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Mats Kempe, writer

Pink Moon

Where a now lost silence lived. A long time. Yes, it is damn hard to clean up after someone. The dirt around the kitchen fan, the fight on the fly-paper, the damp newspapers in the firewood rack. It’s impossible to save everything. Almost nothing is left at the end. The whole pile of wall hangings into the container. I notice that I am already on my way now. The house – a crossroads. I throw something inside for each thing that is carried out over the kitchen threshold. Soon everything is only thoughts. I could have just as well made them up. The memories could have been dreamed. At the same time, of course this is not the case – will never be. The sun has been shining all afternoon. I reward myself with that cup of tea. Dig into the bag of the hastily purchased almond biscuits. And when I step into the room, the sun has gone behind clouds. I sit down in the old armchair by the window. The cup on the window sill. The al-mond biscuits on a small dish on my lap. It’s turned cloudy. I settle myself – and feel – it must be from the cushion, yes, I can still feel someone’s old body warmth lean back.

Slid down the slope sideways, traversing. Padding over the wet humus, with no exact boundary between land and water. Some of the beach grass grew under the surface. The loon was silent. And the sky arched, the edge of the forest – and finally the lake itself. Like a slow deep breath. Where did the wind come from? Couldn’t feel any wind. But a quiet roar from the leaves. So it was somewhere. And the swift flutter of wings under the fir. Then noth-ing more. Stood empty until I suddenly shivered. Yes, there was the wind. I shuddered. The pictures first came when it was time to go home. The cow drinking from its huge spoon. The eye in the landscape – yes, all of that… And how I got the bait on and for the first time felt the little bell ring soundlessly down in the depths. The

perch was hardly larger than my hand – the palm of my hand. I tried to coax it away, and when I released it, the mouth was torn. The pushy ducks by the beach. The osprey rose and carried the fish far over the forest. My parents sat down in the rowboat. Or suddenly – like yesterday – my children turn around and swim in again. Flailing arms and kicking legs. Paleness in the water. Back in towards land. Then I see their faces – it is that – that that always rushes up out of the darkness and stretches after us. Fumbles for our ankles.

Translation Brett Jocelyn Epstein

Note by Jan Stene

The drawings at The Volta Show (1-4 in the catalogue) are based on images from the Swedish author Harry Martinson’s (1904-1978) childhood and growing-up environment.

Fredrik Hofwander, born 1973 in Trelleborg, SwedenLives and works in Stockholm, Sweden

Education1997-2002 Malmö Art Academy, Malmö

Latest solo exhibitions2011 Dreams of Roses and Fire, Haninge Kunsthalle, Stockholm2011 VOLTA NY, Stene Projects2010 A Soldier’s Tale, Stene Projects, Stockholm2009 Dream Baby Dream, Skövde Kunsthalle, Sweden2008 Galleri 1, Göteborg, Sweden2007 Beckers Scholarship of Art, Färgfabriken, Stockholm2007 Det fysiska och det psykiska, Gallery Ping Pong, Malmö2007 In Focus…, Brändström & Stene, Stockholm2006 Birds & Light, Brändström & Stene, Stockholm

Latest group exhibitions2011 Market, Stene Projects, Stockholm2009 Previews, Stene projects, Stockholm2009 Royal Art Academy, Fredsgatan, Stockholm2008 Art Basel2008 Galleri Larm, Copenhagen2006 Studio 44, Stockholm2005 Rooseum, Malmö

RepresentedBeckers Scholarship of Art, StockholmMalmö Art Museum, SwedenStockholm Art Council, SwedenGöteborg Art Council, Sweden