Welcome to Josephine Sassu's Studio Space, a collection of my works within interior architecture, design and art. Welcome and thank you for coming. Have fun and feel free to take your time. Sassu Studio Svalbard Parmagade 4 Bar Botschaft Bruno Taut Haus, Berlin To Ferment a Building Essay Essay: The Meaning of Butter for Architecture To Cultivate, to Harvest, to Preserve, to Compost Sápmi Forever Exhibition Design: Det Hemmeligste Af Det Hemmelige Postcards from New York All Eyes On Nybrua “All Eyes on Nybrua” investigates how fear in public spaces is rooted in patriarchal city planning. Inspired by feminist urbanism and Leslie Kern, the project reveals how urban layouts reflect gendered expectations and restrict movement, highlighting the role of spatial design in creating safer, inclusive cities. Sogni Sardi Colorati Candide Chair

Thoughts on Exclusive Watches Coming soon!

Sápmi Forever is a fictive transformation of a space in the former National Gallery in Oslo: a decolonial approach to a museum space with the means of interior architecture. How can one tell the story of a past full of discrimination while creating a space that celebrates the future of Sámi culture? Sápmi Forever, 2022 Sápmi Forever is a fictive transformation of a space in the former National Gallery in Oslo: a decolonial approach to a museum space with the means of interior architecture. How can one tell the story of a past full of discrimination while creating a space that celebrates the future of Sámi culture? The research for this project also led to a field study where I drove 1500km through Northern Sápmi to talk to duojárat, artists, architects, curators, activists and children. Nominated for the "Project of the Year" FKDS grant, 2022 Introduction 1. Research 2. Field Study 3. Design Introduction Prosjektbeskrivelse Sápmi forever/ Nationalgalleriets fremtid "The Norwegian National gallery has closed its doors temporally in January 2019 in connection with the artworks being moved to the New National Museum which will open in 2022. Plans in the future involve that the National Gallery is to be a part of the National Museum and eventually open again to publicly show art." For the reopening of the gallery, I am suggesting to turn the prestigious Christian Langaard Sal into a space for discussion and education about Sámi art. The space is not designed to show art, but to enable a discussion about Sámi presence. Why not a gallery space? I belive that Sámi art is ought to be shown at the official and new National Gallery and not to be used to “fill” a gallery that just downgraded in status. What I claim to be more important is to create a space for meeting, a space that educates Non-Sámi about Sámi culture. In other words, I want the building and institution of the National Gallery to take responsibility for its past of discriminating against Sámi artists. I want to create a gallery that reflects on culture and belonging. Sápmi Forever celebrates Sámi culture from an outside perspective. We all have much to learn from Indigenous peoples, and with this project I set out to educate myself about Sámi history, culture and traditions in a contemporary context. The project takes a decolonial approach within interior architecture. I have done my best to dive deeply into research, yet I am aware that within the timeframe of this bachelor project I could only begin to grasp the tip of an iceberg. My work is grounded in dialogues with duojárat, artists, architects, art historians, researchers, activists and children. Through these conversations, I wanted to explore if and how a space can shift the narrative of Scandinavian history towards one that celebrates the Indigenous culture of Sápmi. However, this project is not intended to be realised. If the transformation of a hall in the former National Gallery were to happen, it should not come from the hands of a non-Sámi designer. Sámi perspectives must be shaped by Sámi designers. I can learn from Sámi culture, but I can never create a Sámi piece of culture myself. In other words, this project taught me that as a designer one must also learn when not to design — sometimes the right act is simply to sit down and listen. Still, to complete my Bachelor in Interior Architecture, I had to design a space. What you see here is my interpretation of a meeting place between Sámi and Norwegian art culture, based on what I have learned. For this project to be truly right and relevant, the Sáminess is yet to be added: Sámi artists, writers, duojárat, architects, designers and others willing to share their stories, experiences and knowledge. Only together with them can this space become what it is meant to be. Album, 1988: Eanan, Eallima Eadni ("The Earth, Mother of Life") NILS-ASLAK VALKEAPÄÄ Phase 1 Research The room I chose for my project is one of the most prestigious halls in the National Gallery. Christian Langaard is the reason an entire additional wing was built. His Dutch and Flemish art collection was one of the most important ones in Norway. In other words, a whole museum wing was built to host the precious gift of Dutch paintings. The interiors of the hall are inspred by Dutch and French Museums. What makes art national enough to be shown at a National Gallery? Underrepresentation of Sámi Art at the National Level "After severing the personal union with Denmark in 1814, nation building dominated the artistic fields in Norway. Constructing a common national identity was important, and yet at the same time there was a tendency in the arts community to perceive Sámi artists as exotic and foreign 'Others'. Although there are some good exceptions, national institutions such as the Art Museum of Northern Norway and the National Museum rejected Sámi identity and history based on restrictive rules for what they could and wanted to exhibit." IRENE SNARBY Hill, Lalonde, C., Hopkins, C., & National Gallery of Canada. (2013). Sakahàn : international indigenous art. National Gallery of Canada., p.67. "The Sámi disciplines dáidda and duedtie have not been made equal to – or completely accepted within – traditional Western or national art history (Danbolt; Persen 20). Sámi art has not been included in the national art sphere as equal to Norwegian art." MAJA DUNFJELL Gaski, Guttorm, G., Sámi allaskuvla, & Norwegian Crafts. (2022). Duodji reader : guoktenuppelot čállosa duoji birra sámi duojáriid ja dutkiid bokte maŋimuš 60 jagis = a selection of twelve essays on duodji by Sámi duojárat and writers from the past 60 years. Davvi girji. pp. 163. Sápmi Sápmi is the area where the Sámi people have traditionally lived in harmony with the surrounding natural resources. Sápmi’s borders are not formalised, but the area stretches over the Guoládat/ Kola peninsula in northwestern Russia, the Lapland region in Finland, the Norrland region in Sweden, the whole of Northern Norway and southwards to Engerdal, which is less than 300 km from Oslo, Norway’s capital. The national states have disputed the historical extent of Sámi presence and settlements, but archaeological research has shown that Sámi people had a very early presence in some areas of Northern Scandinavia, dating back to when the last Ice Age in Northern Europe ended about 10,000 years ago. Although it is disputed to what extent found artefacts and rock art of that age can be identified with a specific culture or people, 2,000-year- old archaeological artefacts in areas of Finnmárku on the Norwegian side of Sápmi are seen as proto-Sámi. There are also archaeological findings suggesting that two kinds of people, proto-Sámi hunter gatherers and proto-Norwegian farmers, lived on respective sides of the Trysil river as early as the Neolithic age, in an area corresponding to the southernmost Sámi settlement today. The Sámi population is difficult to number, since there are no ethnic registration systems in Sápmi, except on the Russian side. Sources cite numbers ranging between 50,000 and 100,000, with at least half on the Norwegian side. Many Sámi people also live in the bigger cities outside of Sápmi. There are ten Sámi languages, belonging to the Finno-Ugric language tree. Kemi Sámi is extinct, and the rest are considered endangered languages by UNESCO, half of them critically so. Northern Sami is the language that is spoken by most Sámi- speakers today. Active assimilation policies have, however, led to the loss of Sámi languages, and thus there are many people who consider themselves Sámi without being fluent in a Sámi language. Sami religion has animistic and shamanistic traits, with the noaidi as the advisor, healer and link between people and the gods. Centuries of Christianisation almost wiped out ancient religious practices, but even Christian Sámi people today have kept some of the knowledge, sayings and rituals connected to the ancient belief system, and the revitalisation of Sami spirituality is gaining strength. In Norway, Sweden and Finland, there are Sámi Parliaments called Sámediggis, but these have no sovereign power over lands, waters and other resources. The national states, to different degrees, consult the Sámediggis on matters that they consider of Sámi concern. SUSANNE HÆTTA Hætta, Finbog, L.-R., García-Antón, K., Moulton, K., & Office for Contemporary Art Norway. (2020). Mázejoavku: indigenous collectivity and art. Office for Contemporary Art Norway DAT., pp. 12-13. Untitled, 2022 TOMAS COLBENGTSON Garjját (The Crows), 1981 BRITTA MARAKATT-LABBA Prolog Da de brente meg levende på noaidebålet Hvem skulle tro at det på grunn av alminnelige menneskerettigheter som nordmannen selv har skulle oppstå et sånt helvete; med én gang starter sjefifinga, samene får ikke gjøre sånn, de får ikke gjøre slik, samene er skitne, late jævler, urenslige, tyvete sataner, møkkete luseopphopninger, drikkfeldig tykjepakk. Enn nordmannen? Har samene noen gang forbudt nordmannen å snakke sitt eget språk, forbannet nordmannen sin tro, forbudt dem å gå i kirken? Har samene noensinne dratt til kirka deres, gått løs på folk der, dratt dem ut derifra, ordna et jævla stort bål og brent nordmennene levende på det bålet fordi de var i kirka? Har samene noen gang svidd av alle norske kirker, brent og herjet, med makt tatt nordmennenes hus og forbudt dem å snakke norsk? Har samene slaktet, fratatt og stjålet alt nordmennene eide, og etterpå løyet og vridd på det, sagt at det hører til dem? Har samene noen gang skrevet sånne lover for nordmannen, at alt tilhører dem, for dermed å kunne sable ned nordmannen i retten siden de selv har skrevet lovene? Ville samene ha stressa seg opp og begynt å forfølge norske barn, bygget store indoktrineringskamre for dem? Ville samene ha frarøvet dem deres barn, tvunget barna til å bli hos dem selv for at det skulle bli folk av dem? Vi hadde aldri noen agenda med dem, å gjøre et annet menneske så fredløst, hvis de nå er mennesker, disse kaldblodige reptilene, så umenneskelige og følelsesløse som de er MARY AILONIEIDA SOMBÀN MARI Sombán, Busse, T., Fredriksen, L. T., Kittelsen, E., Reibo, E., & Skåden, S. (2020). Beaivváš mánát : Leve blant reptiler. Mondo books, pp. 16-17. Area Infected 2014, 244 x 488cm ANDERS SUNNA Phase 2 Understanding / Field study The Route The trip began in Romssa/ Tromsø . Ice cold wind and snow hit our face when we left the airport on the way to pick up the rented car, a shorter-than- expected Ford Kuga with four wheel drive and studded tires. We had around 1200km ahead of us. We spent the night in Gárasavvon/ Karesuando on the Finnish-Swedish border, sleeping in the rented car behind the local dental clinic. Gárasavvon is more of a polar highway hub and known for its trucker sauna. By dawn we continued our journey through the snowstorm up north to Guovdageaidnu/ Kautokeino . Guovdageaidnu/ Kautokeino is a rather small town but home to Juhl ́s Silver Gallery with an interior which is out of this world, the Sámi Allaskuvla (Sámi Univeristy of Applied Sciences) and Giant-Lávvu Rema1000. In the evening we decided to continue the drive to Kárášjohka/ Karasjok. Kárášjohka is slightly bigger than Guovdageaidnu. It accomodates among other things the Sámi Parliament, Sámi Dáiddaguovddáš (Sámi Museum for Contemporay Art), RiddoDuottarMuseat (the Sámi Museum and Collections) and a swimming hall. We went to the swimming hall, a great place to not only talk to locals about the latest happenings in town but also to finally shower. In Kárášjohka we slept in a wonderful forest, sat on reindeer pelts around the bonfire and saw the Northern lights dancing through the cold night. 27 degrees beneath zero. I tried to spot Sarvvis , the great reindeer in the sky, but I did not find it. Sarvvis is running from Fávdna , persistent hunter holding bow and arrow. However, Fávdna is not alone on the hunt: A couple on skis and their dogs are also crossing the night sky. Among others, Boahji , the Pole star, is as well aiming his bow towards Sarvvis . If he shoots all stars will fall from the sky and it will be the end of the world. After hours of suspense, the sun rises and the hunt is over for the night. Artist Interview with Joar Nango I met Joar Nango in his Studio at TKF Loftet. The Tromsø Kunstforening (TKF) is since 1924 located in the former Tromsø Museum. Today it not only hosts 450 square metres of gallery spaces and a loft with ateliers, in fact, it has in recent years also become the home and nesting place for the black-legged kittiwakes (Krykkje, a seabird in the seagull family). After they lost their habitat at sea by Spitsbergen and Svalbard they came closer and closer to big cities by the coast and found a new home. Joar lovingly calls the TKF building the bird mountain. The sound of uncountable krykkje is omnipresent at his studio which seams to be the heart of the bird mountain. However, Tromsø Kommune put up nets in front of the windows and niches on the building to prevent the seagulls to nest. The krykkje colony is therefore in a heartbreaking agitation. They flew thousands of kilometres over the Barents Sea to discover that their new habitat has also been taken from them. To stay or to leave, the decision will affect a whole generation of this krykkje colony. Joar welcomed us with a warm cup of coffee wearing his rainbow platform crocs. Later I realised that platform crocs are the ultimate garment in order to quickly cross a parking lot without getting your wool socks wet from the snow. He sat down in his armchair which is covered in all kinds of pelts: seal, a tiny black goat and two grey lambs. Joar is a collector. He collects all kinds of fantastic things, crafted by nature or by the hand of a variety of artists and friends from all over the world. We spoke about Girjegumpi and European Everything , his architecture/ art work for Documenta 14 in Athens 2017. We spoke about the Giant Lávvu syndrome and laughed at why every public Sámi building in the 80s just looks like a giant Lávvu. We spoke about Sámi colours and he told us that there is strength in the meaning of strong colours and that it would not be the same with weaker, more pastel, colours. We talked about Sámi presence within art institutions in Norway. Where should the (since the 1970s planned but always laid off) Sámi Museum of Art be? Within the unofficial borders of Sápmi or in the Norwegian capital next to the Norwegian National Gallery? If in Sápmi then in easy accessible Romssa/ Tromsø or in deeply Sámi Kárášjohka/ Karasjok? Questions that nobody has a definite answer for. However, we came to the conclusion that Sámi presence should be everywhere. One should not be forced to travel over 3000km north from where the majority of inhabitants of a country live just in order to educate oneself on the Indigenous people of North Europe. Knowledge should be accessible overall. At the end of the visit Joar gave me a gift. A postcard collection from Indigenuity project in collaboration with Sámi artist Silje Figenschou Thoresen. The postcards show ways of designing things and solutions that can be described as both indigenous and ingenious. Joar Nango in his studio Girjegumpi Sámi architecture identity Our image of the built environment of the Sami territories in the far north is dominated by two preconceptions: on the one hand the image of particular structures like turf huts and the lavvo, the Sami tent, and the reinterpretation of these structures in new public buildings like the Sami parliament building in Karasjok, and on the other hand the spread of anonymous suburban housing that at first glance have no Sami characteristics. Both these conceptions are true, spanning from a low-key attitude to everyday life to the symbolism of monumental architecture, but both are incomplete. Modern Sami settlements are in fact challenging the way the urban middle class organise and use their domestic environment. A Sámi dwelling contains the familiar domestic functions, but in addition it is the setting for a number of other activities, related to both working and an extended social life; the outdoor areas in particular give room for an active and creative way of life. And it is these activities, rather than the static elements of buildings and furniture, that give the places their identity; the structures that bind the Sami settlements together are social, not physical. SUNNIVA SKÅLNES Sunniva Skålnes is an architect with PhD background from NTNU, researcher and senior advisor to the Sámi Parliament. Lavvo og gamme som mønster Eit lite repertoar av former vart tidleg teke i bruk då samiske fellesskapsbygg skulle formast. Av desse vart lavvoen og gammen dei mest brukte. I tillegg vart bruk av naturmateriale og primærfargar sett på som samisk, både lokalt og frå storsamfunnet. Mest utan unntak var det norske arkitektar som forma den nye arkitekturen. [...] Lavvoforma er blitt eit signal som på tydeleg vis fortel vegfarande kor dei er. [...] Det sterke symbolinnhaldet i lavvoforma har også ført til overbruk, og til at dette formelementet til dels er blitt brukt på ein for lite gjennomarbeidd måte. Kultursenteret Árran på Drag er eit eksempel på eit bygg der lavvoforma er kopiert og forstørra og er tydeleg til stades i den ytre forma, men vanskeleg å finna igjen i interiøret. Både dei funksjonelle krava eit større kontorbygg stiller, og lokaliseringa i eit sjøsamisk område gjer det naturleg å forventa bruk av andre formelement som symbol for den samiske tilknytinga. Bruk av lavvoforma i utstrekt grad har også ført til at forma har blitt tømd for eit funksjonelt innhald og blitt ståande igjen som rein dekorasjon, slik me ser til dømes i nyare turistanlegg som kafeen i Máze. SUNNIVA SKÅLNES https://www.arkitektur-n.no/artikler/samtidig-samisk-arkitektur Real lávut A lávvu (pl. lávut) is a Sámi tent-like construction, traditionally used as a temporary residence for Sámi who are moving from region to region, but also functions when needed for a more permanent residence. It has been carefully developed over generations and perfectly adapted to a nomadic way of life and the harsh northern climate. The lávvu is an excellent example of how an air-conditioned living zone with minimal consumption of energy and materials can be created . In other words, if its minus 20 degrees celcius, you can sit in a t-shirt around the fire without freezing. A lávvu is not to be blown up in size and to be used as a stiff and empty construction housing something which has nothing to to with what one would use a lávvu for. The interior of a lávvu is organized into different zones for different functions. Even though they are spacially very closed to each other, the separation of them is very strict. Indigenous Aesthetics “Western” academic terminology often proves ill-suited to describe the worldview and attitudes of an Indigenous culture; likewise, the norms of behaviour and value systems of an Indigenous culture can seem strange for someone operating within a Western sense of the world and self. [...] Aesthetics in a much wider context than the common dictionary definition of what is regarded as “beautiful” - a problematic concept since the notion of “beauty” is relative and contextual. We can find a number of examples of the fact that Sámi had no desire to categorise human activities or one’s environment in any rigid either/ or dichotomy but rather on the basis of an array of choices of varying utility. Value judgments are not based on outward appearance so much as the relation of a thing’s form to its intended purpose. Concerning objects made by people, for instance, Sjulsson notes that “ugly” objects are those which are scruffy, uneven, with corners or edges that stand out. Most objects are neither beautiful nor ugly. “Beautiful” things, Sjulsson characterises as “symmetrical and streamlined, with no protruding corners or edges, well adapted for their intended purpose.” In Sámi tradition, making something beautiful entailed making it functional, ensuring that it was grounded in a solid foundation of knowledge, competence and technique. Do traditional values have any utility in a postcolonial world? This question is of great relevance to researchers in Indigenous studies. Another Sámi example, here, could have been the terminology, or rather epistemology, pertaining to different ways of performing juoigan, a genre of traditional Sámi singing. However, that would necessitate recognising a whole range of specific Sámi terms describing the variety of aesthetics in connection with juoigan. While this would have been an interesting endeavour, it would bring us into another field of artistic expressions inhabiting its own rules and regulations. HARALD GASKI Indigenous Aesthetics: Add Context to Context Gaski, Guttorm, G., Sámi allaskuvla, & Norwegian Crafts. (2022). Duodji reader : guoktenuppelot čállosa duoji birra sámi duojáriid ja dutkiid bokte maŋimuš 60 jagis = a selection of twelve essays on duodji by Sámi duojárat and writers from the past 60 years. Davvi girji. pp. 218-229. A Way to Calm Reindeer I have learned to explain juoigan in a way that can be understood by people from other cultures. In so doing, I must first say something about the Sámi view of the nature of Western culture. The Western view emphasises growth, reductionism, and speed. To the Sámi, this perspective seems rigid, hierarchical, and compartmentalised. It reflects a spirit that values mathematics, marching music, angularity, compartments, and formulas. Indigenous people, have a different way of thinking. Human beings are a part of nature and not its master. All the parts of nature are interdependent and influence how things happen... as they should happen. Nature exists in a state of harmony that embraces all its labyrinths. Sharp edges crumble in the natural environment. The air, the egg, and the wave are nature’s shapes. There is fluidity between all parts. The one who catches every single fish in the lake in order to eat will also die in the end. Inner space with its invisible dimension is of much greater interest than mathematical calculations. Origin, unity, merging is paramount. Even a luohti billows, merges, moves on. Another aspect that unites Indigenous people is their philosophy of life. Humans are part of nature. To make things by hand is part of life. The concept of culture does not necessarily have to include division and compartmentalisation. There is no separate “art” or “music”. Juoigan is not just music. The function of juoigan is much wider than that. Juoigan is a way to make social connections. A way to calm reindeer. To frighten wolves. The intent of juoigan had never been to present it as an art form-which assumes an audience. Juoigan was used to recall memories of friends, even enemies, places and regions, animals. Juoigan was also a means to move into a spiritual world, and that makes it religious. The luohti does not have a specific length nor a specific beginning or end. One can use words-or not-in the luohti. NILS ASLAK VALKEAPÄÄ / ÁILLOHAŠ A Way to Calm Reindeer Gaski, Guttorm, G., Sámi allaskuvla, & Norwegian Crafts. (2022). Duodji reader: guoktenuppelot čállosa duoji birra sámi duojáriid ja dutkiid bokte maŋimuš 60 jagis = a selection of twelve essays on duodji by Sámi duojárat and writers from the past 60 years. Davvi girji. pp. 154-156. Case Study, Kautokeino Juhls Silver Gallery The Juhls Silver Gallery is an atelier, a home, a café, a workshop, a museum, an art gallery and a design shop in one building. The building is a adventure through Sápmi’s cultural landscape and Frank and Regine Juhls are telling it through architecture and interior ornamentation. It is a place that shows so much love and dedication and detail in every corner that it is impossible to take it all in in one visit. The house is designed by Regine and Frank themselves and grew over the years into the wonderland of shapes it is today. The forms are inspired by the arctic nature, how wind and snow and the flora around behave. Case Study, Karasjok SDG Gallery Sámi Dáiddaguovddáš (SDG) was established in Kárášjohka in 1986 and is today the leading international center for contemporary Sámi art. Its mission is to connect Sámi artists and audiences, presenting Sámi contemporary art within a global context while remaining deeply rooted in Sápmi. SDG aims to foster understanding, dialogue and artistic freedom—serving both as an exhibition space and a cultural bridge between the Sámi community and the wider world. Visiting SDG felt like stepping into a new world, yet one that somehow felt familiar. The gallery is housed in a former school building—an old white wooden house whose exterior contrasts sharply with the minimalist white box interior. With its polished concrete floors and smooth white walls, it could easily be mistaken for a gallery in Oslo or Berlin. When I spoke with director Kristoffer Dolmen, he told me about the building’s painful past: it once served as a school that worked actively to assimilate Sámi children, forbidding them to speak their language. Some of today’s visitors once attended that school and still find it difficult to enter. Beneath the smooth concrete floors lie memories of silence and erasure. Now those same walls display powerful expressions of Sámi identity. SDG is home to some of the most compelling exhibitions of Sámi art anywhere, works filled with strength, emotion and renewal. The transformation of this building feels symbolic: what was once a place of cultural suppression has become a space for cultural pride and creativity. Including SDG in this case study of Sámi buildings raises an interesting question – can a white box gallery be considered Sámi architecture? Perhaps not in form but certainly in spirit. Its Sáminess lies not in the shape of its walls but in its purpose: to give Sámi art visibility and recognition in a global art world and to reclaim a space once meant to erase Sámi culture as one that now celebrates it. Case Study, Tromsø Árdna Pavilion Árdná serves as a gathering place for smaller seminars, exhibitions, representation and duodji. The building is constructed with an open round-timber structure and a longitudinal skylight facing west. At its center lies a sunken fireplace. Both construction and material use follow Sámi building traditions and rely on local resources. The round pine logs and paneled walls inside and out are made of untreated pine from Målselv, felled at new moon in line with Sámi custom. Doors and windows are made of pine and glass and the floor is an oiled solid pine parquet with oak details. A hollow pine trunk along the front façade functions as a roof drain. Inside, the back wall is clad with natural stone veined with copper: Barents Red from Grasbakken in Nesseby and Barents Blue from Bugøynes in Sør-Varanger. The stone is polished indoors and finely ground on the exterior. Wooden pillars rest on rounded stone cylinders of Barents Blue. The hearth area and floor are made of quartzite slate from Nordreisa while the fireplace itself contains gravel and river stones from Manndalen in Kåfjord, chosen by local duojárat. Above the fireplace, fiber-optic lighting on an acrylic panel depicts the starry sky as it appears at midnight in January with Sarvva at its center. Tables, shelves, stools and screens were designed specifically for the building by the architect while the leatherwork, textiles and wooden details were created by Sámi craftspeople who use the space. Árdná exemplifies what can be achieved when architectural design and local craftsmanship meet with mutual respect. It is a space shaped by collaboration. Phase 3 Translating / Design Album, 2020: Also This Will Change NIILAS Sámi Functionalism Understanding of landscape and climate Ability to improvise Resource economic design Combining local materials in practical and spontaneous ways Knowledge lies in the craft Architecture serves to bring people together Antropometry as a size guide Temporariness, natural decaying as the goal A celebration of tradition and innovation Architecture that connects the visitor to the surroundings How I adapted the values of Sámi functionalism into my practice In order to understand the room better, I approached it artistically. For the outside observer, these might seem rather abstract, but for me they are diagrams of intimacy, tension, movement and warmth in a room. They helped me find the position of a core in the room and estimate where there are places where visitors walk, stand and watch and would settle for a conversation. They also show the dynamic between entrance and the rest of the space. On the bottom left picture, one pixel equals one square metre. Cold colours visualize spaces of movement and warmer coloured squares show intimacy and rest. Through printing out plan drawings on wool I was able to give a type of fluidity and tactility to something that tends so be very mathematical and rigid. Anthropometric Appraoch The feeling of being small while standing beneath the 6 metre high ceilings did not benefit the experience I wanted to give people. I wanted to take away the symbolical predominace of the Norwegian state, manifested in prestigious out-of-human- scale proportions. Somehow the room had to become more human-scaled, the ceiling had to come down, or the people had to come up to the ceiling. The latter is something I admire about Sámi architecture: All spaces are within reach. You have control over the space because your hands reach to the ceiling. You can fix it on your own. You are independent. By creating a pavilion with accessible roof top, I wanted to achieve exactly this. Suddenly the Langaard hall would not seem so tall and and dominating. Suddenly you are not looking up anymore to the cornice where it said Christian Langaard Gave in golden letters. Instead, you stand on eye hight with it. It is a matter of perspective. I was looking for a shape that was both geometric, maximalist and in tune with Sámi ornamentation. Throughout Sápmi one can find especially many triangular ornaments which create a bigger pattern. I therefore decided to implement the tips of triangles in my design. The round shape stands for unity and togetherness, values that I wanted this pavilion to represent. It also creates a feeling of collection and belonging Phase 4 Installation The work consists of a model in mixed media, digital prints on wool and silk, a sculpture in acrylic plaster, an installation with mixed media and sound, video documentation of the field study, analogue and digital photography, a text publication

1. What is Culinary Spatial Practice? 2. The Meaning of Butter for Architecture 3. In loving memory of our dear friend Peter Essays What Is Culinary Spatial Practice? In loving memory of our friend Peter Mikael Landstad 1997-2026 The Meaning of Butter for Architecture The Tactility of Taste

Lino-prints, limited to two editions: 2018 and 2019. Shown in a group show in Oslo. Huub26 HUUB26 published in HEADS magazine Nr 7 North Carolina 2018 HUUB26 shown in Oslo at the "Not Your Average Bby Girl Pt.2" exhibition curated by feelings magazine, september 2018 The very first HUUB26 prints created in Krabbesholm april 2018

Time is a fundamental element that shapes and pushes the relationship between food and culture onwards. Inspired by Kvitnes Gård, I try to translate the cycle of cultivating, harvesting, conserving and composting. Josephine Sassu Oslo National Academy of the Arts, 2024 To Cultivate , to Harvest , to Preserve , to Compost Translating Time Time is a fundamental element that shapes and pushes the relationship between food and culture onwards. In cuisine, time can be investigated in various scales, from the natural cycle of seasons giving a rhythm to the human cycle of cultivating, harvesting, conserving and composting, to the time one spends eating dinner. Time, as expressed through the seasons, becomes the driving force behind the cultivation and harvest of produce, influencing not just what is available, but also how it is prepared, preserved and cherished and eaten. Halvar Ellingsen , chef at Kvitnes Gård in Northern Norway, centres his culinary practice around the natural rhythms of the land. At Kvitnes, cultivating, harvesting, conserving, and composting are fundamental and structure-giving principles that guide the rhythm of the restaurant and the dinners (Kvitnes, n.d.). Seeing that a cyclical rhythm is the natural force behind what can be conceived as the essence of produce, I wonder whether interior architecture could give the guests a glimpse of this rhythm. How can space tell the story of cultivating, harvesting, conserving and composting? Graphic: Kvitnes. Retrieved 29 November 2023, from https://www.kvitnes.com/ To Cultivate The word “cultivate” comes from the Latin verb culturare , which itself derives from cultus , the past participle of colere , meaning “to till, tend, or care for.” This root word colere also gives rise to another closely related – “culture”. The connection between these words highlights a central understanding – the connection of time to place to people , celebrated through culture and care . “Culture” itself originally referred to the cultivation of land but later evolved to describe the cultivation of the mind, manners, arts and also design. And as the most traditional use of “cultivate” refers to the preparing and using land for growing crops, the essential notions of care is expressed in the relation between people and land. “To cultivate” in a cultural sense means to develop or refine intellectual and artistic pursuits, contributing to growth – which to me is a beautiful side effect of design. Cultivating can therefore result in ways that form the understanding and practicing of design. However, at the heart of this idea, the element of care must be present. Caring for the place, the building, the space, walls, the way they meet the ground, the doors and their handles, the windows and how it feels to open them, the chairs and the tables, the way the light shines on them, caring for the plate, the spoon, the knife, the fork, the little vase with flowers. But most of all, caring for the people that the space is designed for. And that is the crucial notion to understand from the idea of cultivating: To design with care and attention. On a different layer, cultivating describes how a space is connected to a place, just like the roots between produce and soil. To cultivate design can then also mean to care for how the space meets its surroundings. This includes considering the cultural, social, historical and environmental aspects of a place. There is of course also an element of time tied to the concept of cultivation. As“culture” and “cultivate” share the same root, cultivating design also involves the idea of preserving culture while at the same time thinking towards the future. Following this train of thought, cultivating can then also be understood as using design to explore the connection between past and future. Essentially, to me, that is a manifestation of design as a means to grow, preserve and care for culture. Essentially, design as the cultivation of culture. To Harvest The Nordic regions experience long, harsh winters and short, summers where suddenly everything happens at once. Traditionally, harvesting was crucial cultural event symbolising survival and celebration. Because of the incredibly short period that one can celebrate the sudden abundance of sunlight, flowers, vegetables, fruits and berries, harvesting in the Nordic context also emphasises the importance of preserving food. The harvest happens in the window of time where produce is mature enough but not too mature. It is a window of time that must be carefully observed and understood and once everything seems to align as it requires immediate action. Translating these findings into design, I want to focus on two qualities emerging within the act of harvesting: 1. Observation 2. The feeling of accepting that one can't really change the weather circumstances and what they do to the land The Sámi people, follow a unique tradition of dividing the year into eight seasons, rooted in their profound comprehension of habitat and season that rests within their culture. Each season marks a changing in the landscape and activities of practical and spiritual quality. After I learned about this way of seeing time, I started to apply it within my own experience of season and space. Following are my observations from my experiences in Oslo. Spring-summer is a love letter to life, it is the anticipation of the abundance of summer and an anticipation comes often with even greater joy than what is being anticipated. The space is full of energy and every guests who visits immerses in it. The space is daring, it is like going for a swim when the joy to be able to swim again is so great that one forgets the water is still cold from the winter. Windows are being slightly opened to hear the flowers bloom and the birds sing. Cool wind blows into the space but hearing the spring is worth it. The space still provides warmth and comfort through materials, just like we still have to wear woolen sweaters in the spring summer evenings. During summer, the space opens up as far as it can and encourages the guests to sense the soft smell in the warm evening breezes. The air vibrates from all the insects flying busy from flower to flower. Evenings seem to never end, the sun never sets. Just like day and night are blurred, the space now blurs the lines between outside and inside. Elements from outside are invited in, the warm wind, the tickling rays of the sun. Flowers and fresh produce create the feeling of a garden inside, there is so plenty of it all. The space is spontaneous in summer. It is as fruity as it is briny. Summer-autumn reflects a melancholic joy. Fruity becomes earthy. Materials that give warmth are introduced to the guests. Wool and comfort for those who wish to the warm long nights would continue, even though it almost is too cold to sit outside now. Others have accepted the end of summer and seek the inside of a space. The space is silent while it takes farewell with the summer, keeping only a few souvenirs for memory. Lights are dimmed to give the guests the chance to part with the natural light. The space marks the ending of summer by slowly secluding itself and gradually getting ready for the long winter. In autumn the forests birth mushrooms and the apple trees carry their dark red treasures, new scents, new sounds, new images, new colours. Trees change their colours and their leaves can be admired one last time before they fall. All the green disappears, slowly. The space takes now its final farewell from the summer. Memories of sitting outside are being caramelised while sitting warm and comfortably on the inside of the space. The space reflects the calmness and and encourages contemplation. It’s not gloomy or heavy, like a Nordic winter; autumn is bright and stormy. Autumn-winter might be darker than the winter. Without the snow, the darkness came quickly and seems so heavy and persistent. Everything seem to get so unbearably cold in the anticipation of winter. Storms tumble through everything that happened over the past year before they make it all fall into place one last time. In the winter, the space is enclosed and becomes a shelter from the cold and grey monotony. Guests are seated in a space of warmth and comfort, reflected in the materials. Outside, ice cold winds are whistling through little cracks and snowflakes are covering the everything under their heavy white blanket. The sounds are dimmed, the light is dimmed. The weighty darkness is being embraced, not fought against. Remnants from autumn remind the guests of summer that now seems so far away. The space takes care of its visitors, it becomes a sanctuary of collectedness and togetherness. Winter-spring starts silently and not knowing whether it's starting or whether it's just hope, the space slowly shifts again. Sun rays seem to reach the inside again, trees and shrubs are showing their first buds, so green and purple and vulnerable. The changes are still so fragile. The floral vulnerability is reflected in the space. Materials are light and transparent, cold but warm up through touch. Some branches with buds are being brought into the warmth inside so they can bloom for us. Just like snowdrops and crocuses, the space too awakens from under its snow blanket. Lighter and fresher colours are being introduced as the snow melts and drips from all edges. Spring is the evidence of the new start, life is now firmly exploding. Every bud wants to bloom, every plant pushes its leaves out towards the sun and everything is being born everywhere. The space reflects this tingling joy. It opens up again, it introduces fresh produce, tart colours and textures that are al dente. It now is grassy, refreshing and blooming. There is a tartness to the space, it tingles, it excites with a new freshness and purity. To Preserve Around the world, different cultures have developed various techniques to preserve food, each beautifully adapted to specific climates. In fact, most existing food preserving techniques go beyond the mere aim of being able to store the produce. Over thousands of years, techniques have been refined that add taste and nutritional value over time while at the same time preserving the produce. In the light of this translation project, I have become particularly interested in the technique of fermentation – preservation through change. Read about how to ferment a building here . To Compost To compost marks another act that happens in the intersection between past and future. Composting is the process of breaking down organic matter, such as food scraps, yard waste and other biodegradable materials, into a nutrient-rich material called compost. This process occurs through the natural decomposition of these materials by microorganisms such as bacteria and fungi and insects in the presence of oxygen. The resulting compost can be used to create soil that is actually alive (not brown dirt one can buy in a bag) and thereby recycle nutrients back into the ecosystem. The word “composting” comes from the noun “compost,” which has its roots in the Latin verb componere , meaning “to put together” or “to combine.” The term “compost” in English was first used in the late 14th century to refer to a mixture of decayed organic matter used as fertiliser. The verb “to compost,” meaning to convert organic material into compost, came into use later (Etymonline, n.d.). “‘We are all compost’ claims Donna Haraway, and this says something about who we are, where we come from and where we are going. It reminds us that humans are part of nature and that we depend on everything around us, particularly soil. Composting brings the human and the more-than-human together and opens a possibility to understand how we depend on the life- creating processes around us.” – Bjørn Inge Melås ( Melås, 2022, p.270) Compost as a composition – another way of reorganising a structure, composing existent elements into something new. Another way of creating newness from what already exists. What I want to point out, however, is that composting not as much of a solution for waste but as a necessity to create and sustain new life. “Composting provides an insight into how all life around us is reproduced all the time. This could be a source of security, or confidence, or humbleness in the uncertain and chaotic world we live in” (Melås, 2022, p.256), writes Bjørn Inge Melås in his doctoral thesis. Through combining theory with practice, he explores the social and ecological value of gardening in an urban setting as well as expressing what an alternative pathway to capitalism can look and feel like. His work dedicatedly centres the meaning of compost. Melås suggests that the process of composting and soil regeneration offers more than just ecological benefits – it can also provide personal meaning and well-being. “The life-creating technology of composting and soil regeneration might also be a source of meaning and well- being. To find joy not in consumption, but in repairing, fixing, maintaining. It is a way to do something tangible and visible, a way of being productive and creative, making something with our own hands.” (Melås, 2022, p.256) Melås explains that capitalism not only depletes the earth’s soils but also erodes our mental and social “soils”—the ways we think, act, interact, and relate to one another. “The practice of composting also holds a potential for regenerating the social and mental ecologies, a necessary part of the transition to a degrowth future. Capitalism exhausts soils of their capacity to function properly, but it also depletes the mental and social soils, the way we think, act, interact and relate, and all these levels needs to be regenerated at the same time, through practices that gives meaning and direction to the people involved.” (Melås, 2022, p.270) I wonder what possibilities the idea of composting could present for architecture. This thought presents many answers and can be discussed through a variety of layers. On the one hand, there is the abundance of outcomes emerging from understanding the act of composting in its concrete appearance and physicality. How do we implement decentralised, democratic composting stations into the daily life of urban contexts? On the other hand, there is the abundance of outcomes emerging from understanding the act of composting as an abstract concept of organic recreation – an idea that grows around the thought of finding alternatives to capitalism. What does a post-capitalist dinner space look like? How do we design the infrastructure of post-capitalism? The abundance of these openings can again be explored on different scales – from the private to the civic to the public to the national to the global scale – and how those interact with each other. “Everything is connected under ground, where the experiences from the projects above are digested, composted, theorized and reflected and nourish the soil from which new projects might grow”, concludes Melås (Melås, 2022, p.492). The act of composting itself opens up inquiries that transcend words, encouraging us to engage with the world in ways that are more intuitive and connected to the earth.

How does one live with the midnight sun and the absent sun, the solitude, the fjords, the slowly melting permafrost underfoot? Led by Christiane Ritter’s diary, LPO Arkitekter’s cultural historic analysis of the town and conversations with locals, I documented the buildings and their colours, following Grete Smedal’s grand colour scheme for the city. Longyearbyen, March/April 2026 I went on a field study to Longyearbyen, the northernmost town in the world, to figure out what makes a home in a place like this. How does one live with the midnight sun and the absent sun, the solitude, the fjords, the slowly melting permafrost underfoot? The answer was surprising: for most Svalbard locals, home is everything outside their physical home. Home are the mountains, the light, the sound of the glaciers. Led by Christiane Ritter’s diary, LPO Arkitekter’s cultural historic analysis of the town and conversations with locals, I documented the buildings and their colours, following Grete Smedal’s grand colour scheme for the city.

Zu Hause in Berlin, zu Besuch bei Ivo Wessel im Bruno Taut Haus. Wie wohnt es sich in einer Kunstsammlung? Zu Hause in Berlin, zu Besuch bei Ivo Wessel im Bruno Taut Haus.

Essays What Is Culinary Spatial Practice? My master thesis on culinary spatial practice –––– in other words, how design can enhance a culinary experience. Soon to be uploaded!! The Meaning of Butter for Architecture The Tactility of Taste Thoughts on Exclusive Watches (being published here soon)

In the essay I propose the idea of fermentation as a way to think about architectural transformation. Fermentation embraces preservation through change, not stagnation. To ferment a building would therefore mean reorganising existing elements to adapt to new needs while maintaining identity. Ultimately, the idea of fermenting circles around the idea of keeping an environment alive, whether it is a bacterial culture or in this case a building. Josephine Sassu Oslo National Academy of the Arts, 2024 To Ferment a Building Short summary for those of you that are busy: In the essay I propose the idea of fermentationas a way to think about architecturaltransformation. Fermentation embracespreservation through change, not stagnation. Away to simultaneously ensure permanence aswell as change.To ferment a building would therefore meanreorganising existing elements to adapt to newneeds while maintaining identity. Ultimately, the idea of fermenting circles around the ideaof keeping an environment alive, whether it is abacterial culture or in this case a building. To Ferment is to Preserve Preserving refers to the act of maintaining something in its state, protecting it from decay or damage. The word “preserve” comes from the Latin word praeservare , which is a combination of prefix “prae-” meaning “before” or “in advance” and “servare” meaning “to keep, guard, or protect.” Thus, praeservare originally meant “to keep in advance” or “to guard beforehand”. Around the world, different cultures have developed various techniques to preserve food, each beautifully adapted to specific climates. In fact, most existing food preserving techniques go beyond the mere aim of being able to store the produce. Over thousands of years, techniques have been refined that add taste and nutritional value over time while at the same time preserving the produce. In the light of this translation project, I have become particularly interested in the technique of fermentation – preservation through change. I find this notion incredibly fascinating as it conveys the positivity of change, that everything is ever-changing – illustrating that preservation does not succeed through stagnation. Fermentation is a reflection on time passing, not a way to make time stand still. The beauty lies in adapting this understanding: Buildings! Buildings must also be able to change over time – their function and composition must be transformable. Otherwise, they loose relevance and must be torn down, or become museums – allowing only the past to dwell in them. The act of preservation can be seen as standing at the intersection of two dimensions of time — what was and what will be. It is a convergence of the past and the future, meeting in the space of the present. This meeting point is critical, as it determines whether there will be a future. What materials do we build in to pay homage to the past of a of a space? What materials do we build in to make sure it has a future? “Forståelsen af bevaring er pa denne måde ikke en retrospektiv handling, der drejer sig om at fryse fortiden, men en fremadrettet ambition om ikke at begrænse fremtidige muligheder. For transformationsarkitekturens vedkommende bliver det et spørgsmål om at sikre muligheden for en kontinuerlig udvikling, der på samme tid sikrer permanens og forandring.” (Harlang, 2014) “The understanding of preservation in this way is not a retrospective act preserving the past through freezing it, but a future-oriented ambition to not limit possibilities in the future. In the case of transformation-architecture, it becomes a matter of ensuring the possibility of continuous development, simultaneously ensuring permanence and change.” (own translation) Christoffer Harlang describes a central idea of preservation in architecture. He states that preservation should not be about simply keeping things exactly as they were in the past, but rather about preserving the potential for future growth and adaptation. Similarly, the Nordic Kitchen manifesto describes that a balance between newness and tradition is necessary for further develop Nordic culinary practice. The manifesto states that Nordic cuisine means “to develop potentially new applications of traditional Nordic food products.” (Nordic Co-op., n.d.). To find new ways of working with what already exists – to find newness in the existent , a statement that reminds me of what Hella Jongerius and Louise Schouwenberg emphasise in their manifesto “Beyond the New, A Search for Ideas in Design”. They advocate for the value of continually revisiting and re-examining existing designs, materials, and forms. “There is value in continually re-examining what already exists, delving into the archives, poring over the classics” as “cultural and historical awareness are woven into the DNA of any worthwhile product” (Jongerius & Schouwenberg, n.d.). To Ferment a Building Fermentation occurs both naturally and through human intervention. Microorganisms use the existent amount of glucose in the fruit, digest it and create enzymes that help to create new substances. Successful fermentation requires the right conditions, a suitable microorganism culture, and time (Redzepi & Zilber, 2018). The right space, culture and time. I laugh — fermentation sounds remarkably similar to the culinary space I’ve been trying to describe in this work. It makes me wonder if one would need to ferment a building to achieve that kind of transformation. The Danish language houses a word that describes a thought so beautifully as I haven’t find in another language yet: Bygningskultur . I interpret it as building-culture, the culture around building a building, the culture emerging from buildings, the culture between buildings, culture being the root of a building or a way of building. In his book on the transformation of buildings, Danish architect Christoffer Harlang writes, that “one can understand architecture as the spatial organisation of concrete, physical material. The technical way to look at it is based on an understanding that the material as components of the building, is composed in a certain order through knowledge of how those parts come together.” (own translation) “Man kan forstå arkitektur som den rumlige organisering af et konkret, fysisk materiale. Den tekniske vinkel er baseret på en forståelse af, at materialet, i form af bygningens delelementer, sættes sammen i en bestemt orden ved hjælp af kendskab til, hvordan delene samles.” (Harlang, 2014 p.74) Harlang suggests that architecture can be understood as the intentional arrangement of physical materials in space. He emphasises that this process relies on specific knowledge and logic to compose these materials in a particular order, ensuring they function together harmoniously as a coherent structure. In a way, this interpretation of architecture, reminds me of what happens during fermentation. Architecture: Spatial organisation of physical components (materials) as parts of the building put together in a particular order informed by knowledge on how those parts ought to be collected Fermentation: Reorganising (through enzymes) the components of the substrate (sugars) into compounds with new structures (alcohol, lactic acid or carbon dioxide) in a pattern informed by the inherent logic (of the fungi or micro-organisms) resulting in flavours and preservation Fermentation embraces preservation through change, not stagnation. Fermentation as well as transformations of architectural nature, alternate the original elements while still retaining a link to their roots and identity. In other words, even though the situation is changed, the essence remains. This parallel operates on an abstract layer of understanding describing the changing composition of components. I believe that the true quality of fermentation lies in the forces behind this re-organisation of existing structures. Central to the idea of fermentation is the notion of expressing care. “Fermentation is an act of delicately balanced cooperation and care that results in profound reciprocal benefits. When we ferment, we build and design systems that centre care-giving as a practice.” (Drain, 2021 ) The element of care is reflected in creating environments designed for the users to thrive in, to feel taken care of. This notion can be understood both in the context of microbes, which require specific environments to thrive, and as a guiding principle in designing spaces for people, emphasising the importance of creating environments that support well-being. Following Drain’s thought, the act of fermenting can be understood as the creating and managing of systems that emphasize the importance of care and nurturing, leading to significant mutual benefits for all involved, whether it’s the food, the environment, or the people. Thereby, the practice of fermentation embodies a qualities of cooperation and care. This understanding of fermentation can be supplemented with Drain’s description of the human intent behind the process, which he characterises as driven by “agency, decision, and intention” ( Drain, 2021 ). In conclusion, the ideas presented thus far depict fermentation as the reorganisation of existing structures within an environment driven by the central idea of care – a carescape. It is a dynamic process of change with the focus of considering the need of all elements involved and their surrounding. To ferment a building would mean approaching its transformation with careful consideration of all elements within the natural and social environment, thoughtfully reorganising existing components into a logically informed composition that adapts to current needs, thereby ensuring its preservation for the future. To ferment circles around the idea of keeping an environment – a bacterial culture – a building – alive. After-thought: Transformations After the Date of Expiration Usually, a transformation process starts at the end of a lifecycle of a building, taking exposition in a space that is tired and can no longer successfully resume its initial function. A building that is not being paid attention to, that lacks care and thereby reaching its cultural expiration date. Like an expired carton of milk in the fridge, it stands in the landscape, attracting a mixture of ignorance and disdain. Could preserving the building earlier have prevented this outcome? Could a time-conscious transformation process have saved it? Would it have expired if the building had been fermented? When fermenting fruit or vegetables one doesn’t choose produce that has already started to rotten. Transformation projects within architecture real often with built situations that have started to rotten, either functionally or physically. It seems organic to argue that the process of transformation would be easier – and thereby used more often – if the building was still intact, if people had not given it up yet. That opens up a central thought – how early should design interfere? When should the the process of transformation start? And while those questions are best answered in a discussion including different perspectives throughout design, architecture, interior architecture, critical theory and psychogeography, I have not found an answer to them myself. And even though there is no clear answer on when the process of transformation should start, I suggest to look at the question from another side of the table. Hereby I do not regard transformation as a possibility, but as a necessity. In a way bypassing the debate, I want to make a plea that the design process of new buildings should already contain a plan for the building’s afterlife. The process of transformation should be engrained in the early planning of a new building. New buildings should only be allowed if they contain the element of transformability – ensuring the longevity of the social, cultural and physical life of the building. Therefor, design should regard transformations as a standard practice and consider the possibilities of transformability in everything that is being built. SASSU: Culinary Spatial Practice