The nature of reflection

Line Ulekleiv

Marianne Mannsåker treats materials, references and iconography in a complex and subtle way – internal reflections stand out in relief from the intertwining threads of various media. Lines confirm the contours of her entire work. Earlier and recent works cohere, via a long process of genesis. A movement through her practice is discernible and results in changes through time: sometimes scarcely noticeable, at other times emphatic. From textile art to painting and drawing, with a special sense of the literary, Mannsåker explores the point of balance between representational and abstract art. On the material’s own premises, fluctuating between the senses. That which with concentration and intensity is launched out into an open space returns after a while to its point of departure, like a returned letter in an unfinished correspondence.


A mythical circle

In the exhibition Licorne, Marianne Mannsåker has taken an iconic work in Western cultural circles as her point of departure, namely La Dame à la Licorne (The Lady with the Unicorn), six unique pictorial weavings that were probably designed in Paris and woven in Flanders at the end of the 15th century, now in the Musée de Cluny collection in Paris. The highly ambiguous symbolism has been shrouded in mystery and a strong wish to interpret (1); even so there is a synchronic perception that they represent the five senses: Le Toucher (touch), Le Goût (taste), L’Odorat (smell), L’Ouïe (hearing) and La Vue (sight). And then a sixth, enigmatic entity: Mon seul désir (often translated as ‘My sole desire’. All of them have a central female figure flanked by a unicorn and a lion, as well as a maidservant, a selection of animals and both heraldic- and sense-related attributes. Each scene is enacted on an oval, blue field against a soft, red ground colour, sprinkled with blossoming flowers, countless plants arranged in what were then called millefleur, a thousand flowers.


La Dame à la Licorne undoubtedly represents an exclusive material legacy. When rescued from gnawing rats and general decay in 1882 (something publicly drawn attention to by the writer George Sand, who wrote an article about the work in 1847), it was purchased for a sum that would have corresponded to only a fraction of the original cost of production. Most weavings of this size were done in order to tell a story that was to celebrate an event, or honour the individual or the family that commissioned it. In this case, the commissioner was Jean Le Viste, who belonged to the nobility, with close connections to the French monarchy, something which is apparent from the heraldic coats of arms included in the work. Although an artist designed the actual composition, such works were normally a cooperation between a number of artisans. Wool and silk dyed with  be moved as desired. In this way, quiet and contemplative atmospheres were created.


With its technical virtuosity and mysterious, poetic aspects, the work has been of great importance for many artists.(2) Rainer Maria Rilke wrote movingly about it:


‘Now the tapestries of the Dame à la Licorne are also no longer in the old chateau of Broussac. This is the time when everything is leaving great houses; they can no longer hang on to anything. Danger has become safer than safety. No one from the Delle Viste line walks beside us with all that in their blood. They are all gone. […] Occasionally, though, you’ll see young girls in front of the tapestries. For there are lots of young girls in the museums, girls from somewhere or other who have left homes that no longer hold on to anything; they find themselves in front of these tapestries and for a short while forget about themselves. They’ve always felt that there existed this kind of quiet life whose slowly moving gestures revealed not quite all their significance and they dimly recall even thinking for a time that such would be their life.’(3)


I saw the Flemish tapestries for the first time as a wide-eyed 18-year-old on Interrail, subsequently as a sauntering streetwalker in spring 2019. A feeling of heightened sense perception occurred when encountering the work, a logical conclusion to my mind of Parisian refinement. The glow of the colours, the details, the strange intimacy between unicorn and maiden – an impenetrable and distant courtly culture which nevertheless vibrated like a string.


Mannsåker’s first experience of the work in 1977 had a direct influence on her choice of tapestry as her main artistic medium for the following 30 years, rounded off by the exhibition Minnetavler (Epitaphs) in 2007. Her new exhibition relates to the history and aesthetic universe of the Cluny tapestries, first and foremost by indicating associatively to the various senses, primarily through drawing, but with elements of photography, painting and embroidery. The watercolour in particular, which in hand-coloured books and old manuscripts play an important role, alongside thread – which represents for the artist a central link between earlier and present work. Mannsåker wishes to attain an essence fetched from historical textile art, personally formulated and with the emphasis on the aspect of drawing and interpreted as a complex expression of sensory perception. Some of the works are explicitly linked to one particular sense, while others spread out over several, without any distinct lines of demarcation. The visualisation of the five senses from Cluny is reflected, and acquires a present-day, free space of influence, without being directly cited.


Unicorn in the mirror

According to medieval legends, the unicorn was as quick as lightning, and could only be caught and tamed by a patiently waiting maiden sitting in a forest. When the unicorn arrived at the enclosed garden (hortus conclusus), it was to place its head in her lap, and thereby surrender itself. There is no shortage of erotic and phallic undertones in this narrative, represented in number of artistic depictions. The Unicorn Tapestries at the Metropolitan Museum of Art were made at about the same time – and are also of extraordinary beauty and high quality. The precision and the material variation in the representation of curved lines, folds of velvet, delicate petals and the whiskers of the wild animal are striking. A vulnerable white unicorn is being chased in the tapestries at the Metropolitan Museum by a group of individually portrayed huntsmen, surrounded by naturalistically portrayed flora and fauna. Unlike La Dame à la Licorne, the effect is dynamic and full of life, less monumental and emblematic.


The cultural status of the unicorn – today as a childlike desired dream creature – has ramifications extending to aristocratic cabinets of curiosities, which sought rare and impossible objects. The unicorn horns (alicorns) of these collections were in actual fact narwhal tusks which, with their characteristic twining structure, became a lucrative commodity. It is said that King Frederik III of Denmark-Norway had a throne made of the material in the 17th century. As early as the Middle Ages, its long horn was reputed to have healing properties, and anyone who drank a potion containing it was protected against disease and poison. The development of the unicorn as a creature of belief was also propagated by it being interpreted as Christ. A large number of allegories arose in which the unicorn was linked to Christian iconography, with Mary’s capture of the unicorn becoming a standard motif, symbolising the quintessence of purity. (4)


In the Cluny tapestry that represents the sense of sight, it has already been tamed. The maiden, with a lion on her other side, is holding a gold-plated hand mirror (as an echo of the oval of her own face) in front of the smiling unicorn in profile. In the mirror, however, there is no parallel that is true to nature, no ethereal apparition, but a simplified and reduced caricature, as seen from the woman’s angle, rather than that of the unicorn. The image seems as if already produced in advance. So this small mirror image contrasts with the fidelity to nature typical of the entire tapestry which, running parallel with its schematic and emblematic composition, is wonderfully mimetic.


The mirroring of a fictive creature, and the subsequent distortion of its representation, form an interesting way of encountering the work today, seen from a different time horizon, in the border area of the coded figuration of the medieval work. This pictorial element underlines the complex nature of the Flemish tapestry cycle – and in a more general sense, the ability of the picture to transform. Why does the unicorn not resemble ‘itself’? A mirror image of something which de facto does not exist, but which appears changed and indirectly in the same composition, as a strange twin. Who is the mirror reflection intended for?


By convention, sight and the visual aspect take precedence in pictorial art, and enjoy an elevated position among the senses. The twisted mirror image here distorts its immediacy. An imagined weight of the unicorn’s hooves on the maiden’s lap, the well-known scent of lilies in full bloom, perhaps an imagined lion’s roar, all of this supports the underlying interaction with the other senses. The optical dimension alone, in a world of sense-related symbols, has a restricted view of the sensual nature of humanity. The coquettish representation of animals that mirror themselves refers to a long-standing iconography. In the Middle Ages, figurative depictions of apes with mirrors, for example, were interpreted as allegories of sinful man – nothing but an ape compared to God in a parody of human behaviour. We see a vain mirroring of ourselves, via the animals. Self-consciousness is inoculated into a free Nature.


Optical reflection

A mirror at the centre of a tapestry was regarded in the Middle Ages as being a divine symbol of eternity, but also an image of vanity and deceit. The mirror breaks down value-related boundaries in what is displayed, and reflects what otherwise would have been invisible. The world’s occurrences come into view and are arranged for perusal. A mirror was no everyday object but a status symbol and a work of art in itself. Before Italian craftsmen in Murano perfected the clear glass mirror we know today in the 16th century, ancient cultures had their own versions in polished metal and water.(5) The mirror was highly ambivalent. It suggested dreams and visions, but also the possibility of scrutinising oneself – as actually and morally a source of knowledge. The phenomenologist Maurice Merleau-Ponty regarded the pre-human look of the mirror as a symbol of the artist’s look: ‘More completely than lights, shadows, and reflections, the mirror image anticipates, within things, the labour of vision. Like all other technical objects, such as tools and signs, the mirror has sprung up along the open circuit between the seeing and the visible body. Every technique is a “technique of the body”,» illustrating and amplifying the metaphysical structure of our flesh.’(6)


Even so, it was an instrument that could be misused in its falsification of conceptions, as in Ovid’s collection of mythology Metamorphoses, where the youth Narcissus falls in love with his own reflection, which leads to his own demise. He ends up as the flower narcissus. This isolated figure has been rendered on canvas in, among other works, Caravaggio’s remarkable painting Narcissus (1597-1599) and it is critically linked to today’s narcissistic digital culture in Lena Lindgren’s recently published Echo – An essay on algorithms and desire. She interprets the essence of this myth in a medial direction – the surface of the water acquires medial properties by reflected images back to the observer; Narcissus (qualified by his opposite, Echo) actually becomes his own medium, compulsorily trapped in his own hall of mirrors.(7) Implicitly, they are the forces which define the logic of social media as the collective of the present age. The attraction of the mirror is always accompanied by a look for the suspect nature of the illusion as a borderline experience. The mirror which is held up to the unicorn in that way becomes a reflective surface for the unfathomable, double and often self-conscious nature of visual experiences, seen through a concrete medium. The reflecting mirror transferred to matt textiles initially involves a radical textural transformation. This ambivalence is also found in the undefinable nature of the unicorn – as unsullied as it is seductive, both pure and hybrid, a refined beast defined by religious devoutness and emotion distance to the world.


In Marianne Mannsåker, sight and the eyes are in focus in individual motifs and titles as something purely graphic, a prism, but also in an elevated and cult-like way. In Votive Tablet no. 3 (2009) an eye has been drawn against a textile background of white lace. The eye seems to look out from an ornamental form, but by its mere presence seems also to demand something of the observer – in this there also lies a possible reflection, a contact that arises by looking back at something, or someone, outside oneself. At various points the circle reoccurs, built up closely and up as a spiral and a mosaic, with an inward suction towards a focus point. Sight is always impressionable, exposed to risk and loss, but in itself it is an endless gift. The drawing on the canvas Retina. Rose Window can be directly linked to sight, apprehended via the Cluny work; here there is once more the linking between the eye as a biologically determined physiology and something sacred, a circle that points away from the immediate and opens up towards inner worlds.


The sixth sense

The sixth and last tapestry of the Cluny cycle – À Mon Seul Désir – differs from the other ones in several ways, including format, but first and foremost because its motif is cannot be allegorically interpreted unambiguously. It shows the lady standing in front of a tent, with the obscure title words written above it on a banner. Her maidservant is standing on the right, holding an open casket with jewels and precious stones, into which a necklace is placed, and in the other hand she is inscrutably and elegantly holding a veil. The unicorn and the lion are standing in their usual positions, with pennants, as in the other tapestries. The fact that nobody quite knows what this represents makes the motif suggestive and fascinating, and it has led to a number of different interpretations. One interpretation is that it should be seen as an abandonment of worldly goods, or an opening up to another spiritual dimension, beyond the five physical and empirically determined senses – a higher form of knowledge or, quite simply, love. It is surround by an uncertainty that adds a special ring to Marianne Mannsåker’s paintings and drawings, in the form of a mystery, a longing that is nurtured.


The already mentioned millefleur style from the Middle Ages and early Renaissance is characterised by a great number of individually formed plants being included, with their being orchestrated into a regular, geometrically ornamental and symmetrical pattern. The flowers and plants fill up the often green surface which creates a perfect illusion of grass, without really overlapping. Together they form a lush meadow, with small bouquets of flowers that stand out sharply against the darker background, as it they were illuminated.

Plant themes are recurrent in Mannsåker’s work – as early as 1980 we find a fine small tapestry entitled Herbarium, which shows flowers with generous petals against a rose-coloured background. In this interest in botanical themes there is also a reflection of the era in European tapestries exemplified by The Lady with the Unicorn. The allegorical universe of the Middle Ages emphasised botany, geometry, symbolism and colour – something that is re-echoed in Mannsåker’s own sphere of interest. It is particularly the focus on drawing in the plants of the Cluny works that interests her. In all her oeuvre she has cultivated a closeness to botany, and developed a personal and complex understanding of vegetation.

For many years, for example, she has observed the same fruit tree in the Jardin des Plantes in Paris, especially when it is in blossom in spring, something which is the direct basis for the small embroidery Hill from 2008 with white silk thread on canvas (continued in the new embroidery Flor [flor = gauze/flora]). Here the white line forms twists and turns, curling in organic and blurred, anemone-like fashion. The tree’s own network is created as fine-meshed, delicate filigree work innermost in the leaves, regularly and reliably within the trunk – where the year rings lie latent. The title of the embroidery also refers to the Swedish artist Carl Fredrik Hill (1849-1911). His pictures of blossoming fruit trees exert their own special fascination. The art historian Karin Sidén has pointed out how Hill, referred to as the artist of both poets and artists, really sees the luxuriant blossoming of these trees – they become his and nobody else’s. The trees meet the observer in an irresistible way, full of vitality – as if they were in the process of bursting out through the canvas.(8)  He returned to the motif later, in a darker and more ominous, biographical way – for instance in the melancholy drawing Blommande fruktträd i en grotta (Blossoming fruit tree in a grotto), where the fruit tree seems captured by its surroundings, as if steadfastly ghostlike in its blossoming.


The link to affection memories and healing are further articulated in Herbarium. Mille Fleurs, a completely new work which consists of 24 watercolours and pencil drawings on paper. According to the artist, it unites all the senses. It is a hand-bound book which shows spreads in this hybrid form between drawing and painting facing an empty page, where the sheets are arranged in such a way that the 24 portrayed plants – including cotton grass, Northern bedstraw, yarrow, iris, dog rose and plants from the columbine family, both fragile and more robust, appear in a calm, poetic rhythm, with a hand-written title beneath. The colour background is often delicate, and the nuances of the watercolours can seep into each other. The colour can also seem impressionistic, like shadows, clusters and densifications. The plants which at any given moment are in view become scenographically significant for the rest of the drawings, so that the totality becomes many-facetted and richly detailed. The order is intuitively determined, and thus idiosyncratic by nature. It is not attempting any objective cataloguing based on recognised biological principles, but is more of a private collection, with underlying preferences and obscure logic.

Some of the plants have medicinal properties, with deep roots in ancient traditions – here there are connections to both the Oseberg ship and the Baldishol tapestry. Mannsåker has also depicted seeds and seed capsules – the plants are there as an essence not naturalistic as such, with a slight nod of acknowledgment to plants and flowers in the Cluny work. Each picture is like a tableau, a still life. Within the formal vocabulary of plants themselves, their corollas, leaves and stems, there is an intricate geometry as well as unchanging basic forms in nature, with deep layers of meaning and function. They have aesthetic, pragmatic and mystical value – here, for example, there are references to the German 12th century abbess Hildegard von Bingen’s universe, where the occurrence and properties of plants were interwoven with their practical use in daily life, while at the same time they represented a religious spirituality.


Time and material

Related to the constant shifting nature of the mirror image of the unicorn, there is a switching between various media in Marianne Mannsåker’s work; together they develop the same expression with their own specific textures – and reflect back on each other. A dynamic relationship arises within a given collected material. In practice, Mannsåker left tapestries behind, but even so they exert a direct influence on her later work, i.e. painting and drawing, with occasional embroidery and photography. From converting parts of her paintings and drawings to tapestries, she started to go in the opposite direction. So there is an active alternation that is being enacted here. In a way, this flexible mode of thought is also a motif for Mannsåker’s concentration on the Cluny cycle – an afterthought about a classical reference work of textile art executed in completely different media. Reference to this specific tapestry become in total more than a memory of her own practice as a textile artist translated into other modes of expression. Here there is an accumulated artistic experience that continues to receive new impulses, and that are here reactivated by the investigative look at art-historical sources.


The distance between sketch and finished work is still being negotiated. Prior to Mannsåker’s artistic reorientation, sketches existed in a symbiosis with the tapestry. In stark contrast to the time-consuming work of weaving, the sketch is easy and quick. After she had finished weaving and reduced format, the difference between the sketch and the finished picture (painting or drawing, on paper and canvas) became more difficult to define. She is still much taken up with the sketch as an important part of her production – a preliminary activity, although in certain cases something as a distinct independent entity.(9) The drawing is treated more as an initial stage.


Mannsåker’s tapestries from the 1990s, with their abstract compositions, embrace various sources of inspiration. They are often quivering and darkly matched in earthen colours with warm accents. In Zuina from 2001, which hangs in the wedding room at Lillehammer courthouse, we see a symbol of eternity and labyrinths in a coupling which can be interpreted as an alliance between emotions and perceptions, in conversation with an underlying house. The colours are warm orange and other golden nuances – it is full of promise without being declamatory. Here a symbolic order surrounds the mystery of love, a motif that can be traced back to the Cluny cycle. An opposite tendency in Mannsåker’s world of motifs is the emphasis on decay and destruction, something burnt – where only ashes and almost illegible traces remain, of fictive cities and civilisations. At the same time, an architecture shines through. Partially recognisable letters and language, strange hieroglyphics that defy deciphering. Often there are references to the tapestry culture of the Berbers with regard to colours and formal idiom, and the artist has emphasised that the German-Swiss painter Paul Klee was also inspired by this type of tapestry. A trip to Tunisia during Easter 1914 was mentioned by the artist as a materialised dream: via colours and motifs from the desert landscape, architecture and moons, his work acquired a new intensity and a greater degree of abstraction. A synthesis crystallised between the architecture of the landscape and his painting.(10)


A number of the darkest of Mannsåker’s tapestries in which lines are prominent can also remind one of Olav Strømme, one of the pioneers of abstraction in Norway. Both his experimental material images from the 1930s and his further development of a formal abstract artistic language in the 1960 and 1970s have a precise atmospheric concentration which becomes increasingly simple in its vocabulary. Clearly demarcated silvery fields could feature against a black background. This sober approach can also be found in many of Mannsåker’s tapestries, and she has personally emphasised the coincidence in musical inspiration and references, such as variations on a fugue. The fugue flees from its main theme to polyphonic side-tracks, but these are constantly caught up by it. The fleeting nature of music and its optimal abstraction are often one of several parallel superstructures for artistic practice. Mannsåker takes her bearings from within, where the sound potential of the colour is an important factor. In the tapestry Fugue from 2005, held in resonant earthen colours, it is as if the horizontal stripes are challenged and broken by something vertical, more discreet. A basic tension arises, with glimpses of light. ‘We are among heavenly bodies – we are together with others in flight. The aim of flight in inner and outer space is to see and harmonise the great diversity,(11) Strømme once stated when asked what he wished to express.


Mannsåker also seems to be searching for a formal unity, while at the same time, in layer upon layer, beneath the often simple geometrical basis elements, there exists an open and complex system of notation. There are, among other things, notes and observations from cities: in Artemisia. Corso, a drawing on a photograph, there is a controlled and systematic interplay of lines taken from an ornamental architectural passage in the iconic main street of Rome, placed over the photograph of the plant Artemisia absinthium. The geography lies in the title, but also points towards the Italian painter Artemisia Gentileschi, whose career as a painter in the Rome of the Baroque period in the first half of the 17th century emerges ever more clearly and more meaningfully before our eyes. The importance of the passage for the emergence of modernity is immortalised in the incomplete and inscrutable collection by the German philosopher Walter Benjamin of bits and pieces called Passagenwerk, written between 1927 and 1940, a kind of labyrinthine collage. Memories, legacies and joinings are both particular to the individual and culturally conditioned, as part of a common history. Art brings this to the fore as an idea and interpreted occurrence and makes it sporadically accessible to us in a material.


That which has to do with the senses

Merleau-Ponty has discerningly written about how existence is a sensory complex, deriving from the simple fact of having a human body. What possibilities does one have to observe it from the outside, and how is it governed by one’s gaze? The gazing person exists in the midst of the visible, and can open out to the world with a aid of vision. At the same time, the body both sees and is visible – and this gives rise to an enigma. It observes all things, but also itself, and distinguishes ‘the other side’ of seeing. The sensing person becomes mixed with that which he or she senses, and in a way is thus caught between things, has an obverse and a reverse side, a past and a present.(12)


In Licorne, Marianne Mannsåker has conceived the works within the spectrum of senses, a symbiosis arises between work and a specific sense, certain works have more than one sense ascribed to them at the same time. The herbarium already mentioned is the only work that deals with all the senses. Furthermore, the already mentioned Artemisia. Corso, is linked to the sense of taste, while a silk embroidery on wool, Chaconne, belongs to hearing, and dancing – if that was a sense. A predecessor for the work, with the same basic motif, is the drawing Loïe from 2018, something which in itself underscores the close connection between drawing and embroidery. The embroidery becomes a slow drawing. A soft, flexible ribbon that resembles a kind of extend Möbius figure moves elegantly in four directions and folds in towards the middle. The embroidery is finely tuned and precise, with gossamer-light layers and hatched lines of embroiders which become denser at the centre, like some sort of dynamic Braille writing.


A distinct reference and inspiration are interesting: Mannsåker has taken a historical figure as her point of departure, namely the American actor and dancer Loïe Fuller, who created something of a sensation in the theatre world of Paris at the end of the 19th century, at the Folies Bergère among other things. She is regarded as an important name in the early development of modern dance, but she also experimented with scenic lighting effects. The philosopher Jacques Rancière has incidentally written about her performances, which linked artistic and technological inspiration, in his history of modern aesthetics. She developed a form of natural movements and is famous for the so-called serpentine dance around 1891, when, dressed in cascades of silk, she danced in multicoloured lights, later filmed by the Lumière brothers. An aesthetic art nouveau creation in which the figure of Fuller, swirled and billowed in a constant transformation between flower, butterfly and cloud.


In Chaconne, Mannsåker has once again taken her title from the world of music: the concept is used for an instrumental piece at a slow tempo, and is also a famous piece by Bach, but at the same time it is also the name of a gay Spanish dance that was popular in the 17th century.  The rhythm is thus ambiguous and whirling. The timeline seems to be more circular than linear. Mannsåker is once more referring back to the manifestation of the senses in the Cluny cycle: L’Ouïe is the French for hearing, which, when spelt as in Old French forms the dancer’s name as an artiste. In the medieval hearing tapestry, the maiden is standing with a harp-like instrument, playing opposite her maidservant, who is holding the opposite side of the instrument. The visualisation of the audible lies in the formation of music, since the hands are strumming. In Chaconne, the sound is more internalised in the material as sound-waves in front of the instrument.


That the senses are seldom an isolated entity which operate on their own can also be expressed in a purely literary way – via linguistic images. In the already cited novel by Rainer Maria Rilke, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, the tactile nature of language presents itself via descriptive sensory images, as here: But it’s a different poet I’m reading, one who doesn’t live in Paris, a different one altogether. One who has a quiet house in the mountains. He sounds like a bell ringing in air that’s pure.(13) When reading, hearing picks up the image in an elucidatory way. An image can evoke and contain a sound, smell, a taste and a touch. Via Marianne Mannsåker’s visualisation of the senses we become extra alert to this complexity.


English version: John Irons





1) Among other readings, the work has been regarded as an allegory of love. See, for example, Michael Camille, The Medieval Art of Love – Objects and Subjects of Desire, Laurence King, London 1998.


2) For Norwegian textile artists with stays from Paris, see, for example, Bente Sætrang, Arnoldsche Art Publishers, 2020, p. 115. Here she also refers to Hannah Ryggen’s experience with the work, and reproduces her text written in Paris in1946, Luftvev i Paris.


3) Rainer Maria Rilke, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge ( . Accessed 22.02.2022.


4) Adolfo Salvatore Cavallo, The Unicorn Tapestries, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Harry N. Abrams, New York 1998, pp. 21-24.


5) Helena Goscilo, “The Mirror in Art: Vanitas, Veritas, and Vision”, Studies in 20th and 21st Century Literature, Volume 34, The Ohio State University 2010.


6) Maurice Merlau-Ponty,, p. 6. Accessed 13.02.2022.


7) Lena Lindgren, Echo – An essay on algorithms and desire, Gyldendal Norsk Forlag, Oslo 2021, p. 26.


8) Karin Sidén, Carl Fredrik Hill, Nationalmuseum/Raster Förlag, 2003, p. 52.


9) Mannsåker took part in the Drawing Biennale 2016, which had the sketch as its theme.


10) Paul Klee, Malmö Konsthall exhibition catalogue, 1991, p. 19.


11) Olav Strømme, The Motif. Exhibition catalogue Henie Onstad Kunstsenter, 1975.


12) Merleau-Ponty, op. cit., pp. ??.


13) Rilke, op. cit., p. ?.