Utstill-UTT / Vi(es)
The concept of Utstill-UTT consists of taking the exhibition out of its usual frameworks and embedding it within the city. Empty storefronts become spaces for intervention, anchoring points where art inserts itself into everyday life. It is no longer about a dedicated venue, but a shared territory: the street becomes a gallery, the passerby becomes a spectator — sometimes without having sought it.
This approach aims to blur the boundaries between art and life. It proposes to occupy empty spaces, to divert established uses, and to allow for other forms of presence: curiosity, pause, attention. Where one does not expect it, something appears.
Utstill-UTT thus raises a simple yet essential question: how can an exhibition exist outside its walls, and who is it truly addressing? By investing public space, it moves closer to those who are its subjects.
The exhibition Vi(es), presented in this context, is based on a play on words between Norwegian and French: “vi” (we) and “vies” (lives). This dual meaning carries the entire project.
Through the perspective of a Franco-Norwegian woman on her host country, the exhibition composes a sensitive cross-section of Norwegian society, and more specifically of the inhabitants of Løten. Each work is a fragment of life. Together, they reveal a plural humanity: the complexity of individuals and the diversity of trajectories. The exhibition questions how a sense of community is constructed, how a “we” emerges from singularities.
Presented in the urban space, the images allow for a form of immediate recognition: a familiar face, a neighbor, a known scene. The accompanying music and texts lend them an intimate dimension.
This proximity dissolves distances. The exhibition is offered to those it represents.
Småprat med Léa
It was my first day of school as a mom.
At first, I didn’t see her.
She was the fourth-grade teacher.
At first, what I noticed was the standing ovation her pupils gave her.
Five years later, it was my second first day of school as a mom.
From the very beginning, I saw her. She was the first-grade teacher.
Round, prominent cheekbones highlighted by a wide smile. An accent that surely hinted, to those in the know, at the village or fjord of her childhood. A cheerful voice full of determination. A boyish haircut, with blonde strands falling across her forehead, electrifying her clear gaze. A mix of enthusiasm and kindness that made her pupils cheer, happy to see their teacher again after two months of vacation.
Stefania - Kalush Orchestra
I was missing one. Just one more. Just one more, and I could finally send in my application for dual citizenship.
I went there with my hands in my pockets, a lump in my stomach, to this Norwegian oral exam. I knew there would be two of us — partners before the examiners, to show that we could carry on a conversation.
It was Olena, Ukrainian, already at a good level after just a year here. Four children, a car, and a brand-new job.
First topic for her, second for me. Then we spoke about the children together. I moved on to the state’s role in vaccination programs, and we finished with her last oral task. The last one. Simple, fairly common. Should one follow the news? One expects a standard, predictable answer. A few adverbs, a logical structure. One does not expect tears.
When the follow-up question was drawn to keep the conversation going, she apologized. No, she wasn’t following the Norwegian news. There were her friends, her family. There were her tears.
The oral ended there. She left quickly, a little embarrassed.
We glorify soldiers so much that we forget the women. The women who flee, the women who remain. The women who do everything men can no longer do. The women who care, who educate, who comfort. The women who fight for milk, for a bit of bread, against illness, to avoid being raped. The women who have to pretend everything is normal, when nothing is as it once was. The women who must be there for the soldiers, yet must not complain, because they are not there, in the horror.
I met Olena the way I met that song — by chance. Because it was in the news. Without Eurovision, I probably would never have heard it
He spoke of his mother. His mother, who didn’t wake himer during the storm. There was the pale green of the violins, the vibrations of the traditional instruments, and the sudden, striking force of the rap, arriving when least expected.
I had to stop painting after a few weeks. Googling the Ukrainian forests, the multicolored castles, the rivers carved into the rock. I learned to recognize a few words from the chorus.
Mom.
Lullaby.
I never saw any weakness in Olena. No, rather a woman carrying so much — a family, responsibilities, and also the memories of a country being torn apart.