TUNDRA DESIGN
Design: Regine Juhls
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Winged Nomads
If I want to describe beauty, the first thing that comes to my mind is the majestic appearance of large birds of passage, and it seems to me as if I feel something like the resonance of their calls inside me. - Each time they're always overhead quite unexpectedly. Before I grasp their presence they're already flying across distant skies. - These few seconds are like an initiation into the mysteries which are forever unfathomable to mankind. Everything I am holding at that moment - things and thoughts - I simply have to drop. For I feel as if I am seeing a miracle. - After that there is a void, as if the birds have taken something away with them. As if to replace it, I try to form shapes. Sometimes I succeed.
Being creative, - is it not like filling a deserted sky? Or is it like with certain uninhabited rooms? As soon as the door opens they swarm out from all over. They are the ideas woven in secrets which have been waiting for someone to knock ... Picture a Tundra landscape, a vast Arctic plain. Snow has covered it, but no-one has yet trodden out a path. - Nature is practically crying out for it; - and somebody comes ... Being creative is like an act of defiance to the knowledge of the meaninglessness of the individual. It is an attempt to portray the longing for perception. Sometimes it is perception itself - other times a simple game, and it is again different and so much more. - But how to realize an idea? - At first glance the work of a goldsmith can seem to be an accumulation of mere trifles.
Saw this, file away that, solder it together again, sand it down - what pedantry! The empty room, the vast plains, the bewitching calls of winged nomads - where has it concealed itself, that which opened the door to creativity? What was it that had me jump over an abyss, only to leave me with good workmanship? At times I feel deceived. Or I am plagued by doubt: creativity, - what is it worth? Doesn't it always harbour a seed of destruction? Why reveal secrets, why tread footprints in virgin snow? Look at the birds who don't form anything - but they don't deform anything, either ... Another time I am overcome with scorn for my work: "What am I making? Baubles for vain ladies?" One consolation is that much is form enough in itself, - regardless of use and weight, - a form which could be made of iron or silver - could be a sculpture or jewellery. However, that I then wrestle with it, as if it were vital,. simply to make nuances harmonize with ideas what ridiculous seriousness! And yet I continue, out of a feeling of obligation and out of obstinacy, - and each time the resistance melts and disappears completely. It is always the mysteries of a microcosm that attract me and seek to suck me in, until I suddenly catch hold of the end of a thread, and thereupon cast myself wholeheartedly into this unknown. Soon it is my soul which takes the lead as if to head a magical parade. It determines the rhythm, the formation, and before a couple of days have passed I am again convinced that there is nothing more important than creating something beautiful.
I am no technician. An "old-fashioned" person, I stand helpless when faced with apparatus with knobs, - barely able to reconcile myself with a pair of compasses and a ruler. Nor am I one of those who must under all circumstances work with their hands. After all, I am always surprised at being able to solve aesthetic problems with my hands. I work with my eyes. Indeed, I love beauty. Most of all, though, I am basically geared to making something out of nothing - on no matter what subject. Everywhere I discover" something, find, pick up, collect what others would overlook, scorn even, and disgard. In the tiny remains of broken, half-decayed things a whole world of possibilities can open up to me.
When enthusiasm overcomes me, I become like a child, not noticing that I am sawing my finger or singeing my hair. And be it child or sorceress - no, the enthusiastic servant of a sorceress who juggles with corrosive acids, sulphur, gas and fire, I am warm and raw with gratitude because I know: I serve Beauty ... Until I have finished and woken up sober in order to let the new piece of jewellery pass through the hands of our friendly employees. Now the model has to be copied so that it resembles the original as closely as possible. - The Lap Tundra: During Summer's embrace the earth breathes beneath a phosphorus-green net embroidered with a pattern of tiny plants. Mushrooms, moss and lichen - the claim to be able to recognize this abundant sprouting of the tiniest plants in my jewellery, - is it not just the wishful thinking of the well-disposed? Or can living a long time in a particular landscape develop a style? - the ability to experience Nature with fervour, - we understand that it fills the soul. Likewise we understand that in the profusion the soul gives of itself. But what is it that is added and produces poems that have to be written on paper, and forms that have to be made with tools? - It isn't known.
It is very sad that I hardly get a chance to make jewellery, - if I do, it's winter, and then only rarely. There is always something else to do to preserve what we've built up. Sometimes more than a year passes and my hands are no longer used to the tools. Even touching them almost requires an effort, and all the doubts find excuses to put off making a start. - Finally I clear a big table, root out what I have collected and tip it out over the bare surface. That helps give me a perspective. And already a mysterious mechanism starts up. .. "Well, look at that, - that's not bad," I can hear myself mumbling. "This half-molten fragment here - and that one over there, - surprising that I've still got that!" And I brood over all these metallic curiosities. It is like in the summery Tundra, - when I am engrossed in the "forest" of the thousands of individual tree lets" that make up the reindeer moss. - Finally I go to my workbench. And there I stay, - day and night. And I love my work! - Now the ideas assail me. It is as if I were being wrapped up in crackling garlands, just like the Northern Lights when I stomp through the snow on winter nights. I saw, file, sand down, as if anaesthetized by the flowering pot plants around me. Now I experience the practical work as something precious, - something that glows, smells even, - like white hyacinths in dark sunless days. ... Outside storms can rage and the frost can hammer mighty blows against our walls. "That's Winter," we say and smile. So what? We face the fact that he will stay for at least eight months. - But all of us here in the North - people and animals - long for Summer. We are beside ourselves when she comes. And when she goes, we feel as if we'd had her for a long time, for we loved every moment of her presence. - Then the Tundra colours, blazes, glows, and we know... now it is at its most beautiful. ... After that it gets quiet. Autumn, late autumn - a new innocence, a submissive virginity trembles around each defoliated twig. This bareness, trusting in whatever may come ... I don't know why this season moves me so much. Reverently I follow the slightest changes, roam carefully through the silent wilderness. It is so delicate, you hardly dare approach. A shaking emanates from the straggling rusty-brown birches. The moors glisten palely around timidly grey waters. A weak, yellow-ochre glimmer of forgotten willows lingers on the open plain, - around distant heights' there is still a touch of violet ... Standing on a hill, I am gripped by the feeling that I am looking at the end of all things, and yet I am only standing at the beginning of Siberian eternity. And I say to myself "This is where I live" and a thankful sensation of security comes over me. There, suddenly - wonderous calls. From behind denuded trees regal birds soar into the air with mighty beating of their wings, high, high into the air and away from all that ties one to the ground. - At that moment I am transfixed by a swan-white light that takes my breath away. "Yes", I think, and I find myself on knees, "I've just seen a miracle". Tundra -you demand also from us the humility which is only inherent in animals. Rarely does a human succeed in getting close to your wholeness, - and you honour that person by welcoming him.
If I want to describe beauty, the first thing that comes to my mind is the majestic appearance of large birds of passage, and it seems to me as if I feel something like the resonance of their calls inside me. - Each time they're always overhead quite unexpectedly. Before I grasp their presence they're already flying across distant skies. - These few seconds are like an initiation into the mysteries which are forever unfathomable to mankind. Everything I am holding at that moment - things and thoughts - I simply have to drop. For I feel as if I am seeing a miracle. - After that there is a void, as if the birds have taken something away with them. As if to replace it, I try to form shapes. Sometimes I succeed.
Being creative, - is it not like filling a deserted sky? Or is it like with certain uninhabited rooms? As soon as the door opens they swarm out from all over. They are the ideas woven in secrets which have been waiting for someone to knock ... Picture a Tundra landscape, a vast Arctic plain. Snow has covered it, but no-one has yet trodden out a path. - Nature is practically crying out for it; - and somebody comes ... Being creative is like an act of defiance to the knowledge of the meaninglessness of the individual. It is an attempt to portray the longing for perception. Sometimes it is perception itself - other times a simple game, and it is again different and so much more. - But how to realize an idea? - At first glance the work of a goldsmith can seem to be an accumulation of mere trifles.
Saw this, file away that, solder it together again, sand it down - what pedantry! The empty room, the vast plains, the bewitching calls of winged nomads - where has it concealed itself, that which opened the door to creativity? What was it that had me jump over an abyss, only to leave me with good workmanship? At times I feel deceived. Or I am plagued by doubt: creativity, - what is it worth? Doesn't it always harbour a seed of destruction? Why reveal secrets, why tread footprints in virgin snow? Look at the birds who don't form anything - but they don't deform anything, either ... Another time I am overcome with scorn for my work: "What am I making? Baubles for vain ladies?" One consolation is that much is form enough in itself, - regardless of use and weight, - a form which could be made of iron or silver - could be a sculpture or jewellery. However, that I then wrestle with it, as if it were vital,. simply to make nuances harmonize with ideas what ridiculous seriousness! And yet I continue, out of a feeling of obligation and out of obstinacy, - and each time the resistance melts and disappears completely. It is always the mysteries of a microcosm that attract me and seek to suck me in, until I suddenly catch hold of the end of a thread, and thereupon cast myself wholeheartedly into this unknown. Soon it is my soul which takes the lead as if to head a magical parade. It determines the rhythm, the formation, and before a couple of days have passed I am again convinced that there is nothing more important than creating something beautiful.
I am no technician. An "old-fashioned" person, I stand helpless when faced with apparatus with knobs, - barely able to reconcile myself with a pair of compasses and a ruler. Nor am I one of those who must under all circumstances work with their hands. After all, I am always surprised at being able to solve aesthetic problems with my hands. I work with my eyes. Indeed, I love beauty. Most of all, though, I am basically geared to making something out of nothing - on no matter what subject. Everywhere I discover" something, find, pick up, collect what others would overlook, scorn even, and disgard. In the tiny remains of broken, half-decayed things a whole world of possibilities can open up to me.
When enthusiasm overcomes me, I become like a child, not noticing that I am sawing my finger or singeing my hair. And be it child or sorceress - no, the enthusiastic servant of a sorceress who juggles with corrosive acids, sulphur, gas and fire, I am warm and raw with gratitude because I know: I serve Beauty ... Until I have finished and woken up sober in order to let the new piece of jewellery pass through the hands of our friendly employees. Now the model has to be copied so that it resembles the original as closely as possible. - The Lap Tundra: During Summer's embrace the earth breathes beneath a phosphorus-green net embroidered with a pattern of tiny plants. Mushrooms, moss and lichen - the claim to be able to recognize this abundant sprouting of the tiniest plants in my jewellery, - is it not just the wishful thinking of the well-disposed? Or can living a long time in a particular landscape develop a style? - the ability to experience Nature with fervour, - we understand that it fills the soul. Likewise we understand that in the profusion the soul gives of itself. But what is it that is added and produces poems that have to be written on paper, and forms that have to be made with tools? - It isn't known.
It is very sad that I hardly get a chance to make jewellery, - if I do, it's winter, and then only rarely. There is always something else to do to preserve what we've built up. Sometimes more than a year passes and my hands are no longer used to the tools. Even touching them almost requires an effort, and all the doubts find excuses to put off making a start. - Finally I clear a big table, root out what I have collected and tip it out over the bare surface. That helps give me a perspective. And already a mysterious mechanism starts up. .. "Well, look at that, - that's not bad," I can hear myself mumbling. "This half-molten fragment here - and that one over there, - surprising that I've still got that!" And I brood over all these metallic curiosities. It is like in the summery Tundra, - when I am engrossed in the "forest" of the thousands of individual tree lets" that make up the reindeer moss. - Finally I go to my workbench. And there I stay, - day and night. And I love my work! - Now the ideas assail me. It is as if I were being wrapped up in crackling garlands, just like the Northern Lights when I stomp through the snow on winter nights. I saw, file, sand down, as if anaesthetized by the flowering pot plants around me. Now I experience the practical work as something precious, - something that glows, smells even, - like white hyacinths in dark sunless days. ... Outside storms can rage and the frost can hammer mighty blows against our walls. "That's Winter," we say and smile. So what? We face the fact that he will stay for at least eight months. - But all of us here in the North - people and animals - long for Summer. We are beside ourselves when she comes. And when she goes, we feel as if we'd had her for a long time, for we loved every moment of her presence. - Then the Tundra colours, blazes, glows, and we know... now it is at its most beautiful. ... After that it gets quiet. Autumn, late autumn - a new innocence, a submissive virginity trembles around each defoliated twig. This bareness, trusting in whatever may come ... I don't know why this season moves me so much. Reverently I follow the slightest changes, roam carefully through the silent wilderness. It is so delicate, you hardly dare approach. A shaking emanates from the straggling rusty-brown birches. The moors glisten palely around timidly grey waters. A weak, yellow-ochre glimmer of forgotten willows lingers on the open plain, - around distant heights' there is still a touch of violet ... Standing on a hill, I am gripped by the feeling that I am looking at the end of all things, and yet I am only standing at the beginning of Siberian eternity. And I say to myself "This is where I live" and a thankful sensation of security comes over me. There, suddenly - wonderous calls. From behind denuded trees regal birds soar into the air with mighty beating of their wings, high, high into the air and away from all that ties one to the ground. - At that moment I am transfixed by a swan-white light that takes my breath away. "Yes", I think, and I find myself on knees, "I've just seen a miracle". Tundra -you demand also from us the humility which is only inherent in animals. Rarely does a human succeed in getting close to your wholeness, - and you honour that person by welcoming him.