|Emil Nolde, The Sea III, 1913. © Nolde Stiftung Seebüll.|
Nolde appeared as a solitary genius, an uneducated peasant who somehow knew what the educated could not know, who saw what the prophet saw, who felt what others could not feel. A man obsessed by his urge to create, unconcerned about the public and the social whirl, the servant of an inner demon that guides his art – such is the image of Emil Nolde.
– Stephen Bronner, Modernism at the Barricades: Aesthetics, Politics, Utopia
The steep and giddy steps to the upper floor of the Haus der deutschen Kunst (the House of German Art) – the brand new propaganda temple at the beginning of Prinzregentenstrasse in Munich – was a deliberate attempt to provoke a nauseous prelude to what the visitors were about to see and experience, and what they were supposed to deride, now when civilisation was going to hell again.
This was the summer of 1937. The dubious star of the Entartete Kunst (degenerate art) exhibition was an Expressionist of the absolute greatest artistry. He was also a wrongheaded fool who rendered himself a well-earned chapter in Who’s Who in Nazi Germany.
The many words of Emil Nolde (1867–1956) were “full of vituperative statements about Jews to whom he denied ‘soul and creative spirit’,” as Robert Wistrich demonstrates in this dictionary. “Nolde praised the ‘upraising against Jewish power, dominant in all the arts’ and expected to be exalted as the most German of all artists.” Such was not the case. When the Nazis came to power they regarded Nolde as the most “Jewish” of them all. You find the same kind of logic in Fahrenheit 451 (1966) when the book burners murder a library and Truffaut’s camera zooms in on a copy of Mein Kampf in flames.
“Within national boundaries, race as a basis judgement in matters of art and thought helps carry on the critics’ war. It nourishes self-approval, stiffens factions, and decides among imponderables,” wrote Jacques Barzun in an essay from 1936 (“Race: Fact or Fiction?”) when the Third Reich was about to realise the Shoah on the impetus of Europe’s cauldron. “The idea of race makes easy the transition from cultural to political ill-feeling, and when we want to condemn some course of national action in our neighbours, race provides the universal joint that holds together the aliens’ ignoble traditions, their present shameful course, and their innate perversity. This pattern of judgement is familiar to contemporaries of the First World War, in which a sincere belief in the wickedness of Kant, Hegel, and Nietzsche – ‘cultural poisons’ – strengthened the hatred of the enemy.”
There is no way of getting around Nolde’s cultural poison. But his intense art, as this summer’s refulgent Nolde exhibition at Waldemarsudde in Stockholm will tell you, is strangely almost spared from the wickedness of his politics and from the nightmare worlds in which he lived. In that respect he was like a Ferdinand the Bull who – unlike the other Expressionists with their avant-garde depictions of war and misery, and their forms of emotional contortion – preferred his flowers to the tug of the bullring.
“For the Expressionists, art and religion were closely intertwined. Both involved surrender to an inner, spiritual energy and a preoccupation with the human soul,” writes Starr Figura in the MoMA publication German Expressionism: The Graphic Impulse. “Although they lived in an age of intellectual scepticism and philosophical nihilism, these artists were nevertheless repeatedly and inexorably drawn to the Christian themes and motifs that had shaped German life and culture for centuries. A desire to comprehend events in mystical or spiritual terms was reflected in their current images of prophets and seers, and the belief that theirs was an age of apocalyptic transformation manifested itself in various images of creation, rebirth, and transcendence.”
The French Impressionists of the late 1800s captured and emphasised the sensations of light, and they loved to arrange their impressions around the merriments of life. The German Expressionists wanted to deliver the world from itself. It began in 1905 with Die Brücke in Dresden (their name was taken from Nietzsche: “What is great in man is that he is a bridge and not an end”), an artist group that proceeded from their lively use of colours and contradictions, as exemplified by Stephen Bronner in Modernism at the Barricades:
“Die Brücke spoke to a new community bound by feeling – but that new community was a figment of its imagination. Its members’ notion of solidarity was actually directed to them rather than the proletariat or even humanity. The journal of Die Brücke – only one issue appeared – had a title that makes this apparent. It comes from a line by Horace: Odi profanum vulgus.” Indeed, the Expressionists loathed the populace.
The modern world began with a sway towards the premodern. The revolutionary Expressionists were yearning after a primordial state of rural simplicity and uncorrupted contentment. The concept of Heimat (German soil and blood and all that) was pitched with fierce subjectivism, storms of colour, and exaggeration and distortion to the point of ecstasy.
Nolde was as hostile to every form of aesthetic relation between styles as he was about human relations between “races”. His professedly unspoilt art was aimed for the “tougher Nordic senses”. Nietzsche wrote in Beyond Good and Evil (1886) that, “In individuals, insanity is rare; but in groups, parties, nations, and epochs it is the rule.” Nolde was an individual twit, but here and there and quite often he was sublime in his art.
The headstrong yet thin-skinned artist was reaching for an unmixed purity in his use of colours as well. “Nolde subordinated all other pictorial elements to colour,” explains Peter Selz in German Expressionist Painting. “It was no longer employed primarily for its representational value or for its decorative quality, but was more symbolic and expressive. Nolde always retained contact with nature, but he seemed to anticipate Kandinsky’s later concepts of the spiritual value of pure colour as an expression of human emotion. Nolde said that he often considered himself only a medium through which colour could exercise its powerful effect on canvas.”
Nolde: “Colours, the materials of the painter: colours in their own lives, weeping and laughing, dream and bliss, hot and scared, like love songs and the erotic, like songs and glorious chorales! Colours in vibration, pealing like silver bells, proclaiming happiness, passion and love, soul, blood and death.”
The Waldemarsudde exhibition, which counts thirty-seven oil paintings, thirty-six watercolours and eighteen graphic prints, is called Colour Storms. And here we are, on a beach in Denmark with the earliest work in Stockholm – Lichte Meeresstimmung (1901) – a stylistically dateless painting where the not quite achromatic stratums of cream and cobalt blue emerge as a peaceful composition of the sky, the sea and the sand. Nolde must have painted this with a seashell to his ear. His many seascapes (and they are many) that came later are unsurpassed. Emil Nolde is alone in the history of art to have painted the sea with such drama, accuracy and beauty.
The Denmark paintings are also the starting point for Museum Director Karin Sidén when she describes her idea behind Colour Storms for The Stockholm Review: “His early work from the period before he developed his characteristic Expressionist style is represented by two paintings in the exhibition. A comparison is hereby made possible between the works from around 1900, influenced by the Skagen School of Painting and Impressionism, and the vividness and colouristic intensity that he developed in his painting from the period of Die Brücke 1906–07 and later. The exhibition is only organised chronologically in the first gallery, but then transitions into a thematic presentation distributed partly on thematic categories, partly on artistic techniques. His watercolour painting, which of course is outstanding, is allowed to unfold to full extent in a large room and the experimental graphic prints in another.”
Much of Nolde’s painting during the first ten years of the 1900s, when he gradually turned on the colours, is a blustering but evidently talented sequel to the style that the French had been up to for a few decades and which he claimed to despise for its “weakness”, “sweetness” and “superficiality”.
Nolde was passionate about van Gogh’s Mediterranean swirls of paint and the stark exoticism of Gauguin’s pictures from Tahiti. (“I have never before seen such glorious colours in modern art.”) But when he found his own style as an artist around 1906 with a painting like Freigeist it was all about glaring Expressionismus, Germania, and visions that originated from his inner self.
And this is how he described the four potato-faced men in their intensely coloured caftans – hot pink, orange, green and blue – and their Renaissance gestures: “The free spirit stands in the middle of the picture. Praise to the left, complaints and reproach to the right – none of that touches him. The central picture is surely meant to be myself.”
Nolde’s paintings do not possess the luminosity of Kandinsky’s works from the same time. There is some other intrinsic quality in these pictures that makes them shine, and Stephen Bronner comes really close to it in his book: “By understanding singularity as oneness with nature, by highlighting an inner ecstasy, Nolde’s work sought to manifest the ‘pulse-beat of the entire world’.”
In his autobiography (made up of four books), Nolde talked about how “the love for the extraordinary which existed in me at that time has always remained with me. My interest in what is foreign, primeval and primitive was especially strong: I had to get to know the unknown; even the nocturnal, depraved inhabitants of the great city stimulated me like something exotic, and the Jewish types in my later religious pictures may have come into being in part from my following this drive.”
The devious-looking thumbs-up characters around Nolde’s crucified yellow Jesus in the mid panel of his triptych Martyrium I–III (1921) are a sorry set of “Jewish types”. The painting on the left is a child’s imagination of what lions may look like – like amok gargoyles, tearing the sinners apart inside the blood-red rink of an amphitheatre. The fantasy painting on the right is a diagonal composition of a brown mass of men in tribal masks and, on the other side of the slice, a group of naked women tied to poles. This was Nolde in his most sexual mode. Other Expressionists painted women like the fornicating, hostile flowers in Gerald Scarfe’s animation sequence for The Wall in which the female flower devours the male.
The triptych in the Colour Storms exhibition represents a main area in Nolde’s art. The majority of his religious paintings were conceived between 1909 and 1912 – following a persistent illness from drinking poisoned water – with bouts of fervency as he “painted and painted, hardly knowing whether it was night or day, whether I was a human being or only a painter”.
“The painting of The Derision of Christ  saved me from drowning in religion and compassion. Here the soldiers yell and hit and taunt and spit,” Nolde wrote in the second volume of his autobiography from 1934 (awkwardly titled Jahre der Kämpfe). “I doubt that I could have painted with so much power The Last Supper and Pentecost [both 1909], both so deeply fraught with feeling, had I been bound by a rigid dogma and the letter of the bible. I had to be artistically free, not confronted by a god hard as steel like an Assyrian king, but with god inside of me, glowing and holy like the love of Christ. The Last Supper and the Pentecost marked the change from optical, external stimuli to values of inner conviction. They became milestones – in all likelihood not only for my own work.”
The religious confessions of Emil Nolde were in accord with Dostoyevsky’s spiritual emotions in The Brothers Karamazov (1880), as when Ivan K recounts the words of the Inquisitor and his parley with the official divinity of the Church: “Peacefully they will expire in your name, and beyond the grave they will find only death. But we will keep the secret, and for their own happiness we will entice them with a heavenly and eternal reward.” Nolde united an anthropocentric view of the world with a belief in a greater cosmic presence when he painted these works. He was both the soldiers and the figure of Christ.
Nolde’s grotesque figures and twisted sisters from pre-Weimar Berlin predated the great works of George Grosz, and there are a few examples of them in the exhibition. It is a fact that Nolde could be nutty in pictures even before the fine arts became his occupation. His Alpine illustrations from the mid 1890s, where the Swiss mountains come alive with human features, are as peculiar (though not anywhere near as amazing) as Magritte’s période vache of 1947–48. The pictures were reproduced as postcards by popular demand after appearing in a magazine:
“Interesting that you ask about the strange Bergpostkarten, which of course became very popular and helped to enable an economic platform for Emil Nolde’s artistic activities,” says Mrs Sidén. “The reason that the images are not included in the exhibition is that we – in cooperation with the Nolde Stiftung Seebüll – wanted to concentrate the exhibition on Nolde’s oeuvre as a ‘free’ artist, after the early years as a teacher of industrial drawing and those as a student of different painters.”
Heimat wasn’t just an idea for Nolde but an earthly reality as much as a sublime realm to which he always returned after his numerous travels. “For Nolde, the scenically unremarkable, sparsely populated reaches of his homeland – the borderland of Germany and Denmark, between the North Sea and the Baltic – retained an unspoilt, primeval character that held an irresistible appeal. He would walk for miles, and called it ‘a landscape full of experiences and history’,” writes Averil King in Emil Nolde: Artist of the Elements. “In his autobiographical writings, Nolde refers to the land where he was born as ‘a wonderland from sea to sea’ and ‘a fairy tale’. He reflected that ‘despite many travels to many places … my art remains deeply rooted in my native soul’, and it has been said of him that his creative imagination was, indeed, deeply and inextricably bound up with his homeland.”
Emil Hansen took the name of the village where he was born when he married his Danish wife Ada in 1902. “The most German of all artists” evolved from a rural upbringing dominated by laborious farm work and the actualities of local folklore and the bible. Nolde trained as a cabinetmaker in his teens, and furniture design was his profession until he moved to Switzerland in 1892 to teach at St Gallen’s School of Applied Arts. It was, as mentioned, the fairly substantial revenue from the Bergpostkarten that enabled him to go to Munich, Paris (Académie Julian) and Copenhagen to learn how to paint and to become Emil Nolde.
The Noldes rented a house on the island of Als (or Alsen which was its German name in those days) in 1903 where the artist set up a little studio by the beach. They stayed there every summer until they bought a farm on a manmade hill near the North Sea in 1916 (in the lowlands area that became Danish in 1920 – there is a photo of the couple in the Colour Storms book as they are punting through the water in a flat-bottom skiff). In 1926 they relocated to the big brown brick house with its variegated green and flowery premises that Nolde had designed for himself and his wife. Seebüll, of course, lives on as the home for the Nolde Stiftung Seebüll and the Museum, and it is also the resting place for Emil and Ada Nolde.
“Intellectuals and literati call me an Expressionist; I do not like this narrow classification. A German artist that I am.” Thus spoke Emil Nolde. It was during a trip through Italy and a long stay in Taormina in Sicily during the winter of 1904–05 that Nolde turned on his colours. The reclusive Nolde accepted Die Brücke’s invitation to join the group and to work with them in Dresden in March and April 1907. It was this brief séjour with Die Brücke that really made him an Expressionist.
Peter Selz: “Returning to solitary Alsen, Nolde continued to paint garden and flower pieces for some time. His motifs never varied much, and certain ones were treated fifteen and twenty times with the greatest perseverance to bring them to full maturity. In his garden pictures of 1907 and 1908 the subject – a bed of flowers or an individual flower – is no longer a function of the environment as in his early semi-Impressionist pictures; instead, the object has become individualised and much more subjective: it is now the carrier of the painter’s own dynamic emotion expressed in pure symbolic colour.”
Bauern (Viborg) (1908) is one such painting in the exhibition, a nightly motif of a group of hardly visible peasants and some masterstrokes of blue – and then this boom of glowing green that manifests itself through one of the men. Superb.
The neoromantic Nolde was horrified by how “everything is being discovered and Europeanised” and lamented the loss of the good old days. (“The period from 1871 to the turn of the century, the Gründerzeit [founding period], with its economic boom, was fateful for the more refined old cultural and popular values; they were ignored, squandered, destroyed.”) Nolde found what he was looking for in Germany’s ethnological museums, in the savage purity of indigenous peoples and in the primordial forces that (as he also figured it) lay behind their art.
He wrote in his autobiography that “primitive men live in their nature: they are one with it and part of the entire universe. I sometimes have the feeling that they are the only real human beings left, while we are something like malformed marionettes, artificial and full of presumption.”
When Max Liebermann and Paul Cassirer of the alternative art organisation the Berlin Secession rejected his Pentecost in 1910, Nolde went berserk with his racist hatred and senseless accusations for their support of “Jewish” (un-German) art. “Efforts to introduce the foreign, the unknown, and the exotic were precisely what rendered the Berlin Secession suspect in the eyes of a European public whose nationalism was everywhere on the rise,” as Stephen Bronner remarks. “But the fact remains that the cosmopolitanism of the Berlin Secession, its respect for the most divergent artists and its tolerance of the most different approaches, profoundly influenced the cultural climate in which Expressionism would come to thrive.”
Galerie Commeter in Hamburg presented a full-scope show of Nolde’s graphic works that year and to much acclaim. It would have been preferable to see some of Nolde’s delightful prints from the Hamburg Harbour (also 1910) in the room with his graphic works at Waldemarsudde. As with his seascapes they do carry those very mixed human feelings of contentment and entrancement about the place and the moment, for being here, and still – a wish to be taken somewhere else.
He appreciated the mysticism of Edvard Munch, but Nolde’s seascapes are free from gimmickry – they are solely about the sea and the sky. “Nolde knows the sea as no other artist before him,” wrote his friend and benefactor Max Sauerlandt in the first biography on Nolde (1921). “He sees it not from the beach or from a boat, he sees it as it exists in itself, free from any reference to man, eternally in motion, ever changing, living out its life in and for itself: a divine, self-consuming primal being that, in its unrestricted freedom, has existed unchanged since the very first day of creation.”
It is easy to get lost in the room with Nolde’s marvellous seascapes, but there are other classy paintings (flowers, landscapes) to enjoy in here as well. Thirty-five years differ between Das Meer III, the dark wavy masterpiece from 1913 with the narrow green sky, and Hahe See – bewegte Wolken (1948) in which the orange storm clouds dominate over the high sea. Nolde never lost his touch with the ocean.
In the winter of 1913–14, the Noldes settled down in Kavieng on New Ireland after travelling through Russia and Asia in the company of a scientific expedition destined for German New Guinea. Two of the nineteen oils he painted on the island are in Colour Storms: a really quite respectful portrait of a little family – which is something else than the malformed marionettes that he found and sometimes painted at home, in the big cities – and a beguiling view by the sea, with palm trees before an exotic curtain of the Heimat North Sea and its operatic skies.
Peter Selz: “With the end of the war, and in spite of the dispersal of the artists, Expressionism suddenly found itself an accepted art form. Certain of its inherent pacifist propensities tended to ally it with the peace movement. Its search for universal forms and its sponsorship of great international exhibitions corresponded to the then prevalent dreams of a united Europe and a brotherhood of man; its intoxication with the idea of a community of artists corresponded to the plans for the new social utopias pronounced throughout Germany in the last years of the war and in the period immediately following the revolution of 1918.”
When the Allies had made up the terms that the Germans alone were responsible for the Great War and that they were going to pay for it, German diplomats were soon obliged to represent the country in the Hall of Mirrors of the Palace of Versailles on June 28, 1919: “Their task was to sign, not to negotiate. The treatment of the German delegation, widely publicised in the German press, was one long calculated insult: the train that took them to Paris moved with deliberate slowness through the battlefields of northern France until the sight became unbearable,” informs Peter Gay in Weimar Culture: The Outsider as Insider – his work about the Weimar Republic (1918–1933) and the “two Germanies: the Germany of military swagger, abject submission to authority, aggressive foreign adventure, and obsessive preoccupation with form, and the Germany of lyrical poetry, humanist philosophy, and pacific cosmopolitanism”.
Fuchsschwänze (1939) is Nolde’s involuntary salute to Surrealism. This is one of his greatest paintings, full of bellyache apprehension and crackerjack imagination, full of tassels of blood-red amaranth flowers – love lies bleeding – or foxtails as they are called in German (hence the title). There is so much more to this image than this scenery of perspicacious visions that appear to spurt out of a single flowerbed. The painting was one of the last he did in this new Reich he had cheered to power. Nolde, the National Socialist, was banned from making any further works of art.
The Nazis cleansed the world from poetry and purpose. It was declared at the Nuremberg “Rally of Victory” in 1933 that it was all up with the art “charlatans”. Germany’s supremacy in the fine arts and Modernism’s great achievements inside the institutions during Weimar were regarded with suspicion and disgust by the general public who was more than eager to put the blame on artists and Jews, and their connections, for everything that had gone wrong after the Treaty of Versailles: “The syphilis of anti-Semitism, which was moving towards its tertiary stage in the Weimar epoch, was not the only weakness of the German body politic. The German state was a huge creature with a small and limited brain,” argues historian Paul Johnson in Modern Times.
Nolde met the Führer and his thugs at a private dinner party in 1933. He wrote about it in a letter to his friend and patron Hans Fehr: “The Führer is great and noble in his aspirations and a brilliant man of action. He is still surrounded by a gaggle of dark figures, in an artificial culture fog. It seems that the sun will break through and scatter the fog in the near future.”
The Minister of Propaganda was initially favourably disposed towards Nolde – who declined the offers to become the President of all the Nazi art schools and to gain a professorship at the Berlin Akademie der Künste – and he was a tolerated figure until the day that the Führer found his works in the Goebbels residence and, during the bellicosity that followed, ordered them to be removed and disposed of.
“By the time, many Expressionists had left Germany, others were forbidden to work, some were incarcerated in concentration camps,” writes Ashley Bassie in Expressionism. “Ernst Barlach carved a poignant figure of a standing woman in oak in 1936. The following year he gave it its allegorical title, Das schlimme Jahr 1937 (The Terrible Year 1937), in direct response to the Entartete Kunst campaign. By the time of ‘the terrible year’, four hundred works by Barlach had been seized from public collections. He died the following year.”
By June 30, 1937, the Führer commanded the President of the Reichskammer der bildenden Künste (the Reich Chamber of Culture) Adolf Ziegler, who also happened to be his favourite painter, to “select and impound works of German art of decline since 1910 currently in the possession of the Reich, the states, and the communes, from the fields of paintings and sculpture, for the purposes of an exhibition”. In a matter of weeks, Ziegler’s team had confiscated sixteen thousand works of art – 1,054 of them were works by Nolde – for the Ministry of Propaganda. The first instalment of the Entartete Kunst spectacle opened in Munich on July 18, 1937. It was one of the most important art exhibitions of the 20th century.
The Führer delivered his opening speech in the hall on the ground floor in this new House of German Art where The Great German Art Exhibition presented a choosy selection of totalitarian art – insipid sculptures and kitschy genre sceneries of Germania and Classical Greece – “worthy images expressing the life course of our people”. The Führer expressed his sympathy for his countrymen, the real Germans who had been forced to endure this madness of modern art:
“The mass of the people moved through our art exhibitions in a completely uninterested fashion or stayed away altogether. The people’s healthy perceptions recognised that all that canvas smearing was really the outcome of an impudent and unashamed arrogance or of a simply shocking lack of skill. Millions of people felt instinctively that these art stammers of the last few decades were more like the achievements that might have been produced by untalented children from eight to ten years of age and could under no circumstances be regarded as the expression of our own time or of the German future.”
And he concluded: “The new age of today is at work on a new human type. Tremendous efforts are being made in countless spheres of life in order to elevate our people, to make our men, boys, lads, girls, and women healthier and thereby stronger and more beautiful. From this strength and beauty streams forth a new feeling of life, and a new joy in life.”
The five thousand works of art that the Nazis threw into a bonfire on March 20, 1939 were labelled “Property of no value”. Unlike the Fascist-minded Futurists who eventually quailed at the new realities in Italy, Nolde never learned or gave in. He used the humiliation to shift his anti-Semitism into overdrive. Goebbels did not respond to his letters but some of his works were in fact returned to German museums after the tour with the Entartete Kunst exhibition. Nolde was excluded from the Reichskammer der bildenden Künste in August 1941. Between 1938 and 1945 he was prohibited to expose his art and to make a living from it.
“Many of the artists whose work had been banned, mutilated, or destroyed, had either been forced to emigrate or had been so traumatised by their experiences of Germany that they had no desire to be associated with a movement with German characteristics, even if only from the Medieval past,” reflects Rose-Carol Washton Long in the anthology New Perspectives on Brücke Expressionism: Bridging History.
In his thatched garden bungalow and in other hidden places at home at Seebüll, Nolde kept on painting paintings that did not exist. Those are the one thousand three hundred Ungemalte Bilder (unpainted paintings) that he made in secrecy and from imagination alone during the reins of the Third Reich. There are twelve unpainted paintings in the room with Nolde’s watercolours at Waldemarsudde. These works are so much on the opposite end of the wet-on-wet rubbish that Rudolf Steiner and his likes used to paint. Everything in here is a testament to Nolde’s total mastery of the medium.
“The further one removes oneself from nature and still remains natural, the greater the art,” reasoned Nolde. “Conscientious and exact information of nature does not create a work of art. A wax figure confoundingly lifelike causes nothing but disgust. A work becomes a work of art when one re-evaluates the values of nature and adds one’s own spirituality.”
The seventy-six-year-old Nolde lost all that he had stored in his Berlin studio – a lot of his graphic works and paintings by his fellow artists – when the city was bombed in March 1944. His art was suddenly lavished with the highest praise in West Germany after the war, and people seemed intentionally reluctant to remember the other bit of Nolde. Bernhard Fulda and Aya Soika write in the Colour Storms publication how “artworks like Nolde’s remind us that there is no obvious connection between modernist art and democratic values”.
Andrei Rublev is the only one who sees that nasty black thing that coils in the stream in Tarkovsky’s film from 1966. It is here in the woods that the famous icon painter vents that, “It is only through prayer that the soul reaches the invisible from the visible.” His words are for Foma, an apprentice painter with an empty understanding of the import of his work. Nolde reached the invisible from the visible through his art. He was a prophet, a seer, and a snake.
Did you ever wonder why we had to run for shelter when the promise of a brave new world unfurled beneath a clear blue sky?
|Emil Nolde, Female Dancer, 1913. © Nolde Stiftung Seebüll.|
Emil Nolde – Colour Storms at Waldemarsudde in Stockholm through August 30, 2015, and at Göteborgs konstmuseum in Gothenburg, October 3, 2015–January 17, 2016.