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A burgundy space. Speakeasy interior for Botschaft Bar in Ryesgade 25, Copenhagen, with custom furniture, Flos lighting and chairs produced by Fritz Hansen. Bar Botschaft Copenhagen, 2025 The concept was to create a hidden world behind the kitchen. It is dark and comfortable and allows guests to forget the world outside the windows. The space had to support a flexible programme: day-to-day bar service, guests sitting at both the bar and tables, occasional DJ sets and a small dance area when needed. It also had to accommodate pop-up dinners by other restaurants. For this, the prep kitchen is designed to transform into a temporary guest kitchen and the overall layout includes enough dining-style seating to make these events feasible. All built-in furniture is custom made based on my drawings. @botschaft.cph Within this project, I delivered millwork design and made-to-measure custom shelves, benches, bar tops, workstations, and tables, provided FF&E specifications, and guided colour and material selection to reflect the client’s wishes and values. Paint Furniture and Built-ins Walls – Pure & Original : Rare Wine, Classico Doors, floorboards, window frames – Little Greene : Cordoba, glossy Ceiling – Little Greene : Arras, intelligent matte Bathroom – Pure & Original : Moorland, Licetto Custom elements All benches and built-ins designed by me. Benches in oiled oak, upholstered in Kvadrat fabrics: Colline 667 (75% wool), Vidar 4 0693 (94% wool), Raf Simons Noise (96% wool), Raf Simons Pilot 0652 (82% wool), San 0540 (92% wool) Bar top in burgundy Forbo linoleum 3353 (oxidised linseed oil, wood flour, cork dust, pine rosin). Floor Linoleum for extra durability of the bar top that also serves as a work top. Carpenters : Luca Haarnagel, Carl-Felix Lentz Curtains Bar: Kvadrat Vidar 4 0693 (94% wool), Kvadrat Raf Simons Pilot 0652 (82% wool), Gabriel Faith 0010 (cotton, heavy linen); Front-of-House: Kvadrat Heather 343 (97% wool) Loose furniture Table: Fritz Hansen, Piet Hein & Bruno Mathsson Superellipse, walnut with chrome legs Lamps: Flos Taccia in brown, Flos Frisbi (to come), Fritz Hansen Kaiser Idell table lamp in ruby red Chairs and stools: Fritz Hansen, Arne Jacobsen Syveren in oak, walnut, painted beech, chromed legs Fritz Hansen, Arne Jacobsen Myren in oak, chromed legs Fritz Hansen, Arne Jacobsen Grand Prix in walnut with the original walnut legs Fritz Hansen, Nendo N01 in beech Fritz Hansen, Arne Jacobsen Dot in walnut and leather; chromed legs With a warm thank you to Katja Lippert regarding all Fritz Hansen pieces <3

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 fermentation as a way to think about architectural transformation. Fermentation embraces preservation through change, not stagnation. Within the process of fermentation existing elements are being recomposed into something new with the help of microorganisms. Wouldn't it be fun to imagine the same kind of process happening with elements in a building? Rearranging them into a new combination and thereby preserving it? Ultimately, the idea of fermenting circles around the idea of keeping an environment alive and caring for it. And I wonder whether that thought could be translated from a bacterial culture to a building. There is no answer or conclusion here, just some thoughts that you may continue on your own or in conversation with a friend. 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

Projects within art and design from my years at the Oslo National Academy of the Arts Archive of works from my time at the Oslo National Academy of the Arts and Krabbesholm Interior Architecture & Adaptive Transformations All Eyes on Nybrua Sápmi Forever Restaurant Sleipnir What is Culinary Spatial Practice? Object Design Somebody Chair Candide Chair Art Would You Mind? Prussian Blue Porn Kunst som Terapi Huub26

Selection of references used for the master thesis: from Kvitnes Gård, to Paola Antonelli, to Spora Copenhagen, Losæter, Noma, Sophie Calle, Odd Standard, Sigri Sandberg and many more Josephine Sassu Oslo National Academy of the Arts, 2024 Background &Referential Framework References of experimental nature: 1.1 Spora , Copenhagen Spora is a “global food research center, grounded in experimentation” (Spora, n.d), founded in late 2023 by chef Rasmus Munk as “the natural evolution of the creative and disruptive universe at restaurant Alchemist in Copenhagen” (Spora, n.d). Since its opening in 2019, Alchemist has worked on research collaborations with universities and commercial partners, combining gastronomic expertise, scientific knowledge and a deep well of creativity to pioneer new foods and technologies. 1.2 Oslo Matsymposium 2023: Universet er Lokalt A symposium with the purpose to “democratise the conversation about food, across disciplines” (Matprisen, 2023), fostering a critical, reflective and inclusive dialogue on the future of food. Discussions and explorations on how the agriculture and food industrie can be reshaped through collaboration and public conversation. Meaningful talks and discussions by and with: Dr. May Rosenthal Sloan , Heidi Bjerkan , Máret Rávndá Buljo, Bjørn Inge Melås , Sophia Efstathiou, Edona Arnesen , Else Skålvoll Thorenfeldt , Erika Barbieri , Magnus Thorvik , Alex Murray-Leslie 1.3 Das Symposium : Esskulturwandel by Die Gemeinschaft , Berlin, 2023 with Billy Wagner from Nobelhart & Schmutzig Berlin thematising questions like “Do you know where your last dinner came from?” 1.4 Losæter, Oslo Bakehouse by Flatbread Society and Future Farmer Architects , 2016: A public place to meet around food from its beginning as a seed to its experience as a meal 1.5 MOLD Magazine One of the most amazing, most inspiring, wonderful magazine that exists in this world. It comes as 6 printed issues discussing the future of food and culture through experimental and poetic essays and interviews. MOLD is critical theory in the intersection between science, design, art and food. Examples of great essays from Issue 5: The Care of Seed – An Entangled Kinship by Pelin Tan with artworks by Moonsick Gang An essay elaborating how seeds carry cultural history and generations of celebrations and traumas in their DNA. “They carry histories, heritage and methodologies, which intersect with human knowledge of the Earth and nature.” (Tan, 2021) Fermentation as Care by Dr. Johnny Drain with art by Dante Carlos: An essay discussing the reciprocal care-giving between humans and microbes in the light of historical migration movements where the migrating people brought their microbial cultures (for instance yoghurt) to maintain an emotional connection to what used to be home. Drain beautifully states that “when we ferment, we build and design systems that centre care-giving as a practice.”(Drain, 2021) 1.6 Paola Antonelli , senior curator of architecture and design and Director of Research and Development at the Museum of Modern Art. Especially her statements in: the Art and Obsolescence podcast episode , 20th September 2022, where she talks about her role as a designer and curator to be a “trusted guide”. And On Food and Education for The Common Table arguing how “everybody is touched by food, so food is a perfect way to carry my message about design” (Antonelli, n.d.). 1.7 Kvitnes Gård , 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. References conveying a meeting between practice and theory: 2.1 Tonje Sandberg & Constance Kristiansen A Conversation with Odd Standard In Stavanger I visited the micro-factory of design studio Odd Standard. The design duo consisting of Tonje Sandberg and Constance Kristiansen and their team has specialised themselves in creating ways of plating for customers (mainly international Michelin-starred restaurants). They call it “dekketøy” in Norwegian which can be translated into “material for setting a table”. They design plates in the broadest understanding of its typology – objects that can hold food. We sat and talked together for nearly three hours – how they design concepts and processes, how they experiment, how they succeed and how they sometimes fail with ideas and how they are tired of Nordic minimalism. Tonje and Constance laugh and tell me story of how chef Esben Holmoe Bang only was interested in one bowl to use at Maaemo – a bowl that wasn’t even thought to be a bowl yet, just an exploration of a certain type of clay. First they were surprised, but looking back, they changed their perception for what an object can be. It stuck with me, when Constance explained that for their practice the differentiation between material experiment and object does not exist. They do not think of objects or plates in the traditional design-way, it’s about the feeling the material gives and what it potentially all could be if its function is not too strictly defined by them. Process is their practice. They don’t strive to create designs with a process that finishes as soon as the object is sent out to the customer. Odd Standard’s practice is direct and intuitive. When working towards a process and not the outcome, one doesn’t create terminal designs, but open endings. 2.2 Ecologies of urban gardening, 2022 An artistic research project and doctoral thesis at NTNU by Bjørn Inge Melås. The project identified five key themes that emerged through the exploration of urban gardening, each offering insights into the practice and its broader implications. He describes how “urban gardening can transform a space and its people to become more diverse and related this to Guattari’s term heterogenesis – the production of diversity, which is a counterforce to the capitalist homogenization of the world and the human subjectivity” (Melås, 2022, p. 515). The experience of urban gardening not only enriches the visual and sensory aspects of an urban space but also fosters a deeper connection between people and their environment. Moreover, the slow, deliberate process of building and nurturing soil contrasts sharply with the rapid, profit-driven pace of capitalist production, offering a critique of how time is valued and used in different economic systems. Melås collects thoughts and ideas on how urban gardening can be a place for meeting and connecting – on a physical spatial level and on a metaphorical level describing the coming together of design with ecological, social and political perspectives. What if architecture rather focused on designing a process instead of an outcome? 2.3 Ein Kleines Haus (Petite villa au bord du lac Léman , 1923) by Le Corbusier, published as a book in 1954. The epilogue of the book, written by Guillemette Morel Journel and titled “The Life of a Famous Small House”, emphasises Le Corbusier’s role of being both designer and author of the small house. In 1954, Le Corbusier wished to dedicate one of his smallest books, “Une petite maison”, to one of his smallest buildings. Over the years, the architect analysed the design development, the construction site, the function, and the spatial disposition of the house - and ultimately its “life”. Journel argues that Le Corbusier thus took on a reciprocal position, a mise en abyme , a self-referentiality between author (of the text) and designer (of the architecture). The author becomes an exegete, an interpreter, of the work of the designer – eventually mirroring himself in himself. “As both an exegete and theorist, the representations of his own buildings provided him with the opportunity to formulate and illustrate the various elements of his doctrine” (Journel, 2020). 2.4 Everything is Architecture by Hans Hollein, 1968. In his work Alles ist Architektur (Everything is Architecture), Hans Hollein wrote something on the meaning of architecture, that I like to recall. To me these words show facettes of the intricate connection between theory and practice. “Architektur ist kultisch, sie ist Mal, Symbol, Zeichen, Expression. Architektur ist Kontrolle der Körperwärme – schützende Behausung. Architektur ist Bestimmung – Festlegung – des Raumes, Umwelt. Architektur ist Konditionierung eines psychologischen Zustandes.” “Architecture is cultic, it is mark, symbol, sign, expression. Architecture is the control of body heat – protective dwelling. Architecture is the determination/decision – definition – of space, environment. Architecture is the conditioning of a psychological state.” – own translation 2.5 The Eyes of the Skin by Juhani Pallasmaa, 1996, discussed in Method 2.6 Thinking Architecture and Atmospheres by Peter Zumthor, both 2006, discussed in Method 2.7 Om bygningskulturens transformation by Christoffer Harlang (Editor) and Albert Algreen-Petersen (Author and editor) References conveying the emotive aspects : 3.1 Conversation with Jean Badovici and Eileen Gray on emotionality, 1929 3.2 Sophie Calle True Stories; Rachel, Monique...; Prenez Soin De Vous; Double Game, Le Régime Chromatique : Emotivity through story telling and book design 3.3 Sigri Sandberg – Ro Description of how the connection of emotionality and locality 3.4 Gaston Bachelard – The Poetics of Space Description of emotionality through daydreaming in space In this work I focus on the movement of Nordic cuisine for following reasons: I. The focus on seasonality in combination with locality II. The aim to capture the essence of the produce and preserve this essence from the moment it leaves the soil until it is plated III. The curiosity about how traditional produce or methods can be adapted in new, experimental ways. [While I am working on this site, breaking my master thesis down into quickly graspable key thoughts and outcomes, you are welcome to read it in its wholeness as a pdf. Click on the PDF symbol to open it in another tab.] SASSU: Culinary Spatial Practice

Prussian blue porn Glazed ceramic tiles, 2020

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

What do your personal interests have to do with you profession within design? Everything! A writing on understanding the relation between the personal You and the professional You, and why it makes no sense to divide them. And why everything is everything. You Are Your Work 2026 Copenhagen, Denmark This is a piece on why it matters to understand the relation between the personal and the professional, and why the magic gets lost once you divide them too much. And why everything is everything. You are your work Designing Between the Personal and the Professional I am writing this piece as an answer to a question I had difficulties answering cohesively in person lately. The question in question: What does all of this [my extended interests in bike building, hiking, Sardinian costumes, etc.] have to do with interior architecture? And the answer is everything! However enthusiastically I exclaim that, the person asking does not seem so convinced or satisfied with that answer. Which is somewhere understandable, somewhere ignorant. Here are the thoughts behind answering “everything!”. 1. Bike parts are like furniture in a space Screwing together a vintage bike from the frame up takes patience, knowledge and dedication to small out of production parts, measurements that need to be correct to a tenth of a millimetre and a sense of style. It is really about combining colours, materials, finishes — and actual functionality. It is about understanding parts with their design history attached to them, where and how they were produced, in what years, what bikes they were originally used on and how they are compatible with other parts. When you abstract those processes you are really not far from the idea of sourcing vintage or new furniture and materials for a space, trying to make it look like a cohesive narrative or idea. You need to know about the origin, the production, the materials, what context they originally were designed for. And you need a sense of style to create this connected narrative —the space— with all these loose elements. 2. Hiking is to learn to experience But what about hiking? What would that have to do with interior architecture? Because isn’t walking in nature and sleeping in the mountains the absolute opposite of sitting in a furnished room inside a building? Well, of course it is, and that is part of why I enjoy it so much. But what can we learn from hiking that suddenly becomes astonishingly relevant for designing interiors? Hiking teaches you a whole lot. For example, how to incorporate all senses beyond the visual (which is drastically overused in interior design) in a space. How to design a room that feels like a journey. How to design and live with the minimal gear or furniture. How to understand what would be enough and what would be an exaggerated addition of objects. Moreover, goodness, all those nights in a tent have taught me how immediate and close a room can be to its surroundings, how much one can blur what's indoors and what's outdoors. Now I know that one day I will design the most wonderful fjellhytter (Norwegian cabins) -- spaces that feel less like being in an apartment that could be anywhere but someone decided to place it on a mountain and more like spaces that only exist because of the mountain itself. You know, finding the amount of "inside" that makes you feel like you're still outside, but sheltered. 3. Cultural heritage and textile are a way to work with symbolism, colour and material contrasts Over the next example: my personal dedication to learning more about my Sardinian heritage through the traditional costumes. And you may still wonder how that is relevant for someone working in Copenhagen and Oslo. Don’t you see the literal red thread? What could a designer possibly learn from understanding symbolisms within embroidery, specific colour combinations that tie a costume to its village, the contrast and harmony of different textured fabrics? It opens my eyes to using hidden symbolism within objects to create a narrative in a space, how to create colour palettes that tie a room to a building and its social and historic surroundings, how to combine different materials to create a friction that really excites. 4. Dining out (written in 2024) During the field study of a dinner at restaurant Renaa in Stavanger, I wondered whether this visit belonged more to the realm of the personal and the professional. It was the professional that analysed the restaurant and interviewed chef Sven Erik Renaa, but it was the personal who cried when tasting the dish with squid. It was the professional that eyed the way of plating, the texture of the plate, the weight and form of the fork, but it was the personal that ate the meal and experienced the taste. When the personal and the professional are united in one person – the designer – every design experience becomes part of both realms. Everything around us – our built and natural surroundings – is somehow part of what can be categorised as design. Whether it is the homes we live in, the clothes we wear, the food we eat, the screens we look at, the bikes we ride ---- everything! Consciously and unconsciously, professional and personal. That is why personal experiences become part of the design. The personal informs the professional and it becomes what we call intuition . In conclusion, what I wanted to say is that, it does not make sense to actively try to divide what is a personal interest and what you work with professionally in the creative industry. You are your work .You are who you are, your work is your work because of who you are. If you had different personal interests, your work would look different. So embrace that everything is in fact interconnected, however absurdly far apart two ideas may seem. You don’t need to find excuses to connect two realms, you yourself are the connection point between them. And that should be enough. Side note: it's not AI, I just really liked using the thought-dividing dash before it got an AI thing

"Somebody" is a three legged chair with small feet inspired by a Charles Bukowski poem. Somebody

“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. All Eyes on Nybrua is a project that emerged out of the frustration of being afraid of walking home underneath Nybrua at night. The project deals with the fact that gender roles are fossilised into the concrete appearance of space. The overall layout of cities in general reflect society’s expectations of what types of activities take place where, when and by whom. The project reconnects a neglected underpass with its urban context, transforming it into a public space that invites people to dwell and offers new ways to experience and engage with the river. Wilson & Kelling: Broken Windows Theory Physical signs of disorder - broken or boarded up windows, litter, or graffiti - served as overt signals the nobody cared about the surrounding environment and this evident lack of caring encouraged crime. About the brigde Nybrua is a stone arch bridge built in 1828 in central Oslo. When Nybrua was built, Vaterlands Bridge (from 1654) was the only other bridge over the Akerselva, so the new bridge was aptly named “Nybrua”: the new bridge. Fifty years later, in 1878, the bridge was raised by 2 meters and widened by 5 meters to accommodate a tram line between Stortorget and Grünerløkka, effectively making it a tram bridge. In 1941, it was expanded again with large concrete sections on the north side, becoming the main northern entrance to Oslo via Trondheimsveien. Today, it carries tram tracks and four tram routes pass over it. The current bridge is a two-span concrete frame bridge, 25 meters long, with wrought-iron railings set in granite blocks. It has pedestrian and bicycle underpasses on the east side, while the original 1828 stone arch remains visible on the south side. North of the bridge, the road splits into Trondheimsveien and Thorvald Meyers gate. This intersection was once home to Schous Brewery, now replaced by modern businesses, offices, and restaurants. The Problem Nybrua is an architecture with different parts built at different times solving different problems in different ways. In 1941 another part was added: a 8,5m wide concrete construction to further broaden the highly trafficked bridge. This construction darkens the space underneath and creates a climate of confusion and darkness underneath. This problem was not much of an issue for pedestrians until the underpass was built in the 80s. Suddenly the space that was never designed as a pedestrian space was used as one. Quickly, the underpass became a necessary connection and used as the shortest way to walk along the river. Where does the fear of walking underneath Nybrua come from? Sexual violence is the only type violent crime which increased at all in the Oslo police district from 2020 to 2021. Furthermore, we can only roughly estimate the number of sexual violence crimes that have not been reported to the police. This number might exceed the official statistics unthinkably. However, not reported does not mean it did not happen. Places of the Heart/ Places of Anxiety by Colin Ellard Whenever we make a decision based on our feelings of anxiety [...] we may choose to drive rather than to walk at night or we may cancel a plan altogether. We may take a longer route to avoid an area that we perceive as risky. We may cross the street or turn around and backtrack to avoid close contact with a group of people loitering on the street. Such choices are economic decisions based on our weighting of the relative benefits of doing what we really want to do and the calculated risk that harm may befall us if we do. Given that we seem to generally overestimate risks, one might argue that we are thwarting our desires unnecessarily. It might simply be the case that the overall costs of choosing behaviors that appear to be safer are very low compared to the costs of discounting our feelings of anxiety too heavily. In empirical studies of fear in urban settings, the most important triggers of feelings of risk are related to spatial properties. We don’t like walking into situations where potential flight paths are blocked, we don’t like walking through areas that contain lots of shadowy hiding places for potential lurking no- goodniks, we don’t like walking toward an area where it’s difficult to see what’s around the corner, and we don’t like walking through areas that are completely empty of people. In some cases, cues of physical or social disorder can heighten anxiety; of course, our knowledge of an area, developed either through personal experience or through media accounts of violence, will also dissuade us from venturing into territory that may be unsafe. The gender difference in both perception of and vulnerability to risk is difficult to overemphasize and should be a key element of successful urban planning. Ellard. (2015). Places of the heart : the psychogeography of everyday life. Bellevue Literary Press. How to design for safety when fear can't simply be designed out? A floating underpass The floating bridge is designed to create a new kind of experience along the Akerselva River. It forms part of the transformation of Nybrua from a neglected underside into a cared-for and inviting public space. With this intervention I aim to strengthen Nybrua’s evolving role as a place for meeting, movement and interaction. Although the existing underpass may appear spacious at nearly three meters wide, beneath the stone arch from 1828 only 73 centimeters of the path can be comfortably used due to the low ceiling height. This narrow section is also the darkest point under the bridge. The new floating bridge, with a width of 2.9 meters, finally provides generous space for its users and invites them to linger. Why floating? By introducing a floating structure, the dark unused corners beside the old path are eliminated. Areas once associated with littering, urination or discarded syringes are no longer accessible. This also enhances the sense of safety — there are no hidden corners where someone could startle or harass a passerby. Moreover, the old pass used to be flooded during times of high rainfall, the new pass simply adjusts to the water level change. Yet the underpass has always held one valuable quality: its intimate relationship with the river. At times, the water nearly reaches the path’s surface; occasionally, it even floods. This closeness creates a tangible connection to the river and invites observation and reflection. The floating bridge preserves and amplifies this quality, maintaining proximity to the water while providing a safer and more welcoming way to experience it. Another issue with the old underpass was the feeling of being unseen, a lack of visibility that created unease. One could not help but wonder: if something happened here, would anyone notice? Would anyone help? The likely answer was no. From the busier street above there was no visual connection and along the path itself only limited sightlines. A blind corner amplified this sense of isolation and fear. As Jane Jacobs famously described, it is the eyes on the street that create an impression of safety — the simple awareness that a place is alive, observed and cared for. With this project I aimed to introduce that same sense of liveliness around the bridge and especially within the underpass.Enhancing visibility happens in two phases. Phase 1: Connecting the bridge to the underpass Establishing a connection between those on the bridge and those below. The intention was for people beneath the bridge to feel seen. The solution was a simple architectural gesture – an opening in the bridge deck functioning as a visual window between the two levels.The opening is placed a few metres into the parking lane, ensuring that the existing sidewalk, roadway and tram tracks remain unaffected. The parking area previously used by taxis could be relocated to a designated space approximately 30 meters from the bridge. Beyond improving visibility the opening allows daylight to filter into the underpass, creating a visual and spatial link to the river below while offering pedestrians above a renewed view of the water. Phase 2: Connecting the neighbourhood The second phase of introducing what Jane Jacobs calls “eyes on the street” focuses on creating a reason for people to stay, transforming the underpass area from a place one hurries through into a place where people want to linger. The intention is to shift the character of the space from hidden and unsafe to open, social and inviting. In 2022, there was no real opportunity to sit and enjoy the sun or the view of the river in the immediate surroundings of Nybrua. The few existing options were cafés, such as Kaffeebrenneriet, which has a limited outdoor seating area that catches the afternoon sun even in winter. However, these spaces are privately owned and accessible only to those who can afford to sit down for a drink. Public seating, on the other hand, offers something different – a sense of shared belonging and inclusivity where everyone can pause and take part in the life of the city. By shaping a seating landscape along the slope leading down to the underpass, the design introduces a new type of urban space that connects the bridge, the path below and the riverbank in a natural flow. The stepped seating invites a variety of activities: people resting, meeting friends, watching the river or simply passing time in the sun. Over time, this will help establish the area as a neighborhood gathering spot rather than a neglected in-between zone. This presence of people transforms the atmosphere entirely. The more visitors sit, talk and interact in this space, the more visible and safe it becomes. The design therefore not only provides a new place to dwell but also reinforces the social and spatial connection between the river and the urban fabric around Nybrua, bringing everyday life back to a once overlooked corner of the city. We can't simply design fear away from somebody's life. Hilde Koskela however proposes following: What can be gained by analysing women’s courage and their ability to take possession of space? For me a feminist city is way more than simply a city free of sexual violence. The feminist city for me is a city where there is equal access to the resources that the city has to offer, regardless of any gender identity, any projective characteristics such as race, class, sexual orientation or physical ability. – Dr. Ellie Cosgrave

Butter gives us the possibility to reflect. It leads our gaze towards what has been and why. It allows us to encounter choices of form and material with a deeper understanding. Food and architecture shape our lives more than we maybe want to acknowledge. The Meaning of Butter for Architecture Josephine Sassu Oslo National Academy of the Arts, 2024 An Essay The Meaning of Butter for Architecture In Oslo, butter is something we find in a colourful plastic container with a plastic lid in the cooled disk of a supermarket. Some butters come wrapped in silver foil which is covered in a colourful print and pictures of buttercups in the sun. Stocked on top of each other in the shelves, we stand there, facing a few hundred little packages, averagely containing 250g of different buttery products. No one has really time to even read the names of all packages, the presented choices are too overwhelming. Our eyes are trained to quickly scan the cooled shelves and find the colour combination of our go-to butter. Some are yellow and green, others yellow and red and some are golden and green and some are white and red – and then there are those that aren’t butter at all but pretend to be according to their placement in the cooled shelves. Swedish chef Magnus Nilsson describes the cultural hearitage and meaning of butter in his reflection work Fäviken: 4015 Days, Beginning to End . Fig. 1: https://digitaltmuseum.no/021027791000/oskje Fig. 2: https://digitaltmuseum.no/011022545898/smorboks-med-lokk Fig. 3: https://oda.com/no/products/125-tine-ekte-smor/ “In Scandinavia, butter was originally used as a way of making the most out of the short summer’s enormous abundance. Butter is one of the nicest ways of preparing milk for storage, which is basically what it is, even though people tend to forget that today, and regard it as something produced all year round just because it is good for cooking with. [...] In Sweden, butter was so valuable as a trade commodity that you could even pay your taxes with it, and along with cheese it was also many farmers’ only way to get any cash income into the household. Typically the butter was made in the chalet near the summer pasture by first skimming the cream from the top of the milk (the skimmed milk later becoming gammelost), then storing it in wooden vessels for a few days until enough was obtained to churn it. During this time the cream would have fermented from the abundance of microbes in the pores of the wood and in the atmosphere in the stone cellar where it was kept. The cream was then churned in a wooden churner, washed and salted heavily. In this form it would keep in the cellar for a very long time. In the restaurant we have kept butter for up to a year. It becomes more and more rancid and powerful in terms of aroma the older it gets, but it doesn’t become inedible as quickly as you might think.” Nilsson, M. (2020). Fäviken: 4015 Days, Beginning to End. Phaidon Press Ltd. p.306 However, the difference between modern mainstream butter and butter of the past goes far beyond the packaging. It is the cows themselves that had been redesigned. The new age cows are called Norsk Rødt Fe, lovingly referred to as NRF within the industry. Instead of only giving a couple of hundred litres of milk (and for most of the year none) like the old local breeds did, NRF gives up to 10.000 litres of milk every year – making it quite evident for the dairy industry which cows to breed and keep. From the 1960s, NRFs had become the dominating milk cow breed in all of Norway (Vangen, 2023). This change affected the way we saw land and the way we built in the landscape. On Being Critical This is not to discard modernity and the way processes take place nowadays. Neither do I want to convince you to stomp heavy cream to butter with wooden tools in the evening and use the remaining butter milk to bake breakfast pastries (even though I really like the utopic notion of having communal cows and making home-made butter). Contexts of the past were more local, not global. Nevertheless, my work does not aim to compare needs and methods from the past with contemporary needs and methods. When talking about the simplicity of life in the past, one will nearly always taste a note of criticality towards modern consumerism. And even though there might be a tone of nostalgia swinging in the words of the author, things were not necessarily better before. Life was not as harmonious as the rose-painting ornamentations we find on butter boxes from a century ago. The way we live now is an answer to wanting life to be easier after the first and second world war famines. It is an answer to wanting to know how far we can get with exploring technology and to wanting to live as carelessly as we can in the confinement of our apartment after working 9-5. Our world consists of happenings touching onto different realms. On top of that, can each realm be seen through different lenses that can be of social, ecological, economical or other quality. Whatever fields we divide the world into, do not exist in isolation, in fact, they exist in the context and presence of each other. It is impossible to see where one realm ends and another one starts. And it is impossible to place a happening into clearly one of them without acknowledging its impact on other areas. Shortly said: everything is connected and everything influences something. In this thought we are mostly moving through the realm of culture, agriculture, cuisine and architecture/design. Design is the omnipresent structure that connects them. Sometimes design makes it easier to understand the connection between product, culture and origin and sometimes the task of design is to hide what connects them. Design is a way to communicate – power, a lifestyle, a belief, a way of doing something. Butter gives us the possibility to reflect. It leads our gaze towards what has been and why. It allows us to encounter choices of form and material with a deeper understanding. Food and architecture shape our lives more than we maybe want to acknowledge. Culinary and spatial factors define how we feel in our surroundings and how we feel inside our bodies. We become what we eat – and we also become our surroundings. Does the future we want to live in consist of standardised pre-fabricated solutions? Imagine your life if you never were to experience something outside the average, the mediocre. It would result in an unbearable feeling of numbness. If we never experienced a truly exciting taste or a truly exciting space, we simply would not know how to imagine it either. We can only ever really imagine what we have experienced ourselves – with all our senses. It is the tangibility of experiencing something extraordinary, that makes it possible to survive within the average. True joy does not lie packaged in a super market shelf as one of many hundred tidily stacked plastic boxes containing a different type of same. We do not want to live our lives between buildings and spaces that are average. In that averageness lies a the sentiment on having given up. True joy lies in daring something that is different and feels like it takes courage to do. We only get to feel a sense of accomplishment if what we wanted to achieve felt scary in the start. Culinary spatial practice is about desiring the extraordinary. Extraordinarily good butter and extraordinarily exciting spaces. SASSU: Culinary Spatial Practice