One of the great joys of festivals like Hindsgavl is that they constantly remind me how much music I have not yet discovered. This afternoon’s concert by Rudersdal Kammersolister was probably one of the most fascinating chamber music concerts I have attended in many years. It consisted of three piano quintets that could hardly have been more different, yet together formed a remarkably coherent musical journey. The programme opened with Julius Röntgen’s Piano Quintet in A minor, Op. 100 (1927). Until today I had never knowingly heard a note by Röntgen. That now feels like a significant omission. The music immediately felt familiar without actually being familiar. It possesses the same combination of lyricism, warmth and quiet depth that I associate with composers such as Grieg and Carl Nielsen. That is perhaps not entirely surprising, as Röntgen counted both among his friends. The melodies seem almost effortless, yet beneath them lies an emotional richness that reveals itself gradually rather than insisting upon attention. This is exactly the sort of music that makes me wonder why certain composers disappear from the standard repertoire while others remain. I know one thing already: this quintet deserves another listen, and I intend to explore much more of Röntgen’s music. The second work could not have been more different. We heard the world première of Poul Ruders’ Piano Quintet (2024), written specifically for Rudersdal Kammersolister after the ensemble’s acclaimed performance of his Piano Quartet at Hindsgavl two years ago. It is one of those wonderful stories where a composer is so inspired by an ensemble that he writes a new work for them. The ensemble’s name almost suggests an especially close relationship with Ruders himself. There is indeed a close artistic connection—but apparently only by coincidence of names. The new quintet surprised me. Ruders is often associated with dramatic, uncompromising music, yet much of this work felt almost meditative. There was beauty everywhere, but never sentimentality. Strange sonorities and unexpected harmonic colours appeared like brief disturbances on an otherwise calm surface. It was music that invited concentration rather than demanding it. Then came Boris Tishchenko. Again a composer I had never encountered before. His Piano Quintet, Op. 93 (1985) immediately revealed his lineage as one of Dmitri Shostakovich’s most distinguished pupils. Had I not known otherwise, I might easily have believed this to be an unknown Shostakovich score. Yet imitation is not the point. Rather, one senses that both composers inhabited the same historical and moral landscape. The music is uncompromising, often brutal, full of tension and suppressed violence. It carries with it echoes of the Soviet Union—the weight of history, political oppression and human endurance. Listening to it, one almost hears not only the notes but the society from which they emerged. Interestingly, after today’s concert I learned that Tishchenko also composed a monumental setting of Anna Akhmatova’s Requiem. That immediately caught my attention. Akhmatova’s poetry has fascinated me for years, not least because it gives voice to precisely the human suffering that Soviet history so often attempted to erase. Suddenly the emotional intensity of Tishchenko’s music seemed even easier to understand. Perhaps that is what I value most about festivals like Hindsgavl. Not simply hearing great performances of works I already know, but leaving the concert hall with entirely new composers, new recordings to find, new books to read, and unexpected connections between music, literature and history. Sometimes the greatest gift a concert can offer is not recognition. It is discovery.

07/02/2026 15:09:55

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• One of the great joys of festivals like Hindsgavl is that they constantly remind me how much music I have not yet discovered. This afternoon’s concert by Rudersdal Kammersolister was probably one of the most fascinating chamber music concerts I have attended in many years. It consisted of three piano quintets that could hardly have been more different, yet together formed a remarkably coherent musical journey. The programme opened with Julius Röntgen’s Piano Quintet in A minor, Op. 100 (1927). Until today I had never knowingly heard a note by Röntgen. That now feels like a significant omission. The music immediately felt familiar without actually being familiar. It possesses the same combination of lyricism, warmth and quiet depth that I associate with composers such as Grieg and Carl Nielsen. That is perhaps not entirely surprising, as Röntgen counted both among his friends. The melodies seem almost effortless, yet beneath them lies an emotional richness that reveals itself gradually rather than insisting upon attention. This is exactly the sort of music that makes me wonder why certain composers disappear from the standard repertoire while others remain. I know one thing already: this quintet deserves another listen, and I intend to explore much more of Röntgen’s music. The second work could not have been more different. We heard the world première of Poul Ruders’ Piano Quintet (2024), written specifically for Rudersdal Kammersolister after the ensemble’s acclaimed performance of his Piano Quartet at Hindsgavl two years ago. It is one of those wonderful stories where a composer is so inspired by an ensemble that he writes a new work for them. The ensemble’s name almost suggests an especially close relationship with Ruders himself. There is indeed a close artistic connection—but apparently only by coincidence of names. The new quintet surprised me. Ruders is often associated with dramatic, uncompromising music, yet much of this work felt almost meditative. There was beauty everywhere, but never sentimentality. Strange sonorities and unexpected harmonic colours appeared like brief disturbances on an otherwise calm surface. It was music that invited concentration rather than demanding it. Then came Boris Tishchenko. Again a composer I had never encountered before. His Piano Quintet, Op. 93 (1985) immediately revealed his lineage as one of Dmitri Shostakovich’s most distinguished pupils. Had I not known otherwise, I might easily have believed this to be an unknown Shostakovich score. Yet imitation is not the point. Rather, one senses that both composers inhabited the same historical and moral landscape. The music is uncompromising, often brutal, full of tension and suppressed violence. It carries with it echoes of the Soviet Union—the weight of history, political oppression and human endurance. Listening to it, one almost hears not only the notes but the society from which they emerged. Interestingly, after today’s concert I learned that Tishchenko also composed a monumental setting of Anna Akhmatova’s Requiem. That immediately caught my attention. Akhmatova’s poetry has fascinated me for years, not least because it gives voice to precisely the human suffering that Soviet history so often attempted to erase. Suddenly the emotional intensity of Tishchenko’s music seemed even easier to understand. Perhaps that is what I value most about festivals like Hindsgavl. Not simply hearing great performances of works I already know, but leaving the concert hall with entirely new composers, new recordings to find, new books to read, and unexpected connections between music, literature and history. Sometimes the greatest gift a concert can offer is not recognition. It is discovery. (07/02/2026 15:09:55)
• Every first week of July, Jeanne and I make the same journey. We head for Hindsgavl Festival, as we have done for the past fifteen or twenty years—earlier together with our two sons, and now just the two of us. There are festivals with bigger budgets and festivals with greater international visibility. But very few combine artistic ambition with intimacy as convincingly as Hindsgavl. The festival’s concept has always appealed to me: world-class chamber music presented in surroundings where musicians and audiences meet naturally, conversations continue after the concerts, and music is allowed to be both intellectually demanding and deeply human. This year’s opening day could hardly have been stronger. In the afternoon, Martin Helmchen gave a piano recital that paired Schubert’s early Sonata in A-flat major, D.557, with Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition. Helmchen possesses an extraordinary touch. Every note seemed to have both weight and transparency, and the acoustics of the old barn were simply magnificent. Pictures at an Exhibition became the highlight of the day for me. As I listened, I suddenly found myself transported back more than four decades, to my first year in high school. That was when I first encountered the work—not in its original piano version, nor in Ravel’s celebrated orchestral transcription, but through the wonderfully audacious interpretation by Emerson, Lake & Palmer. Like so many others of my generation, progressive rock became an unexpected gateway into classical music. Hearing Mussorgsky’s original score today completed a circle that had remained open since those school days. The evening belonged to Quatuor Ébène, performing two of Beethoven’s greatest string quartets: the Razumovsky Quartet No. 7, Op. 59 No. 1, followed after the interval by Quartet No. 13, Op. 130 with the original Große Fuge finale, Op. 133. Beethoven’s late quartets continue to astonish nearly two centuries after they were written. They still sound like music from the future. Unfortunately, I became so absorbed in the performances that I forgot to take a single photograph during either concert. So instead, here is Schubert. Our cat. He seemed perfectly content to represent the day’s music. (07/01/2026 21:21:27)
• I have just finished reading Christian Egander Skov’s Folkeligt skal alt nu være. It is one of the most thoughtful, nuanced and balanced books I have read in a long time about a subject that has become surprisingly difficult to discuss: what binds a democratic society together. One of the book’s central arguments is that democracy depends on something deeper than constitutions, elections and the rule of law. Those institutions are indispensable, but they cannot sustain themselves. Democracy also presupposes a shared political community—citizens who recognise one another as belonging to the same civic culture and who therefore accept mutual obligations. Danish has a word for this: folkelighed. There is no precise English equivalent. Perhaps the closest expression is civic belonging. It is not folklore. It is not nationalism. And it is certainly not “blood and soil.” Rather, it describes the shared history, language, institutions, traditions and everyday practices that allow individuals to become part of a political community. It is something people actively choose to participate in and continuously create together. That distinction struck me. Like many others, I have largely grown up intellectually within a liberal tradition that celebrates individual freedom and autonomy. I continue to believe deeply in those values. But this book reminded me that individualism also has its limits. An individual can only flourish within a community that makes individual freedom possible in the first place. Freedom is not simply the absence of obligations. It also depends upon trust, shared norms and institutions that none of us could create alone. Reading the book also reminded me of Martin Buber’s I and Thou, which I wrote about some months ago. The two books are, of course, concerned with different questions. Buber explores the encounter between human beings, whereas Skov is interested in the foundations of democratic society. Yet I could not help noticing a common intuition running through both. Neither sees the individual as fully self-sufficient. For Buber, we become fully human through genuine relationships with other people. For Skov, liberal democracy depends upon citizens who are willing to become part of a shared civic community. In both cases, the I is not diminished by the we. Quite the opposite. The individual becomes more fully itself because it exists in relation to something beyond itself. Perhaps that is one of the enduring paradoxes of liberal democracy. We rightly celebrate individual liberty. Yet liberty cannot sustain itself indefinitely unless free individuals also choose to belong. We often think democracy begins with rights. Books like this remind me that it may begin even earlier—with the willingness to say we. (06/30/2026 16:43:42)
• This Tuesday was a special day for Jeanne, Vilhelm and me. Most of all, it was a special day for our youngest son, Jens. He sat his final examination before graduating from Aurehøj Gymnasium in Gentofte, just north of Copenhagen. These three years have been a wonderful time for Jens. Not only because Aurehøj was – and remains – a remarkable place to learn, but because the years between adolescence and adulthood are among the most formative in any life. Friendships are forged, interests become passions, and vague dreams slowly begin to take shape. Looking at Jens in his student cap outside the school, I could not help thinking back to another photograph. Forty-five years ago, I stood on exactly the same steps, in front of exactly the same building, wearing my own newly acquired student cap as a freshly graduated Aurehøj student. At the time, I had no idea where life would take me. I certainly could not have imagined that one day I would return to those same steps with my own son. Graduation season is a time of celebration. But it is also slightly melancholy. Every transition from one chapter of life to the next contains a small farewell. Something ends so that something new can begin. For Jens and his classmates, a door has closed and many others have opened. For parents, moments like these are reminders of how quickly time passes. And perhaps that is why old photographs matter so much. They remind us that while generations change, some places, traditions and hopes endure. Congratulations, Jens. (06/25/2026 08:15:47)
• One of the pleasures of growing older is discovering that your ears can still be surprised. This year, I once again attended the KLANG Festival together with my old friend Martin Malgreen, chair of the festival’s board. KLANG has for many years been one of Copenhagen’s most important platforms for experimental music, creating a space where curiosity matters more than familiarity and where listening itself becomes an active practice. On Wednesday evening we moved through three very different concerts. The first, KLINGGGG by Wassermann, Anker and Parkins, was primarily acoustic. The human voice played the leading role, although often in forms that barely resembled what we normally think of as singing. Strange sounds, whispers, clicks, extended vocal techniques and unexpected interactions between the performers constantly challenged the boundary between language and sound. Then came Ann Rosén’s Walking in the Now. Here, the visual dimension became central. Watching marks and gestures emerge on the screen while the sound unfolded created an experience somewhere between concert, drawing and performance art. It was a reminder that listening is not always something we do only with our ears. Finally, Jena Jang’s Necrocore – Somatic Noise. An intense and uncompromising noise performance. Dense walls of sound, physical vibrations and electronic distortion transformed the concert hall into something closer to an environment than a musical performance. At moments it felt almost less like listening to music and more like being inside it. Three concerts. Three radically different approaches to sound. What I admire about festivals like KLANG is that they remind us that music is not a genre but a question. What counts as music? What counts as listening? And how much of our understanding of art is really just habit? Not every experiment succeeds. Not every work speaks equally strongly to every listener. But curiosity remains one of the most underrated cultural virtues. And KLANG continues to reward it. (06/14/2026 20:34:20)
• One of the privileges of still being a lawyer, but no longer a full-time partner, is that I can spend more time advising artists and cultural organisations—not on legal matters, but on strategy, governance, fundraising, and the long-term challenge of building sustainable institutions. I have had the pleasure of advising A Kassen for quite a number of years. Last Thursday I travelled to Lund for the opening of their new exhibition at Skissernas Museum. Founded in 2004, A Kassen has spent more than two decades pursuing a collective artistic practice that often begins with things already present in the world. As the curator pointed out during the opening, the group borrowed its name from the Danish unemployment insurance funds. In much the same way, their art frequently starts by taking hold of existing objects, systems, and structures and moving them into a new context. The exhibition is less a collection of individual works than a miniature city that visitors walk through. Traffic poles from Copenhagen. Urban furniture. Signage. Geometric forms. Fragments of public space relocated into the museum and made strange again. Several works explore the relationship between geometry and perception. According to the curator, algorithms have been used to “straighten out” faces and objects, translating them into abstract forms. The result is both playful and unsettling. We recognise the world, yet we also see how easily it can be reduced to patterns and systems. What I have always appreciated about A Kassen is their ability to move effortlessly between humour and seriousness. A traffic signal becomes a sculpture. A rubbish bin becomes architecture. A barrier becomes a drawing in space. The exhibition raises questions about public space, authority, and how we organise the environments we inhabit. But it does so without preaching. Instead, it invites us to look again at things we thought we already understood. Perhaps that is one of art’s most important functions. Not to show us something entirely new. But to make us see the familiar once more. (06/14/2026 20:07:44)
• On our way back to the airport in Paris, Jeanne and I managed to squeeze in a 15-minute stop at Anselm Kiefer’s Nymphäum at Thaddaeus Ropac in Pantin. Fifteen minutes is nowhere near enough for Anselm Kiefer. But it was enough to remind me why he remains one of the most compelling painters alive. I have loved Kiefer’s work ever since seeing his monumental exhibition at the Doge’s Palace in Venice a few years ago. Alongside Gerhard Richter and the recently deceased Georg Baselitz, he belongs to that remarkable generation of post-war German artists who spent decades wrestling with memory, history, mythology and the ruins of the twentieth century. In Nymphäum, Kiefer turns to the nymphs of Greek mythology. Yet these are not the graceful figures of classical painting. They emerge only partially from forests, water, darkness and layers of paint. They appear and disappear at the same time. What struck me most is how the exhibition is also a conversation with other artists across centuries. One painting echoes Edvard Munch’s The Scream, although Kiefer lets the scream dissolve into vegetation and geological time rather than existential panic. Other works recall Gustav Klimt, where illuminated city windows shimmer like mosaics behind foliage. The exhibition text also points to resonances with Piet Mondrian’s Broadway Boogie-Woogie, Arnold Böcklin’s Isle of the Dead, Andy Warhol’s Oxidation Paintings, and even Aby Warburg’s famous studies of the “Ninfa” figure wandering through Western art. This has always been one of Kiefer’s great strengths. His paintings never stand alone. They feel like archaeological sites where myths, literature, philosophy, religion, art history and personal memory have all been buried together and are slowly re-emerging through the surface. The result is strangely beautiful. The nymphs in these paintings are neither fully present nor fully absent. They survive as traces, memories and transformations — much like culture itself. (06/14/2026 15:04:02)
• Yesterday, on Fernando Pessoa’s 148th birthday, I finished reading the Danish translation of The Anarchist Banker. It is a remarkably short book that nevertheless manages to raise a surprisingly large question: what if the most consistent anarchist is not the revolutionary, but the banker? Pessoa’s protagonist argues precisely that. If the goal of anarchism is maximum individual freedom, then the logical path is not collective struggle or social engineering, but the relentless pursuit of one’s own freedom through economic independence. Profit maximization becomes a form of anarchist practice. The argument is elegant, provocative, and intentionally unsettling. What fascinated me most was not whether the banker is right, but the premise he exposes. Much political thinking assumes that dismantling institutions automatically creates freedom. Pessoa’s banker forces us to ask a more uncomfortable question: freedom for whom? People are not equally equipped to make use of freedom. They differ in resources, abilities, knowledge, circumstances, and luck. That is where the argument begins to reveal its blind spot. A society built entirely on autonomy and voluntary exchange risks becoming strangely unsocial. Freedom without the capacity to exercise it quickly becomes asymmetrical. The banker insists that helping others can itself become a form of domination. Yet one is left wondering whether respect for freedom also requires some concern for whether freedom is genuinely accessible. The book is perhaps too neat, too simplified, and too eager to win its own argument. But precisely because of that simplification it works so well as a thought experiment. It forces the reader to examine assumptions that usually remain hidden. There is also something amusing about how our attention gravitates toward whatever we happen to be thinking about. Having spent the morning with Pessoa and his anarchist banker, I arrived in Paris only to discover posters for not one but two Pessoa-related events at the Théâtre de la Ville: Robert Wilson’s Pessoa – Since I’ve Been Me and an entire Journée Pessoa dedicated to the Portuguese writer. Unfortunately, both were in French, and I was flying home later the same day. Sometimes the world appears to be sending a message. More often, perhaps, it is simply reminding us what already occupies our minds. (06/14/2026 14:37:01)
• On Friday, Jeanne and I found ourselves just outside Paris, attending a milestone that felt both deeply personal and surprisingly universal. Vilhelm graduated from the Master in Economics & Finance programme at HEC Paris. Watching the ceremony, I was struck by how international the audience was. Students, parents and families had travelled from all over the world to celebrate years of hard work, ambition and sacrifice. Different languages, different cultures, different backgrounds — but a shared sense of pride and gratitude. All three of us are acutely aware of how privileged we have been to have this opportunity. Access to excellent education is never something to take for granted, and HEC is one of those rare places where extraordinary talent from across the world is gathered in one community. Throughout his studies, Vilhelm often said something that stayed with me: “One of the best things about being here is that many of the people around me are smarter than I am. It means I learn more every day.” That observation captures something important about education. Much of modern life encourages us to seek environments where we feel competent, knowledgeable and successful. Yet growth often happens in the opposite situation: when we are surrounded by people who challenge our assumptions, expose our limitations and expand our horizons. The value of institutions such as HEC is not only what is taught in the classroom. It is the daily encounter with talent, discipline, curiosity and perspectives from every corner of the world. Congratulations, Vilhelm. And congratulations to all the graduates of the Class of 2026. The diploma matters. But perhaps even more important are the friendships, experiences and intellectual humility gained along the way. (06/14/2026 14:05:15)
• What does it mean to meditate? The word meditation comes from the Latin meditatio and meditari — to reflect, contemplate, rehearse, or exercise the mind. Long before meditation became associated with mindfulness apps and wellness culture, it referred to a disciplined practice of attention. Today, meditation takes many forms, but most share a common ambition: to slow the mind’s constant chatter and cultivate a different quality of awareness. Research suggests benefits ranging from reduced stress and improved concentration to better emotional regulation and a greater sense of well-being. Music has often been part of that journey. Across cultures, chants, drones, organs, and classical music have all been used to support meditative states. And few composers are as frequently described as meditative as Johann Sebastian Bach. There is something paradoxical about Bach. His music is highly structured, mathematically precise, and intellectually demanding. Yet many listeners experience it not as cerebral but as contemplative. Musicians, theologians, and philosophers have long remarked that Bach’s music seems to create a sense of order large enough for the listener to rest within it. The idea that Bach can be meditative is hardly new. His music combines rigorous structure with a profound sense of stillness. The Goldberg Variations are perhaps the clearest example: thirty variations of astonishing invention unfolding from a single aria, creating the sensation that the listener is simultaneously travelling and standing still. This morning Jeanne and I attended the Meditationskoncert at the Østerbro Chamber Music Festival. At the centre of the programme stood Bach’s Goldberg Variations — unquestionably the defining element of the experience. Rather than being performed on harpsichord or piano, the work had been transcribed for string trio and performed by Katharina Giegling (violin and meditation guide), Anna Theegarten (viola), and Julia Sompolinska (cello). The arrangement revealed new colours and textures in the music, highlighting the extraordinary independence of Bach’s individual voices and transforming the work into an intimate musical conversation. I will confess that I still prefer the piece on piano. For me, Glenn Gould remains difficult to surpass. Yet that hardly mattered. The combination of Bach’s endlessly unfolding variations, guided meditation, attentive listening, and a room collectively committed to slowing down produced many of the very things meditation promises: focus, calm, presence, and a temporary suspension of the endless stream of practical concerns that usually occupies the mind. For an hour or so, the world became a little quieter. (06/14/2026 13:54:04)

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