Today I made a small literary pilgrimage to San Michele, Venice’s island of the dead.
The cemetery has its origins in the Napoleonic period. In 1807 Venice began burying its dead outside the densely populated city, initially on the island of San Cristoforo. In the 1830s the canal separating it from San Michele was filled in, creating the cemetery island we know today: enclosed by brick walls and water, filled with cypresses, monuments and graves.
I went there particularly in search of two poets.
First, Ezra Pound.
My interest in this brilliant, disturbing and deeply contradictory figure was awakened by Jens Carl Sanderhoff’s remarkable novel Det tøvende århundrede eller Sankt Sebastians martyrium.
Sanderhoff does not attempt a conventional biography. Instead, he enters the consciousness of a Pound-like figure and confronts one of the uncomfortable questions surrounding twentieth-century culture: how do we understand an artist of immense importance whose political choices were so profoundly compromised? Pound helped shape literary modernism, while embracing Mussolini’s fascism and broadcasting propaganda from Italy during the war.
Sanderhoff’s novel has now appeared in English as A Century of Hesitation, published by Spuyten Duyvil. I hope this rather extraordinary Danish novel will thereby find the wider readership it deserves.
Then I walked the short distance to Joseph Brodsky.
Brodsky’s small book Watermark has accompanied me on several journeys to Venice. Based on his repeated winter visits, it is not really a guidebook or even conventional travel writing. Venice becomes material for thinking about water and stone, beauty and decay, memory and desire, and, perhaps above all, time.
I came to appreciate Brodsky’s Venice even more after reading Jesper Lützhøft’s 40 dage i vandørkenen. Through 40 photographs and 40 short prose texts, Lützhøft creates his own fragmentary Venice of doors, shutters, alleys, water and imagined lives. To me, it belongs to the literary tradition of seeing Venice that Brodsky so brilliantly embodies.
And then, walking around Brodsky’s grave, I found the inscription on the back of the stone:
LETUM NON OMNIA FINIT.
“Death does not end everything.”
The words come from the Roman poet Propertius. In the original elegy, the dead Cynthia returns to speak to her poet-lover. More than two thousand years later, the words seem almost uncannily appropriate on another poet’s grave.
Perhaps that is what I had really come to San Michele to be reminded of.
Writers die. Their voices have an irritating habit of carrying on.
Letum non omnia finit.
09/28/2026 20:32:29
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- Today I made a small literary pilgrimage to San Michele, Venice’s island of the dead.
The cemetery has its origins in the Napoleonic period. In 1807 Venice began burying its dead outside the densely populated city, initially on the island of San Cristoforo. In the 1830s the canal separating it from San Michele was filled in, creating the cemetery island we know today: enclosed by brick walls and water, filled with cypresses, monuments and graves.
I went there particularly in search of two poets.
First, Ezra Pound.
My interest in this brilliant, disturbing and deeply contradictory figure was awakened by Jens Carl Sanderhoff’s remarkable novel Det tøvende århundrede eller Sankt Sebastians martyrium.
Sanderhoff does not attempt a conventional biography. Instead, he enters the consciousness of a Pound-like figure and confronts one of the uncomfortable questions surrounding twentieth-century culture: how do we understand an artist of immense importance whose political choices were so profoundly compromised? Pound helped shape literary modernism, while embracing Mussolini’s fascism and broadcasting propaganda from Italy during the war.
Sanderhoff’s novel has now appeared in English as A Century of Hesitation, published by Spuyten Duyvil. I hope this rather extraordinary Danish novel will thereby find the wider readership it deserves.
Then I walked the short distance to Joseph Brodsky.
Brodsky’s small book Watermark has accompanied me on several journeys to Venice. Based on his repeated winter visits, it is not really a guidebook or even conventional travel writing. Venice becomes material for thinking about water and stone, beauty and decay, memory and desire, and, perhaps above all, time.
I came to appreciate Brodsky’s Venice even more after reading Jesper Lützhøft’s 40 dage i vandørkenen. Through 40 photographs and 40 short prose texts, Lützhøft creates his own fragmentary Venice of doors, shutters, alleys, water and imagined lives. To me, it belongs to the literary tradition of seeing Venice that Brodsky so brilliantly embodies.
And then, walking around Brodsky’s grave, I found the inscription on the back of the stone:
LETUM NON OMNIA FINIT.
“Death does not end everything.”
The words come from the Roman poet Propertius. In the original elegy, the dead Cynthia returns to speak to her poet-lover. More than two thousand years later, the words seem almost uncannily appropriate on another poet’s grave.
Perhaps that is what I had really come to San Michele to be reminded of.
Writers die. Their voices have an irritating habit of carrying on.
Letum non omnia finit. (09/28/2026 20:32:29)
- A small look back at a gallery dinner Jeanne and I attended about a month ago at one of our favourite Copenhagen galleries, Wilson Saplana, celebrating the Greenlandic photographer Inuuteq Storch and his exhibition Swing by at 14:14.
It was Storch’s first solo exhibition at the gallery and brought together two very different bodies of work: Flesh, photographed in New York between 2016 and 2019, and Swing by at 14:14, made during journeys to Tasiilaq in East Greenland between 2020 and 2026. Two places almost absurdly far apart, geographically and visually, but connected by Storch’s extraordinary eye for intimacy, everyday life and the strange poetry of apparently insignificant moments. Wilson Saplana Gallery
Wilson Saplana itself has become one of the Copenhagen galleries I most enjoy following. Founded by Christina Wilson and Nanna Saplana in 2022, and now based on Vesterbrogade, it combines younger and established artists and puts considerable emphasis on long-term artistic development rather than simply exhibitions and sales. Wilson Saplana Gallery
Storch came back to me very strongly here in Venice when I walked into the Danish Pavilion at this year’s Biennale.
Because two years ago, in exactly that building, Storch presented Rise of the Sunken Sun. I remember being deeply affected by it then, and returning to the pavilion this year only strengthened that memory.
In 2024 Storch became the first Greenlandic artist to represent Denmark at the Biennale. His exhibition brought together his own photographs of Kalaallit Nunaat with family archives and historical photographs, including work by John Møller, the first known Greenlandic professional photographer. The result was simultaneously personal, historical and political, but never reduced to politics. Colonial history was present, but so were friendship, family, landscape, humour, boredom, tenderness and ordinary life. La Biennale di Venezia
That, I think, is part of Storch’s particular power. He does not seem to photograph Greenland as an idea. He photographs life from inside it.
And then another connection occurred to me. Earlier this year, Granta devoted its Spring 2026 issue, Granta 175: Scandinavia, to Scandinavian literature and art, with contributions from writers including Jon Fosse, Helle Helle, Olga Ravn, Karl Ove Knausgård and Søren Ulrik Thomsen. Among the photographic contributions was Storch’s Porcelain Souls. Granta
Those photographs may be among his works that have affected me most. They emerge from his own family history, particularly the separation of his parents between Greenland and Denmark, and have the imperfect, fragile quality of family photographs rather than the polished distance of documentary photography.
Perhaps that is why they stay with you.
Storch’s Greenland is not primarily something observed. It is something remembered, inherited and lived. (09/28/2026 09:15:04)
- Apparently, there is such a thing as International Negroni Week. And apparently I have become exactly the sort of person for whom this is relevant.
Negroni Week runs from 21–27 September this year. Started by Imbibe in 2013, it has grown into an international celebration involving thousands of bars and restaurants, while raising money for charitable causes, this year supporting Slow Food. Negroni Week
My own conversion to the Negroni has two principal culprits. One is Vilhelm, whose Negronis have gradually made the bitter, beautifully balanced cocktail something of a family habit. The other, and perhaps the more decisive influence, is Jonas Hornhaver Salmonsen at Klub in Copenhagen, whose Negroni tastings have demonstrated just how much can be done with what is, in its classical form, the wonderfully simple combination of gin, Campari and sweet vermouth. Negroni Week
The day before Jeanne and I left for Venice, I just managed to stop by Klub, where Jonas was serving three of his own variations. I chose the Tokyo Choya Negroni, made with his homemade sake vermouth and plum-infused Campari. A distinctly Japanese detour from Italy, and a very good one.
Then came one of those coincidences that make travelling more entertaining. The following day, at the airport, we ran into Jonas and his girlfriend Maria. They were, of all places, heading to Venice on exactly the same flight.
Four people travelling to the birthplace country of the Negroni during Negroni Week. There was really only one responsible course of action.
So the tastings have continued around Venice. (09/27/2026 11:58:02)
- Our first day at the Venice Biennale included visits to two national pavilions that, rather strikingly, approach the same anxiety: what happens when fewer children are born, and what does that tell us about the societies they would be born into?
At the Japanese Pavilion, Japanese-American artist Ei Arakawa-Nash has created Grass Babies, Moon Babies. Visitors are invited to pick up one of around 200 remarkably lifelike baby dolls, weighing about five kilos, and carry it through the exhibition. I am pictured here with mine. La Biennale di Venezia
It sounds almost gimmicky, but it isn't. The physical act of carrying a child changes the way one encounters the pavilion. Arakawa-Nash, who became a parent to twins in 2024, uses parenthood and care as a way into larger questions about declining birth rates, queer families, Japanese identity, war, historical responsibility and what one generation owes the next. At the end, you can even change your baby's diaper and receive a poem linked to its fictional birthday and to events in 20th-century history. La Biennale di Venezia
The Danish Pavilion addresses much the same demographic anxiety, but from a very different direction. In Maja Malou Lyse's Things to Come, pornography, sperm banks, cryogenic containers and "sperm races" form a deliberately provocative speculation about reproduction in 2045. The underlying question is whether images, including pornography, might influence fertility and perhaps even contribute to the continuation of the species. La Biennale di Venezia
Of the two, I found the Japanese pavilion by far the more interesting and intellectually challenging.
The Danish pavilion certainly provokes, but to me the provocation seemed to substitute for rather than open up an underlying idea. Perhaps that is also part of a broader tendency in very young Western contemporary art: an increasingly predictable search for transgression. At some point the escalation defeats itself. When almost nothing can shock us anymore, what remains genuinely provocative may be the artistic poverty of the provocation itself.
The Japanese pavilion did something more difficult. It began almost playfully, with the absurdity of grown adults walking around an art exhibition carrying heavy plastic babies, and ended by making care, responsibility and the future feel unexpectedly concrete.
Sometimes five kilos can be quite a lot to think about. (09/27/2026 11:44:28)
- Back in Venice. Again.
Jeanne and I are here for the 61st Venice Biennale, continuing a tradition that has brought us back more or less every other year for the past 15–16 years. Somehow, Venice and the Biennale have become intertwined for us: the city as a permanent stage, and contemporary art arriving every second year to disturb it.
This year's Biennale is titled In Minor Keys. It was conceived by the late Cameroonian-Swiss curator Koyo Kouoh, who died unexpectedly in May 2025, after she had already developed the exhibition's conceptual framework, chosen the artists and works, and shaped everything from the catalogue to the exhibition architecture. Her team subsequently completed the exhibition according to her plans. La Biennale di Venezia
And there is something unusually attractive about Kouoh's starting point. Rather than another attempt to explain the entire contemporary world through one grand curatorial argument, In Minor Keys asks us to slow down and listen to quieter frequencies: art as contemplation, memory, healing, resistance and sometimes simply enchantment. The exhibition brings together 110 participants from very different geographies, not in rigid thematic sections but through affinities, echoes and what Kouoh called a relational geography. La Biennale di Venezia
Jeanne is pictured here with the Biennale guide, In Minor Keys. The full official catalogue itself consists of two volumes and was conceived as something more than documentation: artists are given space not only for finished works but for essays, sketches, studio images and the processes behind them. It seems appropriate for an exhibition interested less in declarations than in listening. La Biennale di Venezia
As in recent years, we are staying at the Hotel Excelsior on the Lido. This year we have been upgraded to a rather wonderful room overlooking the Adriatic.
Which inevitably brings to mind Gustav von Aschenbach, arriving on the Lido in Thomas Mann's Death in Venice, and even more the extraordinary visual world Luchino Visconti created from Mann's novella in his 1971 film.
Fortunately, the similarities stop at the sea view.
For the coming days our Venice will instead consist of the Arsenale, Giardini, national pavilions, exhibitions hidden in palazzi and churches, far too much walking, probably far too much art, and the occasional escape back across the lagoon to the Lido.
Perhaps that is also why we keep returning. The Biennale is never simply an exhibition. Venice becomes part of the exhibition, and after enough visits, your own memories become part of Venice. (09/27/2026 08:31:22)
- From Birmingham to Saturn, via Helsinki: Rediscovering Sun Ra
Some musical interests arrive suddenly. Others disappear for decades and then return through a rather improbable chain of accidents. Sun Ra belongs firmly in the second category for me.
A few days ago, as part of the Cinemateket Music Film Festival 2026 (https://www.dfi.dk/cinemateket/biograf/filmserier/serie/musikfilm-festivalen-2... (09/15/2026 14:18:14)
- At 9:30 on Saturday evening, LiteraturHaus on Nørrebro had turned blue.
Together with my friend Martin Malmgreen, I went to the late-night concert ACROSS the Night at ACROSS Festival. The setting was intimate, the lighting almost dreamlike, and the musicians were only a few metres away. Kaspar Vig’s light installation was an integral part of the concert, and musicians from NOVO Quartet, Paddington Trio and Simply Quartet were mixed across the programme rather than presented simply as three separate ensembles.
The programme itself was wonderfully constructed.
It began with Debussy’s Clair de Lune, the third movement of his Suite bergamasque: perhaps overly familiar music in other circumstances, but here its suspended harmonies and quiet luminosity immediately established the atmosphere of the night.
From there, almost without breaking the spell, came Karol Szymanowski’s The Fountain of Arethusa, the first of his three Mythes, Op. 30, for violin and piano. Inspired by the Greek myth of the nymph Arethusa, the music seems to shimmer and move like water. Szymanowski uses harmonics, tremolos and the high register of the violin to create an extraordinary palette of sound. The transition from Debussy’s moonlight to Szymanowski’s flowing water was one of the most beautiful moments of the evening: not really a change of world, more as if Debussy’s still nocturnal landscape had suddenly begun to move.
Then Charles Ives abruptly changed the perspective. The second movement of his Piano Trio is famously marked TSIAJ, “This Scherzo Is A Joke”. It is a mad, funny collision of American popular and college songs, quotations, polytonality and rhythmic disruption. Classical music temporarily behaving very badly, which is often when it becomes most interesting.
Caroline Shaw’s Entr’acte brought us back into another kind of strangeness. Written in 2011 after Shaw heard the Brentano Quartet play Haydn’s Op. 77 No. 2, it takes the old minuet-and-trio form and pulls it through what Shaw herself has described as a kind of musical looking glass. Familiar gestures appear, dissolve and re-form in new textures.
This led beautifully into the fourth movement, the Intermezzo, from Shostakovich’s Piano Quintet in G minor, Op. 57. Its long, restrained violin line unfolds over an almost walking bass, gradually intensifying without ever losing its inward character. The transition from Shaw into Shostakovich was, for me, the other particularly inspired piece of programming: from contemporary fragments and half-remembered classical forms into something much darker, simpler and more emotionally exposed.
And then, finally, Jörg Widmann blew the doors open with 180 Beats per Minute, written for string sextet in 1993 and inspired by the techno nights of the early 1990s. Widmann builds almost the entire piece around rhythmic propulsion and variations of a single chord until the music develops into a six-part canon. Chamber music suddenly acquired the physical drive of a club. Widmann himself calls the piece essentially a celebration of rhythm, and that was exactly how it felt.
What I enjoyed almost as much as the music was seeing young musicians of this calibre rethink how classical music can be presented.
ACROSS deliberately places chamber music in an informal setting, with a bar, close physical proximity between musicians and audience, unusual programming and collaborations across ensembles. Yet nothing has been diluted to achieve accessibility. Quite the contrary. NOVO Quartet, Paddington Trio and Simply Quartet are ensembles with major international prizes and appearances at venues such as Wigmore Hall, the Elbphilharmonie and the Concertgebouw behind them. This is experimentation built on musical excellence, not instead of it.
Another Copenhagen example is Festival&Friends at KoncertKirken, also on Nørrebro. Its stated ambition is similarly to rethink what a classical music festival can be through new formats, community and a less formal relationship between musicians and audience. Its programmes mix chamber music with meditation, jazz, theatrical formats, children’s concerts and afterparties, again with exceptionally accomplished young musicians.
For years there has been anxious discussion about how classical music can find a younger audience. Perhaps part of the answer is surprisingly simple: do not make the music less demanding. Change the circumstances in which we encounter it.
Seeing musicians of this generation doing precisely that, while refusing to compromise on artistic quality, makes me rather optimistic.
Classical music does not need to be rescued from the past. It needs to be allowed to belong to the present and the future. (09/14/2026 11:26:07)
- One of the pleasures of this late summer has been spending quite a few evenings with friends at Cinemateket’s Music Film Festival in Copenhagen.
And, without really planning it, I seem to have ended up watching a small history of the music that formed me.
David Byrne’s American Utopia, filmed by Spike Lee, captures Byrne’s extraordinary Broadway production: Talking Heads songs, his solo work and a group of musicians moving freely around an almost empty stage. It is both concert and choreography, intellectually constructed and irresistibly physical.
One Hand Clapping is something quite different: Paul McCartney and Wings in Abbey Road Studios in 1974, shortly after Band on the Run, rehearsing and performing while cameras happen to be present. There is something wonderfully unpolished about seeing McCartney simply working as a musician. One of the first LPs I owned was by Paul McCartney and Wings, so some of this music reaches rather far back into my own biography.
Then there was Amazing Grace. In January 1972, Aretha Franklin returned to the gospel music of her childhood and recorded the album live over two nights in a church in Los Angeles, accompanied by Reverend James Cleveland and the Southern California Community Choir. Sydney Pollack filmed it, but technical problems meant that the footage remained unseen for decades.
It is almost overwhelming. Franklin does not merely perform gospel. For 90 minutes one understands where a very large part of soul, R&B and rock came from.
And there, rather wonderfully, is Mick Jagger in the audience, with Charlie Watts, completely absorbed by what he is hearing.
The Brazilian double bill reached even further back and sideways.
Pierre Barouh’s remarkable Saravah, filmed in Rio in 1969, wanders almost casually through Brazilian musical culture with Baden Powell as a guide, encountering figures including Pixinguinha, João da Baiana, Maria Bethânia and Paulinho da Viola. It is particularly fascinating in the way it makes the African foundations of samba and Brazilian popular music visible and audible.
Ana Rieper’s Nothing Like Before – The Music of Clube da Esquina moves forward a few years to one of my favourite musical worlds: Milton Nascimento, Lô Borges, Beto Guedes, Toninho Horta, Wagner Tiso and the extraordinary 1972 album Clube da Esquina. Milton Nascimento’s voice is the soundtrack to a considerable part of my late teenage years.
What struck me after seeing all these films is how misleading our musical categories can be.
The young musicians around Clube da Esquina adored the Beatles. Lô Borges and Beto Guedes were genuine Beatlemaniacs. Yet their music combined that influence with bossa nova, jazz, Brazilian traditions and the African and Latin American currents running through Nascimento’s music.
David Byrne and Talking Heads travelled the other way across many of the same bridges. Talking Heads drew heavily on African polyrhythms and Fela Kuti, while Byrne became an obsessive champion of Brazilian music. When he later founded Luaka Bop and compiled his Brazil Classics collections, Milton Nascimento was naturally among the artists he included.
And behind much of it lies the immense African musical diaspora: in Brazilian samba and MPB, in Fela’s Afrobeat, in American blues, soul and gospel. The Beatles and the Rolling Stones absorbed Black American music; Brazilian musicians absorbed the Beatles; Byrne absorbed both Brazil and Africa.
And in Amazing Grace, Mick Jagger is suddenly standing in a Los Angeles church in 1972, listening spellbound to Aretha Franklin take the music back towards one of its sources.
When I first heard all this music as a teenager, these were separate records sitting in different parts of the collection.
Half a century later, the connections between them seem almost more interesting than the differences.
Perhaps genres are mostly something we invented to organise record shops. Music itself has always been rather less obedient. (09/14/2026 10:51:04)
- Last week I went to AFUK on Vesterbro to see Copenhagen Opera Festival’s The Ring – Forever Hot. I went in very much disposed to like it.
I am, like so many others, a great admirer of Wagner’s operas. But certainly not because I think they should be preserved under glass. Quite the opposite.
Der Ring des Nibelungen is one of those inexhaustible works that each generation should be allowed to drag into its own time. Power, greed, love, betrayal, family, law, nature and the corruption that comes with the pursuit of absolute power hardly became obsolete with the 19th century.
The great modern productions of the Ring have demonstrated exactly this. Patrice Chéreau’s famous centenary production in Bayreuth in 1976 is perhaps the obvious example: a radical reinterpretation can reveal things in a classic rather than diminish it.
But there is also such a thing as too much interpretation.
The Ring – Forever Hot threw almost everything into the pot: circus, audience participation, inflatable fantasy creatures, sausages and sauerkraut, schlager, rock, electronic soundscapes and a general determination not to leave too many theatrical devices unused.
Some of it was amusing. Some of it was clever. Collectively, however, it became too much for me.
My objection was not that it was irreverent. Wagner can survive irreverence perfectly well. The problem was that the production seemed to confuse freedom with accumulation. At some point I felt that The Ring itself was disappearing behind all the ideas about what one might do with The Ring.
There is a difference between opening up a classic and dismantling it until almost anything can be projected onto the remaining fragments.
The singing was another matter. The principal voices were genuinely impressive, and there was very little I could find fault with vocally. At moments they cut through all the surrounding theatrical mayhem and reminded me why I had come.
Interestingly, the critics were sharply divided. Some shared something close to my exhaustion; others absolutely loved the anarchic total-theatre approach. And perhaps that disagreement tells us something important about the production.
Wagner made the idea of the Gesamtkunstwerk, the total work of art, central to his artistic programme. The paradox for me was that this particular attempt at totality ended up as accumulation: so much was added that too little space remained for Wagner.
How far can one reinterpret a great work before the interpretation itself becomes the main event? (08/25/2026 09:51:16)
- Saturday evening turned into a rather wonderful Spanish detour through Copenhagen.
Jeanne was fully occupied with running Fluid Festival, so Vilhelm was “forced” to take her place and accompany me. There are, admittedly, harder duties for a son.
We began at Hauser Bar & Vin at Hauser Plads, where Amir Kuckovic from Botiga had organised a small vermouth pop-up. Botiga specialises in bringing Catalan wines, vermouth and other products to Denmark, and among the vermouths we tasted was De Muller Iris from Reus.
Iris belongs to the old tradition of Vermut de Reus and is made from an infusion of a remarkable number of Mediterranean herbs, roots and aromatic plants. It was a useful reminder that vermouth deserves to be treated as a drink in its own right rather than merely as something sacrificed anonymously to a cocktail shaker.
From there we continued to Refshaleøen for a preview dinner at the new Spanish restaurant Hostia, organised as a Hostia × Noma Projects Taste Buds event.
The menu was unmistakably Spanish, but without feeling like an exercise in culinary nostalgia.
We began with salmorejo, followed by a gilda of anchovy, piparra and olive, then cecina, pan con tomate, sobrasada with honey and a tomato salad with yeast vinaigrette.
Then came potatoes with smoked fish, grilled portobello mushrooms with spiced butter sauce and perhaps the most emphatically Spanish dish of the evening: chuleta from an eight-year-old Rubia Gallega cow.
And then came a small detail that tied the evening together rather beautifully.
The first dessert was melon with vermouth, and the vermouth was the very same De Muller Iris that Amir had served us at the Botiga pop-up earlier in the evening. First in the glass at Hauser Bar & Vin, a few hours later returning on the plate at Hostia.
We finished with tocino de cielo, served with egg-yolk custard, cream and truffle.
The wines were equally memorable. Among them was a 2004 Viña Ardanza Reserva from La Rioja Alta, followed towards the end by Matusalem VORS from González Byass, an extraordinary old Cream Sherry aged for more than 30 years.
What I particularly liked about the evening was the relationship between tradition and experimentation.
The dishes were built around very recognisable Spanish ingredients and culinary ideas: salmorejo, gilda, cecina, sobrasada, Rubia Gallega, vermouth and sherry. Yet the meal never seemed concerned with simply recreating Spain in Copenhagen.
Instead, Spanish tradition became material for interpretation.
Perhaps that is one reason why Spanish cooking fits so well into Copenhagen’s contemporary restaurant culture. Both take ingredients and traditions seriously, but neither needs to treat tradition as something frozen in time.
And there are considerably worse ways of spending an evening with one’s son than drinking vermouth, eating Spanish food and sharing an old Rioja. (08/17/2026 18:42:34)