Blog
Learning by sharing
Sometimes I am allowed to go on an adventure; through writing about it, I learn from and analyse my experiences, and can explore how I can apply the lessons that I have learned. Perhaps you enjoy reading about my musings too!
Below you find my most recent blog posts, which I wrote during my latest adventure on an artist in residency in the Arctic.
1 - An expedition to the Arctic Circle
“It is my sincere pleasure to extend this invitation for you to join our art and science expedition to the High Arctic … Your work is of great interest to our organization and we look forward to this opportunity to help enable your pursuits … We are very pleased to have you aboard!” I read the letter one more time. The words are really there. I get to join an expedition in the Arctic! It was December 2024, when I received this unique invitation. I couldn't wait for the departure date; the countdown felt endless. However, it is now May 2026, and in a few days the time is finally here: the time to step aboard a schooner with which we will sail from Svalbard towards the north. Together with a group of researchers, artists, educators, and innovators, we will embark on this special journey. Each of us with our own project to work on, connected to the unique region we are sailing through. The expedition supports the intersection where art and science meet; it offers an incubator for thinking and experimenting, for researching and developing. And it offers time and space to work together with others in complete isolation on the central and complex issues of these turbulent times. It will be exciting. It will be cold. It will be eerily quiet. And it will most likely be very confronting. I am so incredibly curious to see what will come; so incredibly grateful that I may do this. During the trip, I will keep a blog of our adventure. However, we will have no phone or internet signal on board, and so posts may arrive irregularly.
2 - What to bring towards the North Pole?
What do you bring on an expedition towards the North Pole? For a few weeks now, I have been trying to find the answer to this within 79 x 40 x 33 cm. Merino wool base layers, waterproof boots with a warm inner lining, ecofriendly shampoo, a headlamp, a balaclava, spiked shoes. And much, much, more. In addition to the actual suitcase with physical gear, I am bringing another large backpack with me. A colorful and imaginative backpack. It is packed with creativity, for the project that I will develop during the expedition. It also carries curiosity, for the research that I will conduct. I have included positivity, especially in times when pessimism is hard to shake off. It contains problem-solving skills, to apply in situations that arise during the journey, but also for the more complex global challenges that we, as expedition community, will discuss and work on. I have packed resilience, simply because I find it a little nerve-wracking to go. I also added a number of exercises that can provide calmness and that can bring me back to myself, should the intense life on board with the others in the coming weeks make me a bit too enthusiastic. And my backpack is, of course, full of beautiful memories of the sweet ones I will miss while away. For the 6th time, I reorganize my suitcase. For the umpteenth time, I take a deep breath. The time has come. For real. I am going. I am going on a trip towards the North Pole. I am going on a trip towards the North Pole and I am taking a suitcase, a backpack, double-salted licorice, binoculars, a book, myself, my thoughts; feelings, and all else that is (yet) to come...
3 - Pointed Mountains
Far in the distance, I see white mountains looming up from the dark blue water of the sea. These mountains form the island that I will soon set sail from towards the North Pole. It makes absolute sense that Willem Barentsz named this island ‘Spitsbergen’ (Pointed Mountains) when he landed here in 1596; the landscape is a stark contrast to the Dutch plains where both him ánd I originate from. Nowadays, the island carries the Norwegian name Svalbard, cold coast. Alongside the stories of many explorers of Barentsz’ time and the travellers of today, a few thousand permanent residents and a large group of (temporary) researchers can be found on Svalbard: an area of approximately 62,000 km², of which 60% is covered by glaciers. When I step out of the plane a little while later, I am welcomed by a strong wind that wraps itself around me like a snug cloak. Thanks to the long winters in Canada, I have become quite used to the cold, and after hours of travelling this fresh air is an absolute delight! I take a deep breath in; I can clearly taste the sea salt in the air. With the wind on my cheeks and my large trunk trailing behind me, I walk towards the village of Longyearbyen. I have chosen to travel to Svalbard a few days earlier, so that I can give my body the time and space to acclimatize to this new environment and this very different climate. Unlike the sea climate I know from the Netherlands, it is incredibly dry here: I find myself in the middle of the Arctic desert. Besides the physical aspect, these extra few days also give me time to settle into this unique place; to learn about the land that I am now standing on, the history that it carries, and the diverse influences that cause the island to constantly be the subject of change. After I have picked up the key to my room at the hostel where I stay, I collapse onto my temporary bed. I think the jet lag, combined with walking in the strong sea wind, has caught up with me. Somewhat exhausted I pull the book 'Frostlines' by Neil Shea out of my bag. In his book, Shea combines natural history, anthropology, and travelogues, and explores how the beauty, chaos, and power of change in the far north are reflected in the lives of humans and animals. I brought his book for inspiration, because like Shea, I too will be focusing on the lives of humans and animals; on how strongly we are interconnected and on how much influence we have on one another. In the next few weeks, however, I will not do this through the use of pen and paper, but through the medium of theatre. Theatre, for me, is unique in that it encompasses an active and creative way of thinking and working; it becomes a tool to investigate and learn about ourselves, our communities and our environment. In a time in which our world faces major challenges, I believe that theatre can support us in identifying problems and in actively designing solutions together. Applied Theatre in particular, as a discipline for social change, has great potential as a space for further exploration of ‘real world problems’. It provides the opportunity to ask and answer questions through imagination, embodiment, and storytelling. This artist in residency that I am invited to, at the northernmost point of the earth, gives me the time to work on my PhD research (for more information, see the Research tab on my website), but it also gives me space to develop a theatre performance for young audiences about this very special place on our earth. In the next weeks, I will constantly be connected to the rugged nature of the Arctic region; to the sounds of the sea; to the dry, fresh air; to the high and low-hanging clouds; and hopefully to the other animals that live here. I am convinced that this environment will connect me more deeply with the subjects that my research and creative work focus on, and that this natural setting—in combination with all my creative/researching/teaching/innovative fellow adventurers—will deeply inspire me. But before it is time to board the ship, my body needs a few more hours of sleep… With the sun still high in the sky, I close the dark curtains in front of my window: goodnight midnight sun, see you tomorrow!
4 - To make tangible what is difficult to grasp
“Kggt, kggt. Kggt, kggt.” There! I hear it again! I hold my breath and listen carefully. “Kggt, kggt.” It takes me a few seconds to realise I am not in my own bed and what I hear cannot be the dogs or cats, as they are half a world away from me. I step out of my bed and, still a little sleepdrunk, walk over the cold floor towards the window. From behind the curtain, the sun already peaks through. Here in the Arctic the sun doesn’t go down during the summer months and she has therefore been playing with the shadows on my wall all through the night. When I open the curtains, and my eyes have adjusted to the overflow of light, I see who made the peculiar sound that I woke up from: two reindeer slowly make their way past my window. They look so much smaller than I had expected! Their short stocky bodies and even the way they move remind me of the two sheep I live with at home. The reason that reindeer are so small here on Svalbard has everything to do with their survival on this island. Due to the glaciers and the ground being covered by snow for most of the year, it is hard for these animals to find food and thus a stocky small body is the only way to go. When fresh (tundra) grass is not yet around, lichen is their main food source: they scrape it off the rocks with their bare teeth. A habit that unfortunately almost always leads to starvation, as their teeth wear off, which makes eating no longer possible. It is their biggest threat to deal with; these animals have never had a natural predator thus far. But times are changing and polar bears are slowly finding their way to the reindeer. Although polar bears prefer to eat seal, they have to find food sources elsewhere due to the melting of the ice, meaning the reindeer have moved onto the menu. For a while, I sit in the window sill and observe the two reindeer. They don’t seem to be scared; they curiously stare back at me when they notice me. However, when the cold morning air starts to make me shiver, I unfortunately have to leave these fuzzy neighbours alone. I close the window, grab my day pack and walk towards town. I spend the morning in the Svalbard museum, where I learn more about the geology of the island and the life of those living on the island. The museum also informs its visitors of the immense impact of climate change up here in the north. Although temperatures are rising all over the world, they rise more near the poles than anywhere else. Svalbard is the fastest warming place on earth: five or six times the global average. Photos of the different glaciers around the island over the past years form a strong illustration of these numbers. The photos make me realise once more how important it is to make information from numbers and research visible and tangible. Paul Gaimard, a French naturalist and surgeon, realised this too when he led a French research expedition in the Arctic in the mid 19th century. His expedition set an important benchmark for standard practice in polar research: thorough planning, involvement of many disciplines, international collaboration, and a combination of land and ship-based studies. But besides scientists, Gaimard chose to also bring artists along on his research expedition: his expedition is therefore best known for the lithographs that the artists on board created to document the journey. As an artist, it is often extremely difficult to explain the value or need of our work. In a capitalistic system, art is often diminished to something that simply costs money; brings not enough money back into society and thus can be easily cut. Its ‘soft value’ is hard to capitalize or defend. Yet, without the paintings, the lithos, the writing of earlier humans, and in the case of Svalbard the early explorers, we would never know what had happened, would never have learned about so many important topics. In the next two weeks, our boat of artists will do the same: we will bear witness to this ever changing landscape and bring back visuals, stories and impressions to share, to inspire, to educate and inform others. To make tangible what is difficult to grasp.
5 - Let's do it. Let's go!
On my final morning alone, I decide to go for a last little wander. The town of Longyearbyen is surrounded by mountains and there are a handful of activities to do. There are students cycling up the hill with their backcountry skis tied to their backpacks, in the harbour catamarans are boarded for boat rides, other tourists can be seen with hiking boots and poles, accompanied by a guide with a rifle. The village has a specific perimeter to walk freely; outside of that perimeter chances are that you encounter a polar bear. The odds are small, but they are not to be gambled with, which is why a guide with a rifle is mandatory for those who are venturing out. When I get down to the harbour, I find a small sauna on the dock. It is symbolically called: Svalbad. The little wooden building is well hidden between the metal containers and big cruise ships. After a few days of cold wind, I am ready for some heat. Inside the sauna is a big window that looks out over the stunning mountains across the inlet. I sit down and feel the little building swaying with the waves. I will soon be swaying like this on our expedition boat. It feels rather soothing. While watching the boats going in and out of the harbour, I try to sort out my thoughts. What will I be doing in the next weeks? Do I have a clear enough plan? What if I get sick on the way? Or it turns out there is nobody in the group that connects with me? What if something at home happens and I can’t get off the boat? They are thoughts that come and go, similarly to the different vessels in the harbour in front of me; some thoughts more legit than others. After an hour of steaming and brewing, I slowly lower myself all the way down into the ice cold water of the Arctic. My skin screams. My heart thumps. On the side of the little stepladder I read: “Be careful with the walrus”. I look around and see no walrus. I look down into the dark water beneath me: also no walrus. But you never know, and I therefore quickly climb up. It is also time to go back to my hostel. In half an hour, I will meet my fellow adventurers. Although we have all introduced ourselves in writing on our online trip forum, I can’t wait to meet each and every one of them in real life. They are photographers, writers, sculptors, filmmakers, sound artists, professors, teachers. They come from places such as Austria, Slovenia, Switzerland, New York, London, Paris and even (coincidentally) from a neigbourhing town in Canada. Each of us has been paired up with another person in the group: together we share a small cabin on the boat and will thus be in very close quarters for the foreseeable future. It has been a while since I shared a bunkbed with anyone and I am curious to see who my roommate will be. Will she be a good match for me? Back at the hostel, I meet thirty one new faces: thirty fellow travellers and one expedition leader. It is very quiet in the small room that we have gathered in. I guess I am not the only one who has some flutters in my stomach, in regards to this trip. We listen attentively to the words of our expedition leader: how we will gather down at the docks, meet the other crew members there, move into our cabins, unpack our suitcases, and then finally take to open sea. While I rest my gaze on each and every one of the people in the room, I realise that although they are strangers now, they will all feel strangely familiar in a few weeks time. I will get to know the different creases in their faces; their daily habits and wondrous dreams. Whatever we will experience on this trip, it will probably bond us for life. I feel an exciting shudder running through my veins. Let’s do it. Let’s go!
6 - Dancing with the waves
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I am standing in front of the Rembrandt van Rijn, a three-master of almost 50 meters long. It somehow feels suiting that I will board a ship with the name of a Dutch artist for my own artist in residency. I think the man himself would have been ecstatic with all the beautiful light one can work with in the Arctic. After we meet the crew, we are all sent off to our cabins to sort ourselves out. In my cabin I also find my roommate, a sculptor who is originally from Ireland, but is now living in Canada. We chat for a little while, and wonder if we are matched due to being European girls who both live in the wilderness. Within minutes we find ourselves giggling over the things each of us has brought on the trip and the thoughts we have had beforehand around this odd group of artists in the Arctic. Together we decorate and arrange our things around our 2 m x 3 m cabin. It makes me feel at ease: I think I can work with this woman; if the fun we already have is our standard, our room will be a really nice home for the foreseeable future. In our cabin, we each have a bed in our bunkie; we share a closet and a teeny tiny bathroom. Next to my bed is a little bookshelf. I arrange the different books that I have brought, all themed around the Arctic, and my drawing stuff. I make an attempt to store most of my things away, but my big red boots don’t fit anywhere and now look rather offensive in the middle of this tiny room. Luckily, they go quite well with the red life jacket that each of us has been given and that now hangs on our wall. From now on, leaving the ship is only allowed with that life jacket on: tight around the waist and always secured with the crotch band. This, as well as the signing in and out of the ship, are strict orders from our captain. A list with all our names, accompanied by a small magnet behind each of our names, does duty as a roster. Whenever one of us leaves the ship, to go on an activity that is, one needs to change their magnet from ‘in’ to ‘out’. This gives a clear overview who is on board and who should not be forgotten on an ice floe, mountain peak or deserted beach. When we are all sorted, the ship slowly makes it way out of the harbour. The first 24 hours we will be sailing on open sea. After the first excitement of being on board and meeting so many new interesting people, it becomes clear that the sea has taken away our joyfulness. One by one our group slowly exits the stage: seasickness has moved in. By the time dinner is served, we are left with only a handful of people: trying to take and keep some of the delicious food down, while we dance with the waves. In the back of my head, I hear the words of my sailor dad: “When you feel sick, pick a spot on the horizon and keep staring at it. You will be fine”. I quickly make my way upstairs to the front deck of the boat. Two wooden chairs are positioned in front of one of the masts. I plump myself down and swallow hard. "Breathe, Ruth!" My eyes search the horizon for a good mark to keep track of. While I do so, the part of my brain that is still in control registers the beautiful landscape we sail past. Wow! So far, I had only been in and around Longyearbyen, but now that we are out on water, I realise the vastness of this place. In the background, the sounds, smells and visual reminders of human civilization quickly disappear. In front of us is openness, emptiness (I soon learn that this is not true! Later more on that!) and the not-knowing. For a while, I watch one pointy mountain after another slide by. The sails are now all out and the wind blows us with full force over the dark blue waters of the Arctic. Although I want to stay here as long as possible, I feel that my stomach needs some rest. With reluctance, I leave the deck and head to my room. Lying down helps my body feel supported within the motion of the ship. I can see and hear the waves hitting our porthole. Besides that, and the low hum of the generator of the ship, it is eerily quiet. All my ship mates have retreated to bed; all of us are trying to find our sea legs somewhere in our cabins. I can’t believe our first day is already done!
7 - Yearning for more
After a good night sleep, the swaying of the boat is back to soothing me. No longer do I feel unsteady on my legs, and my fellow ship mates seem to also do better. It is a new day between the ice! A day on the boat starts at 7.40 in the morning with a soft wakeup call from our expedition leader: “Good morning… Good morning… Good morning…” followed by a short message on the location, the weather or something entirely different that is of interest. Most mornings I am already outside on the deck when this message is brought through our speaker system. My own system is so used to walking the dogs in the morning, that I do an early morning walk up to the bridge instead. There I bother the nautical crew for maps and stats on our journey. Many a morning, this bothering for information turns into a longer conversation about life and life on a ship. I enjoy these little moments a lot, these other chats that don’t necessarily evolve around art. Our breakfast is served at 8.00 o'clock in the dining room. The dining room is the biggest space on the boat and holds six long tables, all with a thick edge so that plates and cups cannot slide off when the weather gets rough, with benches on each side. It also houses a big coffee machine, an important element as it seems to keep many on the boat afloat. After breakfast it is time for a short meeting, in which the day is discussed: where we go, what we do, what history/other animals/fun facts/ideas are important to know about. Today we will be making a short landing, so that we can start working on our projects on land. The ship is therefore anchored in a small bay. From the ship we are brought to land with small zodiacs. On the land, our guide team - existing of three courageous people - has made a triangle: it serves as our perimeter. This perimeter is again a safety precaution for polar bears. The big white bears live everywhere on the island and our guides are therefore always on guard. We do not go beyond them, but stay in the wide space between them. Once we have all been brought ashore, we get two hours to spend on the land. Or let may say it correctly: on the snow pack. In Svalbard you cannot just land anywhere and when you do land, you are often restricted to walking on snow: the actual tundra is so fragile, that humans are not allowed to walk on its bare vegetation. We all spread out and find a place for ourselves within the perimeter. Some of us have chosen to follow one of our guides a little higher up on a hill and are now drawing, painting or writing there. Others are mesmerized by the glacier we look out on and have started filming it or are recording the sounds around us. I myself am a little lost, I notice. My project here, besides reading for my research, is the development of a performance for young audiences. This is a process that - especially at the start – mainly happens in my head. It is the working on a story line, the making up of characters, the searching for themes and messages to bring forward. These different elements of the process arise over time, and just sitting down to pull them up is not necessarily how it works. Everyone around me though, at least that is how it seems, is busy working on their art with actual art supplies; creating actual things. I suddenly feel like an imposter: if any of the others would look in my direction, they would only see me hanging out at the edge of the snow with a few little auks. These little black birds perform their own art for me. They move around in the water in such a smooth way and in such beautiful formations, that any royal ballet in the world would feel embarrassed about themselves. When not doing a solo or group formation, they dance duets together and they also continuously talk to each other. It is a delight to watch them as well as hear them; I am grateful to be their audience; they make our two hours on the land fly by. On my way back to the zodiac, I notice a set of footprints in the snow. A month ago, I joined a track & sign evaluation in Canada. During this evaluation, you are asked to read other animals’ tracks and decipher other animals’ signs. I crouch down and look at the footprints in the snow a little closer. It’s not a bird: a mammal has definitely walked here. There are only three types of mammals that live on land in Svalbard: reindeer, polar bears and arctic foxes. I hold my hand next to one of the footprints in the snow: the small size and the canine characters of the print reveal that an arctic fox has wandered around here, in search of eggs and perhaps hoping to catch a small bird. My stomach rumbles. I too can use some food. No eggs or a bird for me though. Back on board we receive a delicious warm lunch. After a few hours out in the cold, warm food is a very powerful gift. Conversations around the dining room flow and each of us is impressed by this first landing; the feeling of isolation; the inspiration from the ice formations that float around us in the sea; the interaction of light, fog and snow. Both our hearty lunch as well as our hearts’ experiences has left us yearning for more...
8 - Polar bears and snow angels
Each day we have a different schedule, each day brings new and surprising things. Sometimes we know exactly what we are doing on a day, sometimes the wind, weather and ice decide what is happening for us. As we are all working on our own individual projects, we have different wishes in regards to these projects. Every morning, we may share these wishes with our expedition leader, who will then accommodate us in the best way possible. It is incredible what she and her team will do for each of us, to make those wishes come to fruition. I have the deepest respect for how they plan all the logistical challenges of sailing in the Arctic with sometimes impossible requests from us artists, while at the same time keeping us all happy and healthy. Production management of an art project is a challenge in itself, as I very well know, let alone producing 31 art projects in an environment like the Arctic! After collecting all of our wishes, it sometimes turns out that a few of us share similar needs. We are then grouped together and send out on the same mission or zodiac to do our work. This has resulted in, for example, a drawing boat for those wanting to draw and paint; a dreaming and imagination boat, for those wanting to ponder. In my case, it has resulted many times in joining the ‘sound people’ in a ‘sound zodiac’. Together with three others and led by one of our guides, I spend hours on the water. We record sounds on, beneath and in the ice, on the water's surface and in the air. One major deal in our sound zodiac is that we do not give a peep; do not rustle with our parkas, basically do not breathe. When recording sounds with hyper sensitive microphones, any sound can be picked up and subsequently ruin a recording. This also means that we often have to go a little further out onto the sea, to make sure we do not pick up any sounds from the ship. It is fascinating to learn how many different sounds ice can make. Popping, bubbling, clinking, swooshing. Sometimes we pick up sounds that we cannot trace back to its original owner. Sometimes we are so surprised by sounds that they make us giggle like little kids. Listening to the more-than-human sounds in a place like the Arctic is magical. There are no unnatural noises; all that one hears is pure and pitch perfect. Furthermore, there is no room for busy thoughts when listening attentively. Floating on water between ice floes, while the wind kisses your cheeks, is the perfect recipe for a peaceful mind; for being right there in that moment. Being right there in the moment is something other animals master. Because our sound boat is rather quiet (wow, that reads like a rather strong antonym) we encounter many other animals. A seal pup on the ice, different birds swimming past our boat, ringed seals resting on rocks. And these are just the other animals we can see; many of them are nót visible to us, as they find themselves beneath our boat. During one of our afternoons at anchor, I decide to stay on board of our tall ship and to not join the group on land, nor do I sign up for the sound zodiac. Today, I feel the need to craft a little with the ideas that I have collected in my head these past few days; I therefore find myself in the dining room with some paper, glue and a pair of scissors. While I am trying to concentrate on one of my ideas at hand, I get called up to the deck. “Ruth, a polar bear!” I am surprised I don’t hurt myself, while I clumsily run-stumble-fall up the stairs to the aft deck. As there are only three of us who have chosen to stay behind, we have the whole deck to ourselves. Highly exhilarated, we follow the big white polar bear that is now slowly making its way from the bottom of a glacier towards the water's edge. Together with the few crew members that have also stayed behind, we are watching every step through our mono- and binoculars. I suddenly feel a lump in my throat. This white coated person is one of the reasons why I have come here. When I was young, and it was just mum and I together in our home, we used to play mama and baby polar bear under the duvet, in our polar bear den. For years, a polar bear and its cub would be the symbol of our relationship; hundreds of cards, many books as well as stuffies of polar bears were gifted back and forth. Five years ago, in my speech on mum’s funeral, I promised her two things: that I would follow the polar bears and that I would always make her a snow angel from earth where- and whenever possible. Because of her, I am here – in every respect. I am here. And I am following a polar bear. Its nose raised in the air, it’s swagger better than many a rapper. For the next hour or so, I am glued to the sharpest monocular on deck. I am totally fixated. I don’t even notice that the presence of the bear has caused some panic on land: our group of artists out there is the reason for this bear to smell the air and to now fasten its pace. Quickly everyone is being brought from the land to the boat. When everyone is safely back on board, and the bear has also showed off its water ballet skills to all of us, I quietly retreat to my cabin. I lower myself onto my bed; a big sigh escapes my mouth. For tomorrow, I wish to find deep and soft snow, so that I can make a beautiful snow angel.
9 - Shimmy in tune with our thoughts
Last night, I stayed up a little later to witness the midnight sun in the sky. Sitting outside in the middle of the night, with sunscreen on to protect myself from the warm rays of the sun, was a rather baffling experience. At first, I was afraid that I might never get used to the 24 hours of light, but my body has again proved itself and has adjusted just fine. Moreover, being outside a lot in the cold, makes me sleep like a baby. Although it is morning already, I have not yet dared to get up: our morning ritual hasn’t started yet; my roommate has not yet stirred. Our room is still covered in total darkness, as our porthole closes off all light from outside. While still snoozing a little, I try to recapitulate what the days here in the North have taught me so far. What it is that I can bring back in my work, that can inspire and inform others around this special space that I find myself in. This space, at the top of our world, has often been described as rugged, untamed and only fit for those who can weather the relentless force of nature. A place once explored and conquered by heroes with harpoons, guns and grit, now one of the most vulnerable places on earth, due to its fast rising temperatures and melting ice caps. The Arctic is a place where few living beings can be found, however, those that live(d) here carry stories that deserve to be seen; deserve to be amplified, and deserve an audience that is willing to witness. How can I bring these stories to stage? How can I put a spotlight on what the nipping of the wind feels like? What the clouds in the sky are trying to tell? How do I share the continuous dripping of melting ice, a sound that settles itself in your ears like an earworm and slowly becomes the steady rhythm of a threat that never leaves? How do I narrate the spectacle of calving glaciers, of which impressive visuals crawl under your skin, where they weave themselves powerfully around relentless optimism and naivety? Some things in life are difficult to hold; some stories are a challenge to capture. The reason that many people in our world cannot fathom subjects like war or climate change, is because our brain is not made to deal with such immense and complex problems. The human mind cannot comprehend the enormous amount of suffering and destruction that stares us in the eyes on a daily basis. Denying these problems, diminishing them, is easier; if we don’t see them, do not acknowledge them, we can keep them at bay. Our own small actions to fix these problems won’t have enough impact anyway, is a story we often tell ourselves. The literature study I did last year for my research, taught me that raising a wagging finger to tell others that we should pay more attention; to do better, is not a way to get people to act; to care. It only opens up more anxiety, more head-in-the-sand behaviour and more resistance to wanting to understand better. Instead, the creation of awe and wonder, so I learned, can invite others to receive, to consider and to ultimately relate. Creating awe and wonder, igniting curiosity, and bringing stories from afar closer to home, can foster compassion and connection. Here too lies the key to how I can bring the stories of the Arctic to stage. By listening to those who whisper, speak or yell – in this case the more-than-human here in this space at the top of our world. By hearing what is being told and by translating it. By bringing that into performance. Per for man. For humans to wonder about. “Gssshhh”. Above me in our bed, I hear my roommate stir. “Good morning, Baby Bird”. “Good morning, Wonderful You”, I croakily answer my roommate’s endearing salute. Enough of all this thinking. At least for now. It is time to get up, to get into gear. To balance out our deep thinking, one of my fellow travelers and I decide over breakfast that we need movement. Living on a ship of almost 50 meters is fantastic, but our range of motion is a little restricted and moving our right and left feet can help the processing of our right and left brain. In the evening, we therefore carry a small speaker up to the deck, and gather a few other enthusiasts. There, in between the icebergs, we teach our shipmates Cuban salsa and reggaeton to the exotic notes of Buena Vista Social Club. This fiery dance, and the laughter of those dancing, quickly warms us up in the cold chill of the High Arctic; let's us shimmy in tune with our worries. On this white polar night, I can already feel it in my heart: when the time comes, it will be difficult to leave this space, this boat and these people...
10 - The sound(s) of silence
I am not sure how I could ever have thought that it would be eerily quiet in the Arctic. It is not. Not outside in nature, and especially not on a boat with 30 other artists, who have by now found their sea legs as well as their Arctical wit. Perhaps it is therefore nice to share a little on the soundscape of our day. It all starts in the morning with the seals. The first time I heard them, I thought I had a nightmare and that a scary sea siren was singing to me. Seal communication sounds unreal. It sounds a little like a whistle, starting at a very high pitch, after which it slides all the way down the scale; sometimes many octaves in a row. Any classical opera singer would be jealous of the reach that these animals have. Other seals then respond with similar arrangements, and soon you can distinguish multiple voices interlacing. Above water, you don’t hear any of this, but under water and thus next to our boat and porthole they can be heard loud and clear. The seal composition is often loudly disrupted by the sound of a toilet somewhere below deck. The sound of the toilets on board are almost as terrifying as the idea of a scary sea siren singing to you. The force with which the toilets flush is brutal and I am astonished that, so far, none of us has been accidentally sucked into the septic tank in the belly of our boat. A more calmer piece follows: breakfast. At breakfast, we are all still pretty quiet and chatter is rather civilized. Once we have had our morning meeting, other sounds start to break free. The rustling of parkas, the clanging of safety belts on life jackets, the dragging of things needed for projects. The calling of names who have not yet signed out on the roster begins a duet with the growling of the zodiac outside in the water. The hoisting of the sails or the weighing of the anchor are supported by the sound of ice being swept off the deck. During one of the days, I am lucky enough to include the snoring and conversing of walruses into our daily soundscape. While fumbling around with some seaweed that I have found, I feel a hand on my shoulder: “You wanted to learn more about the walrus for your project; you can go see a colony nów; you can bring one other person and we will come meet you down there later with the ship”. Wow! I had heard them a little earlier in the far distance; going up close would be a real treat. I quickly turn towards one of my sound boat mates, who is standing not far from me on the ice floe that we are working on today, and together we make our way even quicker to the zodiac. With only the two of us, accompanied by one of our guides, we slowly ride towards an island where a group of big friendly giants is hanging out. We purposefully take our time in getting closer to them; reading their every signal, to make sure we can respond and anticipate accordingly in an aim not to disrupt them. They seem to be ok with our presence, which is still a fair distance away from the beach that they are lying on. One of them is hanging out on the edge of the water, not yet cuddled up in the puddle of other light brown bodies. I observe him for a while and notice a strong resemblance between him and the labradors that live with me at home. The walrus scratches its hidden ears in a similar way as the labs do to their rectangular ears after a swim. The walrus blissfully rolls on its back in the sand in the same manner as them, enjoying it with the same grin on its face. Once reaching the puddle of others, it pretends to be braver than the others, similarly as to how the youngest lab at home pretends to be braver than her mother. It feels like a true gift, to just sit here; to listen; to be with these animals. To learn about their interaction with each other. To see their magnificent white tusks and leathery skin from up close. After spending a fair amount of time with the walruses, and recording many a huff, snore and fart, we see the Rembrandt gliding towards us. It is time to leave them be and return to the huffs, snores and farts of our own artist colony. Through the ice, we make our way back to the ship. The waves lapping up, the ice clinking away, the birds screeching above our heads. All of it adding to the daily collection of sounds. It is funny how our own human sounds become louder on board, the later we get into the day. During lunch, energetic chatter can be heard, due to exciting activities or lively discussions. Over dinner, we are all at the height of our day; the top of our sound systems. The sounds of plates, glasses and cutlery, drives our voices up to an even higher level. However, it is the part at the end of the day, that is the loudest one on the score. Almost every night after dinner, a few of us grab a cup of tea and sit together to roll some dice. Not even the rattle of the rolling dice on the table, but the deep belly laughter that underscores the noise of the dice is what trumps the soundscape of our day. Laughter that carries a joy and a sense of freedom. In that laughter we find friendship, connection and care. And although perhaps not everyone on board appreciates the vibrations of this part of the composition, it is a part I wouldn’t want to miss for the world, as I deeply enjoy it and because I am grateful for it at this time in my life.
11 - Our neighbours
I am standing on the edge of a huge ice floe that slowly circles around on the current. From where I stand, on the periphery of the group, I can see someone making models of ice cracks, another is sawing ice for an architectural sculpture. I see people drawing, sketching, painting for children’s books, art exhibitions and games. Several cords run to the water’s edge, where microphones disappear under the ice. Photographers stand in various poses to catch the perfect light on a glacier. On the other side, someone is filming; the sweet sound of a small music box attached to an ice block drifts on the wind. The backdrop of all this activity, one ice floe over, is a walrus who is sound asleep. I feel like an audience member, watching a performance. A performance, in which humans and the more-than-human accidentally find themselves in a complicated mise en scene; where nobody really knows what script is being followed or who is directing it. It is a bizarre sight. And very touching at the same time. All of us here work with real passion on subjects that are dear to us; that mean something to us and the world. We make art that tells stories: in visuals, through words or in sounds. It is wonderful to see each project take shape over the course of this residency; to see ideas come to fruition. And to see collaborations being ignited. In the first week, we have mostly been getting to know each other on a personal level through our interactions on board. Although we have chatted about our projects and helped each other out here and there with each other’s work, we have had little time to go deeper into each of our practices. In the second week, we are therefore invited to present our professional work to each other in a 10 minute presentation. Projected on a piece of white fabric, that is hung provisionally between two of the poles in the dining room, the ins and outs of different practices are shared amongst each other. It is amazing to learn more about the work that each of my ship mates do; it brings another much deeper layer to the interesting characters that I share this boat with. It also gives me insight into their worlds; what it is like to be in their minds. My own presentation is the last one on the list. I have chosen not to present in the dining room in a 2D manner, as my work is not 2D either: (applied) theatre is embodied, experiential and often includes movement. I therefore choose to take the group out on the land. On a beach in front of an impressive mountain range, I take the others with me through a 10 minute presentation that is based on a 2 hour workshop. It brings ideas from theatre, systemic work and ‘The Art of Natural Systems’ together (for more information, see the Creative Concepts tab on my website). With my presentation, I don’t necessarily take the others into mý world, or into mý mind, but I invite them to step into the world of other living beings. On the beach, we therefore together form a physical system of living beings. Some of the group have chosen to represent a falcon, an ant, a butterfly. Others from the group walk into the water: they represent a harbor seal, seaweed and a beluga. A few find their place on the ground, as rocks, grass and a saxifrage flower. While each one in the group finds their position within this theatrical ecosystem, I take a moment to look around. Higher up on the mountain are two reindeer curiously looking down on us. A little further out on the sea are several sea gulls floating around, they too are intrigued by this group of humans on land. On the ground, permafrost from hundreds of thousands of years ago carries memories of earlier creatures that lived here. All around us, we have seen puffins, guillemots, white and blue arctic foxes, ptarmigans. We even found a polar willow, a tree that lives here and grows mere centimeters high, due to the rugged environment of the Arctic. Although there are no other (tall) trees here, there is so much life in the arctic: in the sea, on the land, in the mountains and frozen glaciers. So much life to protect and to cherish. After my presentation, on our way back to the ship, I all of a sudden know what my performance should focus on. On friendship, on grief and on belonging. On our neighbours, both human and non-human. (Photo by Jordi Plana)
12 - The shiniest mirror
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We are anchored at 80° 20' 43" N, 008° 51' 16" E. It is the northernmost point we can reach with the Rembrandt van Rijn. From here, it is nothing but pack ice towards the North Pole. We are all on the deck. Silent. Amazed. Some have tears streaming down their faces. Others have their eyes closed; are listening to the sounds of the sea. This place, here at the top of the earth, has made a deep impression on each of us. I lie in the bow net and stare out over the sea. There are ice floes drifting as far as my eyes can see. I realise that I cannot put into words what this expedition means to me. That if I try to find words, it might diminish my feelings. However, I know: this journey has touched something deep within me; set something loose, something life-changing. On the day before I left on the expedition, my father said to me: “Enjoy looking into the shiniest mirror you can find on earth.” I laughed with and at him. It sounded so poetic and fatherly. But he was right. Here on the Arctic Ocean, I have looked in the mirror. I have seen the influence that our human actions have on the future. How that future is slowly melting; taking on new forms, drop by drop, with an effect we cannot yet foresee. Here I embodied what wonder and admiration can do with you; felt once again how small we are in the grandeur of nature. The unique environment of the Arctic Circle has gripped me; has crawled under my skin. The dry air, the persistent light, the rocking of waves cast a spell on me. Being together with 30 other artists has strengthened me in my own creative process; challenged me to communicate and experiment in ‘my language’; my creative and theatrical work. Here in the ice-cold, new friendships have warmed me to my bones. The absence of internet and phones has allowed me to feel in a way I only knew long ago; it has allowed me to live in the now. The deep blue water, the pure white snow, and the rugged vast landscape have invited me to be closer to myself. In addition to all the items in my already overflowing suitcase, I am taking a mountain of (new) material home. Sounds, thoughts, ideas, feelings. Material to work and make with. Here at 80° North, I feel the duality between wanting to get to that work and the intense need to stop time; to stand still. If you had told me beforehand that I myself would end up in a weekslong play; executed by an immaculate crew; with a range of amazing actors; fantastic special effects and the most poignant of messages, I would probably not have believed you. What I did expect, I am not sure. But certainly not this… This artist in residency surpasses all imagination. I am intensely grateful for being allowed to join this journey. Both towards the North Pole and within myself. For being able to wish, laugh, learn, and reflect every single day. And for the direct and tangible confrontation with what is happening to our world. When I step off this boat in Longyearbyen, a challenge awaits me to create something meaningful, immersive and wondrous. To perform the Arctic. For those who want and dare to witness its stories. I look forward to it, albeit with a mixture of melancholy and nostalgia in my heart… Goodbye Svalbard, goodbye Rembrandt and shipmates. I will miss you.
If you have you been travelling along on this journey,
I would love to know what you thought of it!
Is there a chance you could let me know in a little note?