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Another extraordinary musical evening in Amsterdam. On Saturday evening, Jeanne and I returned to one of my favourite concert halls, the magnificent Concertgebouw in Amsterdam, for a performance by the Netherlands Chamber Orchestra, led by the Serbian-French violinist Gordan Nikolić, with the great Norwegian cellist Truls Mørk as soloist. I have been to the Concertgebouw several times before, and each visit reminds me why it is considered one of the world's finest concert halls. Opened in 1888, its magnificent Main Hall is famous for its acoustics. There is something quite extraordinary about the sound. I find it difficult to describe precisely, but compared with other concert halls I know, the music seems to have an unusual combination of warmth, clarity and spaciousness. Every instrument has its own distinct presence, yet everything blends into a wonderfully coherent whole. The programme brought together three composers from very different musical worlds. We began with Gustav Mahler's Blumine, a short, lyrical orchestral movement originally intended for his First Symphony but later removed. Its delicate trumpet melody and almost nostalgic atmosphere reveal a gentler, more intimate Mahler than the composer of the monumental symphonies. A beautiful opening to the evening. Then came the highlight: Dmitri Shostakovich's Cello Concerto No. 1 in E-flat major, Op. 107, composed in 1959 for the legendary Mstislav Rostropovich. Shostakovich's music has always fascinated me, not least because of the extraordinary tension between the personal and the political, between irony, despair, resistance and moments of almost unbearable tenderness. This concerto seems to contain all these contradictions. From the obsessive four-note motif of the opening movement to the deeply moving slow movement, the extraordinary solo cadenza and the furious finale, it is music of tremendous emotional and intellectual intensity. And Truls Mørk was simply phenomenal. I have admired his playing for years, but this performance was something special. He seemed completely absorbed in the music, combining astonishing technical control with an almost physical intensity. Particularly in the long solo cadenza, where the cellist is left entirely alone with the music, his playing was utterly captivating. The dialogue with the orchestra, especially the prominent horn, was equally remarkable. After the interval, we entered a completely different world with Beethoven's Symphony No. 8 in F major, Op. 93. Composed in 1812, this is one of Beethoven's shortest and perhaps most mischievous symphonies. It is full of rhythmic surprises, unexpected accents, humour and an almost Haydnesque playfulness. Yet beneath its apparent lightness lies Beethoven's extraordinary inventiveness and rhythmic energy. The second movement, with its ticking, almost mechanical rhythms, is particularly delightful. The Netherlands Chamber Orchestra, playing under the musical leadership of Gordan Nikolić, brought a wonderful sense of precision, energy and transparency to the symphony. What a contrast to Shostakovich! And what a pleasure to experience both works in the same evening. The Concertgebouw itself adds another dimension to the experience. Sitting beneath its magnificent decorated ceiling, with the great organ rising behind the orchestra, one cannot help thinking of the generations of musicians who have performed here, including Mahler himself, who conducted his own compositions in this very hall. Another evening that reminded me why live music, experienced in the right surroundings and performed by exceptional musicians, remains one of life's greatest pleasures. #Concertgebouw #TrulsMørk #Shostakovich #Beethoven #Mahler #ClassicalMusic #Amsterdam
Running for Human Rights at Sunrise in Amsterdam What a wonderful way to start the second day of the Human Rights Watch Council Summit in Amsterdam! An early morning run through the city and along the Amsterdam harbour, watching the sun rise in the company of fellow Summit participants. I must admit that I was initially a little worried about whether I would be able to keep up with the mostly much younger runners. Particularly as several of them were training for the New York City Marathon on 1 November. Fortunately, I managed to keep pace! What made the morning even more inspiring was learning about Run for Human Rights Watch, a Dutch initiative established in 2010 that combines running, community and philanthropy. This year, 41 runners are preparing to participate in the New York City Marathon, with the ambition of raising at least €200,000 for Human Rights Watch's work protecting children affected by armed conflict. It is a wonderful example of how people can turn their personal passions into meaningful contributions to the protection of human rights. And on a more personal note, rather satisfying to discover that I can still keep up with the younger generation! 5.79 km in 35:49, at a pace of 6:11 min/km. OK for an early morning in Amsterdam. More about the initiative: https://runforhumanrightswatch.nl/
A Ticket to Aleppo. One of the most beautiful musical experiences I have had in a long time. On Friday evening, Jeanne and I went to BIMHUIS in Amsterdam for a concert that turned out to be one of the most moving musical experiences I have had in quite some time. The concert was called A Ticket to Aleppo, performed by Orchestre Partout together with the New European Ensemble. BIMHUIS is one of Europe's great jazz venues. Founded in 1974, it has long been a meeting place for jazz, improvised music and musical traditions from around the world. Its intimate concert hall, with the musicians so close to the audience, was the perfect setting for this particular evening. The music took us on a journey through Aleppo, one of the world's oldest continuously inhabited cities, with its extraordinarily rich musical heritage. Classical Arabic songs, intricate rhythms and the beautiful melodic structures of the Arabic maqam tradition were brought together with European chamber music and jazz improvisation. Among the musicians were the wonderful singer and oud player Nour Wahedi, vocalist Salah Eddine Mesbah, percussionist Háshem Kabreet and the Dutch double bassist Tony Overwater, alongside musicians playing qanun, flute, violin, viola and cello. I have always loved Arabic music. There is something about its melodic richness, its rhythmic complexity and its extraordinary capacity for expressing both melancholy and joy that speaks directly to me. And perhaps not surprisingly, I find it connects remarkably easily with my love of Nordic and Central European jazz, and even with Indian classical music. These musical traditions are obviously different, but they share something essential: an appreciation of improvisation, of the subtle variations within a melodic framework, and of the dialogue between musicians who listen as carefully as they play. The Arabic maqam, the Indian raga and the improvisational language of jazz are not the same. But they seem to invite a similar kind of musical exploration, where tradition provides the foundation for something spontaneous and unpredictable. What made this evening particularly moving was that A Ticket to Aleppo was also about memory, displacement, longing and belonging. Aleppo is not merely a place on a map, or a city we associate with the terrible destruction of war. It is also a place of music, poetry, everyday life and centuries of cultural exchange. And on this evening, its musical heritage came alive through musicians from different backgrounds, playing together with such obvious joy and mutual understanding. Perhaps this is one of the most beautiful things music can do. It reminds us that cultures are not isolated entities to be preserved behind borders, but living traditions that have always developed through encounters with others. A deeply beautiful evening, and one I will remember for a long time.
An evening chez Matisse After a long day of important talks and discussions at the Human Rights Watch Summit in Amsterdam, Jeanne and I were treated to dinner at H’ART Museum, followed by a private evening visit to its current exhibition, Chez Matisse. Housed in the seventeenth-century Amstelhof beside the river, H’ART was formerly known as Hermitage Amsterdam. The exhibition brings together 80 works from the Centre Pompidou, placing Matisse alongside his contemporaries and artists from later generations to explore their shared experiments with colour and form. I have to admit that, for reasons I cannot quite explain, I have never been particularly drawn to Matisse. This exhibition did not really change that. What captivated me, however, were several of the paintings shown in dialogue with his work. Natalia Goncharova’s Still Life with Lobster (1909–1910) is anything but still. A lobster, oysters, bottles and a cut lemon occupy a blazing red tabletop. Thick black outlines and vigorous brushstrokes give the objects an almost physical energy, with the curves of the lobster and foliage playing against the upright bottles. Ernst Ludwig Kirchner’s Lovers (1921–1923) brings together two figures, one naked and one clothed, amid orange walls, green skin and patterned fabrics. The colours connect them, while their expressions seem inward-looking. In the upper left corner, Kirchner has written a dedication to the architect Henry van de Velde on his sixtieth birthday, 3 April 1923. I liked finding this personal greeting inscribed directly into the painting. Anna-Eva Bergman’s Black Prow (26), from 1976, has a very different presence. A great black ship’s prow fills almost the entire canvas against a pale background. Simple, monumental and rather mysterious. The exhibition text connects the boat with death in Norse tradition and draws a parallel with the black vestments Matisse designed for the chapel at Vence. Then there was Le Corbusier’s Metamorphosis of a Violin, dated 1920–1952. The instrument dissolves into black and white shapes, coloured planes and wandering lines, its contours suggesting a human body. A welcome encounter with Le Corbusier the painter, alongside the architect who usually occupies our attention. And, of course, there was Rothko, one of my favourite artists. I spent a disproportionate amount of time in front of his great red and black painting. The dark field seems almost suspended within the red, and the longer you look, the more there is to see. After a day filled with words, it was good simply to stand there and look.
Our first evening in Amsterdam included a small philosophical pilgrimage. Jeanne and I are here for the Human Rights Watch Summit. For me, freedom of expression and freedom of conscience are among the most fundamental human rights. So it seemed only natural to pay my respects to Baruch Spinoza. His monument stands beside the Zwanenburgwal, near the site of his birthplace. In Nicolas Dings’s sculpture, he wears a cloak decorated with birds and flowers. At his feet is a sentence worth taking slowly: “The purpose of the state is freedom.” I cannot claim to be an expert on Spinoza. I once read a few chapters of the Danish translation of his Tractatus Theologico-Politicus. Much of my understanding of his importance has come through reading the Danish philosopher and critic Frederik Stjernfelt’s many articles about him and the Enlightenment. What has stayed with me is Spinoza’s defence of our freedom to think, to question religious authority and to express what we believe. He helped prepare the intellectual ground for the Enlightenment and, eventually, the freedoms we now seek to protect as universal human rights. For me, freedom of conscience includes the freedom to believe, to doubt, to change one’s mind and to have no religious belief at all. Freedom of expression allows those convictions and doubts to enter the world, where others can challenge them. Standing beside a canal in the evening, this seemed a fitting way to begin a visit devoted to human rights. We have become quite good at putting freethinkers on pedestals. Making room for living dissenters remains more demanding.
I came for the birds and found a little of my youth along the way. On 11 September, I attended a lovely book reception at Greens Boghandel on Sorgenfri Torv, north of Copenhagen. The occasion was Den store bog om fugle i Danmark, published by Gyldendal, written and illustrated by Jens Overgaard Christensen, husband of my good friend Charlotte Sahl-Madsen. An absolutely wonderful book. Jens is both a painter and an ornithologist, and his remarkably lifelike watercolours bring those two ways of seeing together. The birds are precisely observed, yet full of presence. Just look at the owl in the photograph. During the reception, Jens spoke about the range that watercolour allows: from the smallest details of plumage to freer passages where water and pigment do some of the work. Scientific precision and artistic freedom on the same sheet of paper. One of the speakers described his paintings as ambassadors for nature conservation. I liked that thought. They draw us towards the birds and the landscapes they inhabit. Perhaps the desire to protect a place begins with the desire to spend time there. For me, the evening was also a return after many years. I worked at Greens throughout my gymnasium years. My mother was the parish priest at Sorgenfri Church for many years, including that period, so this neighbourhood holds a good deal of my personal history. Founded by Arvid Green in 1956, Greens brought books and art together from the beginning, with a gallery alongside the bookshop. A fitting setting for Jens’s paintings — and a rather lovely place to revisit. Perhaps that is something a good bookshop and a good bird book have in common: they invite us to pause and look more closely.
On our last day in Venice, Jeanne and I just managed to visit Anish Kapoor’s Palazzo Manfrin, right next to Ca’ Bonfadini, where we had spent our final few nights. I have always been a little sceptical about Kapoor. The mirrored surfaces, the optical tricks, the sheer scale: extraordinary visual effects, certainly. But I have often left feeling more impressed than moved. My most recent encounter was his exhibition Unseen at ARKEN in 2024. Palazzo Manfrin gave me something to reconsider. The building has its own history of looking at art. It once housed Girolamo Manfrin’s celebrated collection, including Giorgione’s The Tempest, now in the Accademia. Today, Kapoor’s works inhabit rooms whose worn walls offer a rather different setting from a museum gallery. What particularly impressed me, though, were the architectural models: projects built and unbuilt, ideas for spaces rather than simply objects. Seeing them at this scale made me look differently at the monumental works. I could begin to imagine entering the forms, moving through them, experiencing them from within. The models also left room for something that the finished spectacle can sometimes overwhelm: curiosity. I am still not entirely converted. And yes, I realise the irony of illustrating my reservations about visual effects with photographs of us enjoying Kapoor’s mirrors. But I left wanting to know more. For me, that is a better response to art than simply “wow”.
From a wooden pew in Trinitatis Church today, Bach’s music made the morning star feel very close. At the cantata service, Trinitatis Church’s Choir and Baroque Ensemble performed Herr Christ, der einge Gottessohn, BWV 96, with soloists Camilla Toldi Bugge, Rikke Lender, Adam Riis and Torsten Nielsen. The closing chorale and Adam Riis’s tenor aria were particularly beautiful. The aria’s plea to draw the soul with “cords of love” stayed with me—a rather tender image of what it means to be guided. Johanka Sniehottová’s recorder playing brought a different kind of beauty: the morning star’s brightness made audible above the ensemble. The music also spoke directly to the day’s Gospel reading from Matthew: the commandment to love God and our neighbour, followed by the question of whose son Christ is. Bach turns those questions into music—Christ as God’s son, and love as the force that draws us towards him. The service’s closing words from Second Peter returned to the same image: the morning star rising in our hearts. I am currently reading Karl Ove Knausgård’s Morning Star series, so another, more unsettling star briefly came to mind. A small association between the pew and the bedside reading pile: in Bach, a light to follow; in my reading of Knausgård, a light whose meaning remains uncertain. Today, though, it was the beauty of the chorale and the tenor aria that I carried out into Copenhagen.
I had been looking forward to Amalie Smith’s Levende at Kunsthal Charlottenborg. Having visited today, I suspect I will return once or twice before it closes next year. Like Madame Nielsen, whose review in Weekendavisen makes an interesting companion to the exhibition, I have followed Smith’s work for many years. What keeps drawing me back is her way of bringing art and science into conversation. Materials, technologies, literature and scientific research all become part of an inquiry that remains open, precise and curious. Here, that inquiry concerns life itself. How does it emerge? What sustains it? How does it acquire form, and what does it leave behind? Five large display cases contain humanlike figures assembled from ceramic body parts and machine-knitted textiles. Around them lie fossils, shells, tools, plastic waste, a smartphone, milk-storage containers and birthday candles. Geological time shares a confined space with the objects of an ordinary afternoon. The cases suggest archaeological collections, perhaps burial chambers. The textiles suggest warmth and protection. The figures might be resting, or they might be what remains after someone has gone. There is something compelling about this uncertainty: the same objects can speak of sustaining a life and of remembering one. In Linjedanneren, a larger and a smaller figure lie among objects associated with caring for a child. The vast history of life meets feeding, cleaning and the practical repetitions of bringing someone up. A lineage continues through all the work required to keep another person alive. Evolution, seen from this angle, includes washing up. That movement between scales is what I find particularly interesting. Smith can move from molecules and the origins of life to care, mortality and everyday work without making the latter seem like a sentimental addition to the former. They belong within the same inquiry. The accompanying sound work, Radio Levende, made with Simon Brinck, brings songs and sounds together with fragments of Smith’s conversations with researchers Birthe Kragelund, Sara Imari Walker, Steen Rasmussen and Kim Sneppen. Walker describes a living being as a temporary meeting point for many historical threads. There is no single line leading to any one of us. Biological inheritance, cultural memory and ideas converge in a particular form for a while, then continue along other paths. Our children and our ideas may outlive us, embodied in forms we will never know. I find that a generous way of thinking about an individual life. We arrive carrying histories we did not create, take part in them, and pass something on. Rasmussen’s discussion of digital life adds another perspective. Processes inside a computer are physical too. They require energy and resources; patterns must be moved and maintained. For someone who spends a fair amount of time thinking about technology, this is a useful reminder of how easily our language makes its material conditions disappear. Even the cloud has a body. And then there is Sneppen’s confidence in our hands. Hands allow us to give thoughts a physical form: something we can work on, share, preserve and leave for others. It is a particularly resonant thought in an exhibition made with clay and knitted textiles. Smith’s hands are part of the inquiry too. Madame Nielsen admires Smith’s delicate yet incisive balance between art and science, while questioning the distance created by the glass lids. Why keep us apart from the material world whose connections the exhibition seeks to reveal? Why let us see, but not touch? That question deserves to remain in the room. The glass protects fragile things while also making them remote. Objects associated with warmth, nourishment and care become things to contemplate from the other side of a barrier. For me, the exhibition’s appeal lies in how it moves between the universal and scientific on the one hand, and the deeply human on the other. The human dimension here is expansive, concerned with what we share: dependence, care, work, mortality and the desire to understand the world we belong to. Smith makes room for all of this without retreating into an inward-looking account of the self. The title of the accompanying booklet stays with me: Hjertet tror, det skal pumpe for evigt — “The heart thinks it has to pump forever.” It won’t, of course. But while it does, we feed children, shape clay, build computers, carry other people’s ideas and occasionally spend a Sunday trying to understand how these activities belong together. I will be back.
I have walked past this lion outside the Arsenale in Venice more times than I can remember. I am quite sure I have photographed Jens, Vilhelm and Jeanne standing beside it on earlier visits. Yesterday, on our way to our second visit to the Arsenale section of the Biennale, Jeanne and I stopped again. But this time I looked at the lion rather differently. It was only after rereading Joseph Brodsky’s Watermark that I became aware of the rather extraordinary “graffiti” scratched into its marble almost a thousand years ago. The Piraeus Lion did not, of course, originally belong in Venice. It stood in Piraeus, the harbour of Athens, before Francesco Morosini brought it to Venice as war booty in 1687. It has stood outside the Arsenale ever since. Long before the Venetians acquired it, however, Scandinavian travellers had left their own claim upon it. In the 11th century, Norsemen serving in the Byzantine world, most likely Varangians and apparently including Swedes, carved runes into the lion's shoulders and flank. These were not just names scratched casually into stone. One of the inscriptions runs through an elaborate serpent or dragon-shaped band, closely resembling the ornamentation of contemporary Swedish runestones. The Swedish History Museum dates this inscription to the last quarter of the 11th century and notes its stylistic connection with Uppland. Historiska Museet The inscriptions are now badly weathered, so translations remain partly conjectural. But one reconstruction commemorates a warrior named Horsi and contains the wonderfully direct statement that “The Swedes set this on the lion.” Another surviving section names Åsmund as one of those who carved the runes, together with men whose names have been read as Eskil or Askel and Torlev. A shorter inscription on the lion's left thigh appears to have been carved at another time by another group of Varangians. There is something wonderfully human about this. Men from Scandinavia travelled thousands of kilometres through the river systems of Eastern Europe to Constantinople, served the Byzantine emperor, somehow found themselves in Piraeus, encountered an already ancient Greek marble lion and decided to leave their mark on it. Then, six centuries later, the Venetians carried the whole lion away to Venice. And now tourists walk past it on their way to the Biennale. History sometimes survives not in the grand narrative but in graffiti. And, embarrassingly, sometimes one needs Brodsky to tell one to look more closely.
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