This boundary setting can be read as a polemic for an art that integrates
itself into life – in order to become a part of it. It is precisely
what we find in good performances and participatory installations. They
are distanced yet intimate, situations which get an unexpected and surprising
“shot of vitamins” through stage settings and chains of action.
“It is art, but seems closer to life,” writes the veteran
Kaprow. The claim could function as an epithet for almost every work in
this exhibition. In encountering Kurt Johannessen’s world we remain
off balance, confused over the neurotic and mutable challenges of time,
but truly, we are more up to the standard of ourselves than ever before.
1 Homo sapiens hold a special position or status
in the animal kingdom. In contrast to animals – born into a prefabricated
animal world, as it were, with almost fully developed instincts or apparatuses
of sensation and feeling – humans are doomed to live in an open
world. Peter L. Berger: Religion, Samfund og Virkelighed (The
Sacred Canopy), Copenhagen: Lindhard and Ringhof 1974, p.16.
2 “For anyone who gazes at the heavens will imagine that the only
large thing he can see, is the heavens themselves,” wrote Ficino.
Quoted from Frances A. Yates: Modernitetens okkulte inspirasjon,
Pax 2001, p.79.
3 The connection between melancholy and Saturn in Dürer has its point
of origin elsewhere, claims Panofsky, and that is in Ficino’s De
Vita. Kjersti Bale: Melancholia as a Literary Configuration,
The University of Oslo 1996, p.165.
4 “In no other works by KJ has the sphere form been as penetrating
as in the installation Sleep. And in no other of his works has
this form been as distant from each and every metaphysical charge.”
Sveen / Johannessen: Kurt Johannessen, Zeth 2000, p.9.
5 Maurice Merleau-Ponty: Phenomenology of Perception, 1945. Quoted
from Øyet og ånden (The Eye and the Spirit),
Pax 2000, p.120-130.
6 “I myself have two children, and they are in many respects my
teachers. They tell me what is most important.” Hauge / Johannessen:
“Mønstre som forener – Et intervju med KJ” (Patterns
that Unite – An Interview with KJ), Paletten, 2/1999.
7 “The next time the gaze surveys the garden, a wave in the gravel
has disappeared, and two others have exchanged places.” From Alan
W. Watts: Zen – veien (Zen – The Way), Gyldendal
8 From “Hsin-hsin-ming”, ca. 606 AD. Quoted from Notto R.
Thelle: Zen, Gyldendal 2001, p.199.
9 Quoted after Arno Victor Nielsen: Et essay om eksperimentet i videnskab
og kunst (An Essay on the Experiment in Science and Art),
Vestlandets kunstakademi (National Academy of Fine Art, Bergen) 2000.
10 Alver, Gilhus, Mikaelsson and Solberg: Myte, magi og mirakel
(Myth, Magic and Miracle), Pax 1999, p.214.
11 From the collection “Denkoru – About Gautama’s Eye.”
Collected and edited by the monk Kizan Shokin during the fourteenth-century.
Quoted from Norro R. Thelle: Zen, Gyldendal 2001, p.81.
12 We have “art in the service of art, and art in the service of
life,” claimed Kaprow. Quoted from Øystein Hjort: Amerikansk
kultur etter 1945 (American Culture after 1945), Spectrum
/ Copenhagen 1992, p.108-109.
© Øystein Hauge