One Image by Morten Andenæs:

I am driving his car.

Somewhere, in the midst of those dark Scandinavian woods,

I pull over to the side of the road and make a complete stop.

In the rear view mirror I see him on the shoulder, camera in hand.

Before I have had the chance to rummage through the glove compartment for another song, he is back, and we speed off.

We speed off through the pines, leaving the sunset behind.

meet me in the morning 1

My foot presses down. We accelerate.

A small country road. 90. 110. 130.

I want to let go. To simply let go of the wheel.

See what happens.

they say the darkest hour, is right before the dawn / they say the darkest hour, is right before the dawn 2

An incline. In the distance, a clearing.

Anticipation.

My hand releases its grip on the wheel and rests heavily on my thigh. The leg is forced down. Car speeds up.

At the top of the hill we come out through the pines onto a straight stretch of open road.

A gash through the landscape.

The volume is turned up.

We come out onto a stretch of open road and I let go.

I let go of the wheel and close my eyes. I close my eyes as the man on the radio bellows out the last lines of the song.

look at the sun, sinking like a ship / look at the sun, sinking like a ship 3

A black and white photograph.

Black and white in name only.

An endless array of grey dots really renders a house set amidst trees.

Well. House implies home, and a home welcomes us. This is no home. A dwelling at best.

Shelter in any case.

A scene seen from a distance, from the shoulder of the road perhaps.

The black house I'm describing from memory emits no light, reflects nothing.

No hope there, no refuge.

No mirror to bask in.

We are pulled in. Pulled in by the force of gravity, by the gravity of the situation at hand.

Lures, and promises never to be fulfilled.

The house is a black hole toying with our expectations of what might be revealed in that ever expanding field of darkness.

A black hole threatening to engulf everything in its vicinity.

Just like his puddles.

Just like him

We step back.

Without this, and without that we are taken aback.

He takes his leave, leaving it up to us.

A here, there and then, where he once was.

Just an image. 4

Untitled, dimensions vary.

A house, or shelter in any case.

He knows. That is, he knew.

In front of this picture, or the memory of this picture, I too know.

I know something.

A certainty beyond words.

Beyond or before them..

Morten Andenæs is an artist and writer. He worked as an assistant for Tom Sandberg from 2005-2006.

1,2,3 Bob Dylan, 'meet me in the morning', 4 Jean Luc Godard. This text was written for the launch of Objektiv #11 / Tom Sandberg.