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
nb
See More (10 posts)
- 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)
- I have just finished Christina Hesselholdt’s Passion in Wax (in Danish: Passion i Voks), the third novel featuring the sibling pair Gustava and Mikael. By now, I find myself hoping that Hesselholdt is quietly working towards a tetralogy—or perhaps even a pentalogy. I have grown remarkably fond of these characters and the strange imaginative universe they inhabit.
What fascinates me most is the way Hesselholdt allows memories, obsessions, family histories and fantasies to accumulate across books. Reading Passion in Wax after Through a Filter of Red (in Danish: Gennem et filter af rødt) feels less like starting a new story and more like revisiting a familiar landscape that has shifted ever so slightly while you were away.
One of the motifs that stayed with me is the recurring presence of Rued Langgaard’s Insektarium. On the surface it is a curious musical work consisting of miniature portraits of insects. In the novel, however, it becomes something much larger: a soundtrack to Mikael’s inner world.
The book is populated by insects, visions, memories and apocalyptic imagery. Langgaard’s wandering grasshopper seems to echo through Mikael’s imagination, where personal memories merge with biblical imagery from Revelation, family history and increasingly elaborate fantasies. The result is both unsettling and oddly moving.
The title itself also struck me as a kind of continuation of the previous novel. In Through a Filter of Red, reality appears mediated through memory, longing and interpretation. In Passion in Wax, those same memories seem to have hardened into wax figures displayed in an imaginary museum. The world is no longer merely filtered; it is preserved.
That imagined museum may be the novel’s most powerful image. People, memories and passions are frozen in wax, yet something refuses to remain still. The grasshoppers keep wandering. The music keeps playing. The past refuses to become entirely past.
I must admit that I occasionally felt the novel lingered a little too long within its own symbolic universe. In any case, Passion in Wax left me looking forward to the next visit from Gustava and Mikael—assuming, and hoping, that there is one. (06/10/2026 16:51:36)
- One of the pleasures of living in Copenhagen is that you can decide on a whim to stop by a neighbourhood bar and end up hearing world-class jazz.
That happened to me yesterday evening when I managed to catch the second set by Andreas Toftemark Quintet at Blågårds Apotek.
Andreas Toftemark is one of the most interesting voices on the younger Danish jazz scene. Based in Copenhagen, but shaped by studies in New York, Berlin, Paris and Copenhagen, he belongs to that generation of musicians who effortlessly bridge American hard bop traditions and contemporary European jazz.
I have become particularly fond of his latest album, Roadmap, released on April Records. The record, recorded together with American trumpeter Benny Benack III, has a wonderful sense of direction and momentum while remaining deeply melodic. The title track, which was also played last night, remains one of my favourites.
The quintet at Blågårds Apotek was not the same line-up as on the album, but the format was. Alongside Toftemark on saxophone were Rolf Thofte on trumpet, Rasmus Sørensen on piano, Matthias Petri on bass and Nikolaj Bangsgaard on drums. Most of the repertoire consisted of compositions by Toftemark, with contributions from Sørensen and Thofte as well.
Another highlight was their rendition of Roy Hargrove’s Top of My Head.
I have loved Roy Hargrove’s music for decades. He died far too young in 2018. I was fortunate enough to hear him live around 1994 when I lived in New York, and later again in Copenhagen at Pumpehuset.
Toftemark’s quintet delivered a fine version of the tune. Not quite the same as hearing Hargrove himself, of course.
And Andreas could perhaps have gone all the way and sung the closing lyrics as Hargrove did on the original recording.
Then again, perhaps some roads are best left to the memories. (06/07/2026 16:39:18)
- One of the pleasures of a good wine tasting is that it is never really about the wine alone.
Nobody remembers acidity levels or fermentation techniques. What we remember are stories, places, people, and conversations.
Yesterday’s tasting was hosted by Rosforth & Rosforth, who opened their doors for an afternoon dedicated to natural wines from across Europe. A special thanks to Alex from Rosforth & Rosforth, whose expert guidance took us through six very different wines without ever becoming dogmatic or pretentious.
We began in Germany with Brüder Dr. Becker’s lively Pet Nat Riesling. We continued through France with Sophie et Gautier Guillemot-Michel’s elegant Une Bulle, on to Spain with the textured and characterful Els Bassots, and a beautiful Champagne from Bonnet-Ponson.
The finale was reserved for Georgia.
First a wonderfully expressive Mtsvane from Kakheti, and then an amber-coloured Rkatsiteli made according to the ancient qvevri tradition. By this point, the tasting had become almost a discussion group. Everyone seemed to find something different in the wines.
The final wine produced perhaps the greatest consensus of the afternoon. Around the table, people independently arrived at remarkably similar associations. Green pesto was the dominant note. Once someone had said it, it became impossible not to taste it.
Georgia is often described as the birthplace of wine. Tasting these wines, it was easy to understand why the country’s winemaking traditions have survived for millennia.
Six wines. Three countries. Thousands of years of accumulated knowledge.
And afterwards I did what any responsible participant in an afternoon natural wine tasting should do.
I went home and took a nap. (06/06/2026 17:00:33)
- One of the pleasures of getting older is becoming a regular somewhere.
For me, one of those places is Hauser Vinbar. Not because it is fashionable or because the wine list is long, but because it has that increasingly rare quality: it feels like a place rather than a concept.
Yesterday’s summer wine tasting at Rosforth & Rosforth brought together staff, me as a regular, and a few family members, including Vilhelm and Tobias, on the harbour front.
About a year ago, Konstantin took over Hauser. Some wine enthusiast may know him from Autopol. Taking over a beloved place is always risky. The temptation is either to preserve everything unchanged or to reinvent it completely.
He has managed something more difficult: preserving the warmth, hospitality and slightly eccentric charm that made people return, while quietly transforming Hauser into one of Copenhagen’s most interesting natural wine bars.
Particularly fascinating is his focus on Georgian wines. Georgia is often described as the cradle of wine-making, with traditions stretching back thousands of years. Through Konstantin’s own family connections to the country, that history suddenly feels less like a chapter in a book and more like a conversation across a table.
The tasting moved from bottle to bottle, story to story. Some wines challenged expectations. Others reminded us why certain traditions survive for centuries.
Perhaps that is what good wine bars really do. They are not primarily about wine. They are places where strangers become acquaintances, acquaintances become friends, and where stories, ideas and cultures travel surprisingly well from one end of the table to the other. (06/06/2026 16:42:20)
- Yesterday was Constitution Day in Denmark.
For most Danes, 5 June is associated with the signing of the Danish Constitution in 1849 and the democratic traditions that followed. It is one of the few national days that still carries a certain civic weight.
It is also Father’s Day.
I have always had mixed feelings about Father’s Day. Like so many modern commemorative days, it often feels more like a marketing exercise than a genuine tradition—a reminder to consume rather than remember.
But 5 June has a very real meaning for me.
It is my father Jakob H. Grønbæk’s birthday.
My father died eight years ago at the age of 92. Yesterday, however, we celebrated what would have been his 100th birthday.
We gathered at the grave of my parents at Allerslev Church: my brother and me, our three sons, my cousin Jesper, our better halves, and a number of close friends.
Standing there, I was struck by how quickly a century can pass. A hundred years sounds impossibly long when viewed from one end, and remarkably brief when viewed from the other.
A birthday celebration at a graveyard may sound sombre. It was not.
It was filled with stories, laughter, memories, and the quiet recognition that a life continues to echo through children, grandchildren, relatives, friendships, and shared experiences.
Constitution Day is, in a sense, also about continuity between generations. Democracies survive because each generation receives something from those who came before and passes it on again.
The same is true of families.
Yesterday we celebrated both. (06/06/2026 16:26:22)