Experiencing depression

Some people are braver than others. This morning I read a text posted on the blog of a very talented photographer. He was talking about depression, a condition which he suffered from for most of his adult life. I found it very brave that he talked about such a personal thing, and this, along with my friends’ reactions when they know I suffer from it, prompted me to write this as well.

Not so unrelated: art is the best therapy, so is nature :)

Depression is a mental illness – although this doesn’t make you someone mental. Depression means that something is chemically wrong with your brain – not that something is wrong with you as a being. Depression makes you feel worthless, suicidal, out-of-place and sad most of the time. It can be triggered by several things: childhood traumas, break-ups, difficulties to cope with everyday life, there are so many reasons that can affect you. Yet asking for and needing help is ok. Talking about it with your friends is ok. Their reactions to it should be ok too. However, you might lose people along the way because they will think you’re nuts, people who won’t be as brave as you were when you told them you suffered from depression and who will just run as far away as possible from you because they can’t handle it and they don’t want trouble. You might even lose your job because you would be an easy target for unscrupulous bosses.

This year I’m suffering from depression for the 4th time in my life. Each time I thought I had finally managed to beat this awful and crippling feeling out of me for good. Each time I battled against it and refused to seek medical help because I wanted to be stronger, better than that.  But sometimes you’re just not strong enough and you have to admit it. Each time, people around me look at me with big round eyes because they couldn’t have guessed. Because to them, everything looked fine, and because it’s still very much a taboo in our society. The bad news is that, from my experience, I don’t think you ever really heal from it. But the good news is that there are some survival strategies to keep depression at a distance and be stronger than the morbid thoughts in your mind. The road to recovery is a tricky one, but you don’t have to be alone in this. 
It begins with surrounding yourself with positive people, people who do you good, people who won’t hurt you any further than you already hurt yourself. Each day, you can achieve something, even at a very small scale – for yourself or for others. If you set yourself small goals first, you’ll have the satisfaction to achieve them. I started very small during my first outbreak: I would consider my day successful if I managed to shower and go get the mail downstairs. That was about as much as I could possibly achieve in one day. I wouldn’t interact with anyone, I would open books and stare at them for hours without reading anything, the rest of the day would be spent thinking I was useless, stupid, worthless and what not. Little by little I lost all my friends because I would just stare at my ringing phone and didn’t have the strength to answer. Because I didn’t think I was worth the attention they had for me. I took my distances from other people who would simply not understand and tell me “you should just get out, do some sport, go watch a movie”. I do get out, I do some sport, I love watching movies. But these are unreachable goals when you hit rock bottom. One remark particularly hurt me, it was by someone who said that if I thought a bit less about my own person, I wouldn’t be depressed. That is entirely true: people being depressed can’t help but just think about themselves, as there is obviously something wrong going on there, but they don’t need being reminded of the fact that there are far worse situations in the world. 
However, there is some truth in that remark, in that I tend to think that only people who have time to feel self-pity also have the leisure of getting depressed (me included). So this hurtful remark did me good because it also helped me to get out of depression the times before by reaching out and trying to help others as much as I could. By listening to other people’s problems, helping them out when and where I could. There is always someone out there whose problems you can help with, and what means little to you can mean the world to someone else. That doesn’t mean that their problems are bigger, and that yours aren’t painful or legitimate, but helping someone else will help you feeling useful and, little by little, will help you feeling better about yourself. As long as you don’t give up reaching out – there will be a helping hand out there. Also, being grateful for even the smallest things in life, helps a lot. Being grateful for a smile, a word, an act of kindness, a sunny day. As this photographer put it this morning, it is a very painful process, but the journey is a life experience to go through and you will also know yourself a great deal better once you’ll have hit rock bottom and bounced back.

Eight Bookshops...

The Writers' Museum, Edinburgh

...because I tried hard to remember ten spots I loved but it didn't work. Why is it anyway that we feel the need to top-10ing?

8. Chapters (Parnell St., Dublin)

Most favourite shop in Ireland as it holds books on everything (with an emphasis on Ireland, naturally). And staff is very friendly.

7. Blackwell's Bookshop (51 Broad St., Oxford)

On top of being located in the prettiest place, Blackwell has in one building an extensive range of Tolkien's Harper Collins publications, all the Greek and Latin classics in the original language, any classics you could dream of, as well as overpriced cookies and tea. Needless to say, a lot of nerds around, too.

6. Green Apple Books (506 Clement St., San Francisco)

I had a day off in San Francisco during a "working" trip, and as I had brought an almost empty bag that was to be filled with books I needed to find a supplier. As this was my first time alone in an english-speaking country, I thought I had landed in heaven when I opened the door and saw shelves full of books written in English which didn't seem to be overpriced. That's how I ended up at Green Apple, and bought the original six volumes of "Tales of the City" by Armistead Maupin.

5. Saint Georges (Wörtherstr. 27, Berlin)

In posh Prenzlauer Berg, this is a nice bookshop with a lot of secondhand items. English of course.

4. East of Eden (Schreinerstr. 10, Berlin)

The best independant secondhand English bookshop in Berlin. They also have plenty of little treasures in other languages. Several rooms, books from ceiling to floor, and event little gigs from time to time.

3. Diogene (29 rue Saint Jean, Lyon)

In Lyon's historical city centre, I regularly do a pilgrimage there, wallet in hand.

2. Ex-Libro (22, rue des Frères, Strasbourg)

Ten years on, the owners still remember me. Very friendly book lovers and always my favourite authors on display. In days of yore, my favourite spot to hang out.

1. Page 12 (doesn't exist anymore)

I grew up in that shop: it made me discover Zola, Balzac, Jardin, Beauvoir, Kundera. Sadly replaced by a hairdresser. Times change.

This California dew is just a little heavier than usual tonight...

Really? From where I stand, the sun is shining all over the place.

Twice Shy - Seamus Heaney

Her scarf a la Bardot,

In suede flats for the walk,

She came with me one evening

For air and friendly talk.

We crossed the quiet river,

Took the embankment walk.

Traffic holding its breath, 

Sky a tense diaphragm:

Dusk hung like a blackcloth

That shook where a swan swam,

Tremulous as a hawk

Hanging deadly, calm.

A vacuum of need

Collapsed each hunting heart

But tremulously we held

As hawk and prey apart,

Preserved classic decorum, 

Deployed our talk with art.

Our Juvenilia

Had taught us both to wait,

Not to publish feeling

And regret it all too late -

Mushroom loves already

Had puffed and burst in hate.

So, chary and excited,

As a thrush linked on a hawk,

We thrilled to the March twilight

With nervous childish talk:

Still waters running deep

Along the embankment walk.

Seamus Heaney (1939 - 2013)

Shooting "Libération": when information is threatened

Yesterday morning, a young photographer, aged 23, has been shot in Paris. Associations such as "Reporters without frontiers" report everyday on journalists being injured or killed for their work worldwide. Only this time this photographer was in a lift, in the entrance hall of French national newspaper "Libération". He wasn't working yet. He was charging his camera, unaware of what was going to happen. A man arrived, didn't speak a word, and opened fire on the first person he could see. Within seconds, the photographer collapsed, seriously injured. Within seconds, this man's life has been changed forever. We don't know the reason for it. But how could there be one? There is no reason for fatality. There is none, yet, it's extremely shocking to think that in our so-called civilization this kind of random and unfair event might cost a young man his life. Beyond the act itself, which looks like an isolated action committed by an unbalanced person who obviously holds a grudge against the press, this attack is also threatening all means of information. In what kind of society do we live, where newspaper's headquarters have to be protected? Do we have to install security checks at the entrance of every building out there because we are unable to shield ourselves from the act of one amongst millions? There are so many sad questions raised by this isolated yet devastating attack. They can't be answered because what happened isn't rational. What is, though, is the desire to convey information, to inform, to instruct through the circulation of knowledge. And "Libération" means freedom. Freedom of information. Neither its journalists nor any other out there will stop informing because violence won't silence them, as long as some of them are (still) standing. They were, are and always will be the eyes of our world.

If you have time please check Committee to Protect Journalists and Reporters Without Borders .

On Tolerance

I was having a discussion the other day on what could be tolerated in matter of beliefs and what couldn't be. In that particular case, in a conversation held by a group of atheists, the object was faith. To what extent can an atheist tolerate a believer? Not in the sense of getting rid of it alltogether in a violent manner but rather what does an atheist do of a believer's opinion? I like to think that I'm tolerant, yet I was made feel like I was rather bland for not being strongly opinionated against believers, as an atheist. Some of my friends do believe in God, and the reason why they remain being my friends despite our divergent beliefs is because I see it as a sign of open-mindedness that I don't judge the way they apprehend the world. 

The question raised – to what extent can one tolerate a divergent opinion in the case of faith? - got me thinking about the notion of tolerance itself. I found a very interesting paragraph on the French wikipedia page on what tolerance isn't. Tolerance isn't indifference, for the latter implies that one isn't concerned, one way or another, with the subject of its (dis)interest. Tolerance isn't submission, for that would imply coercion and not a deliberate choice of accepting a divergent opinion. Tolerance isn't indulgence, because that implies a tendancy to forgive what one can't understand, while tolerance can also be a sign of condescendence. Tolerance isn't permissiveness. Contrary to indulgence, permissiveness implies a propension to forgive anything unconditionnally. Finally, tolerance isn't respect. Respect implies that one understands and shares the values of a person and judge them favorably. Tolerance, on the other hand, is the fact that one tries to accept something or someone in spite of the negative judgement one has on it/him/her.

In Early Modern times, tolerance mostly meant that a group of believers, the tenants of the catholic faith, should accept that another group, the protestants, worshiped God in another way. Thomas More emphasised tolerance in his Utopia, while not applying it in his own politics as Lord Chancellor. In Letters concerning Tolerance, John Locke, contrary to Hobbes, argues in favour of a state within which multiple religions would be tolerated, as a means to pacify society. However, this society couldn't tolerate atheists, because "those who deny the existence of a God shouldn't be tolerated, because promises, contracts, oaths, and good faith, which are the main links to civil society, couldn't force an atheist to keep his word". 

In Buddhism practices, tolerance is employed against external and negative elements. It is a means of self-protection and well-being against adversity. Tunisian philosopher Albert Memmi describes it as "a conquest on oneself". In The Open Society and Its Enemies, Karl Popper evokes The Paradox of Tolerance: "Illimited tolerance shall lead to the disappearance of tolerance. If we extend illimited tolerance even to those who are intolerant, if we aren't ready to defend a tolerant society against the impact of the intolerant, then the tolerant will be destroyed, and with him tolerance. (…) we should revendicate the right to eradicate the intolerants, even by force if needed (…). Thus we should revendicate, in the name of tolerance, the right not to tolerate the intolerant. (…) If one shows absolute tolerance, even towards intolerants, and if tolerant society isn't protected against their attacks, tolerants will be destroyed and, with them, tolerance." Following the same line of thought, in A Theory of Justice, John Rawls argues that one should tolerate intolerants, for it would be intolerant not to do so, but he also states that no society has the moral obligation to tolerate people or things that aim at its destruction.

All that got me thinking: where do I stand as far as tolerance is concerned? Am I a tolerant person, or do I show too much indulgence towards things that shouldn't be tolerated anymore? Faith doesn't bother me to the point that I have to actively make an effort to tolerate it in others. On the contrary, I respect it, even though I neither understand nor share it. Then if there is a notion of respect, does that also imply that of indulgence, and are those two notions really unrelated to that of tolerance? For now I will rely on Voltaire, who stated in 1767, in his Treaty on Tolerance: "Of all the surperstitions, isn't the most dangerous that which leads someone to hate its neighbour for his opinions?"

The naked truth

I used to think that I was relatively open-minded and at ease-ish with my own body. But that was before I moved to Germany, where some people have a whole different approach regarding what can be seen and shown, and what should be saved for a more restricted (and, of course, privileged) audience.

The first blow came one summer afternoon when, like any good Berliner, I decided to beat the heat by going swimming in a lake. A digression here: if you reached that stage it means you're already well integrated within your host community; indeed most of us expats in our right mind would first think about various objections. Namely, how many bacterias are developing here while I'm swimming, I hate noisy children, there is a lot of muck here and, last but not least – why would I go in there it's bloody cold anyway and I don't like wearing a bikini. For the latest of these protestations, German practical minds found an easy solution. No bikini, no fashion faux-pas. Naturally I had heard about naked people here and there, but unless you witnessed it you don't quite measure the impact it can have on how you perceive the surrounding sceneries. Not that it was my first encounter with naturists. I remember acutely well that dozen of swiss-german pensioners sunbathing au naturel along the Rhine river on a narrow path that I, as a very innocent teenager, had to cross as I was following a guide who was giving us an "Art-in-Basel" tour. We all would have liked to have the possibility to look away, only that path was really narrow. Anyway, we made sure not to walk on anything of value. Back to my Berlin lake, I thought I had seen it all, but no, here I was again. This time however, I could only marvel, not at what I was seeing (bizarrely, it seems only elderly and out-of-shape people are stripping it all), but at how organised it all was. A beach for the children, a beach for party-goers, and one for naturists. A well-designed segregation that seemed to suit everyone. As a blushing ingenue stationed in the children area, then how comes my eyes witnessed what they did? Well, because some people do have their favourite spots, and you won't deter a pensioner (yes, again!) to bath where he wants and how he wants, even if that means that he will be the only naked person swimming amongst a plethora of toddlers.

All in all, that was an expected – though unwanted – experience, so the second blow hit even harder as it came out of the blue. Here I was, an enthusiastic swimmer, ready to enjoy a dip in some nice thermal bath, with a stunning view on the German capital. On my way to the pool, I felt quite unsettled by a number of elderly people (a redundant theme here) eyeing me in the changing room. I found them quite rude and not very subtle, but here I was, in my swimming suit, eagerly walking towards the water. By the pool though, the look of others became heavier, and I had the awkward feeling that something was wrong. With me. Had I forgotten to take off my socks? A quick look down reassured me on that point. Only now another uncomfortable thought crossed my mind – had I forgotten to take off something else, something that…other people…*eyes raised, widened in shock*…are clearly not wearing? Yes, again, I had been tricked by my foolishness not to double-check what was written on the therms' website. I quickly thought that I would be more looked at with my swimsuit on than without, so I tried to act like I was very used to what was happening and just stripped it all off before quickly jumping into the water (no objections that it was too cold, which it was, in fact). After all, those strong feelings of self-consciousness and shame didn't kill me, I realised. I decided to not think further about it, and began to swim, saying to myself that I had made a fuss over nothing, it wasn't so bad after all. But what really made me leave the pool was when I instinctively turned at some point to see a man my age swimming behind me under water. With goggles. Now therms are usually quite expensive, so one better has to make the most of one's time there. I swore I would never get caught again in that kind of unwanted situation. It happened once again, I tried to fit in, opened that sauna door, only to see three men old spread-out on the benches like octopusses, closed the door, and walked away, thinking that it was the worst 17€ I had paid in my entire life. Naturism wasn't for me.

All that happened a long time ago – so when yesterday's outing at the gym happened, I was quite unprepared. I thought that after all those years spent here, I was getting quite used to the local way of life. Once again, here I was, in the changing room of my women-only (see sauna traumatism above) fitness club. It isn't unusual for me to open that door and have to face a pair of boobs, or any below-the-belt item, heads or tails, that I don't feel particularly keen on seeing in that context. Yes, it is all very pretty (most of the time), but frankly, after breakfast, or after work, in fact after anything else I have been doing, I'm just not keen. Anyway, I made my way to the locker, not paying much attention to that naked woman over there. Deep in my thoughts, I was getting ready, when she came towards me, as I was only wearing my skirt. She smiled and seemed to be particularly interested in my last item of clothes: "heyyy, I love your skirt, it's really nice! where did you buy it?". So, while my hands didn't quite know where to go – they had started covering my breast but then I realised the other one was naked anyway – and my eyes didn't quite know where to look, I mumbled some kind of answer, and I thought to myself that, after all, it must all be part of the exception culturelle.

On the way to school - Sur le chemin de l'école

"Every child must be helped to develop his or her potential, whether in the furthest corner of the outback, the remotest mountains, or in our cities. The more challenging the environment, the more motivated the children are. Let's not deprive ourselves of these reservoirs of talents. If we give them a chance we will all be enriched."

Pascal Plisson (director)

Now thanks to my learned mother who made me aware of it, I can finally be ahead of times and talk about a cultural event that isn't over yet: On the way to school (Sur le chemin de l'école), a documentary directed by Pascal Plisson, out in France, Italy, Belgium and Switzerland since September, and in Germany on December, 5th.

It is a movie I very much look forward to see, from French director Pascal Plisson. It might touch me because I'm a teacher, because I love children, because I want to make a difference in their lives when given the opportunity. But I think this movie should touch everyone out there, because it tells a story of hope, of determination, of courage. It tells the story of five children across the world, each carrying a dream, each hoping to fulfill it through gaining knowledge.

Samuel (13), lives in Kuruthamaankadu, in India. He's disabled, and the only of three children who can read. When he grows up he wants to become a doctor in order to help disabled children. He is the only one at home able to read, and although school in India became compulsory in 2010; many families still can't afford it. Yet, with the help of his two brothers pushing his wheelchair, he crosses the forest in order to attend school.

Samuel and his brothers ©Wild Bunch 2013

Zahira (12) lives in the Atlas Mountains, in Morocco. Each Monday, she walks 22 km (4 hours) from her village to Asni's Education for all boarding school. She crosses mountains, sometimes in extreme conditions. On the last bit of the trip, she and some friends reach a highway on which they have to find a driver prepared to take them aboard, in order to reach school. She too wants to become a doctor to help the poor.

Carlito (11) lives in the plains of Patagonia, in Argentina. Every day of the week, he rides the family's horse with his six-year-old sister Micaela, in order to reach school 18km away. He lives in a happy family, and enjoy a simple life. He is committed to learn no matter the hardships of the road so that he can become a vet. 

Carlito and his little sister Micaela ©Wild Bunch 2013

Jackson (11), lives in Kenya. He belongs to the Sumburu tribe. School is 15km away from his home. In order to reach it, he has to face many dangers: armed gangs, aggressive elephants. Along with his six-year-old sister Salome, just like Carlito in Argentina, Jackson takes the same road towards knowledge every day. His good results secured him some grants, but each year he buys his own school material and uniform. He has never seen an airplane but dreams about becoming a pilot. He is determined that one day, he will see the world. 

Jackson and his sister Salome ©Wild Bunch 2013

For each child, attending school is an every day challenge. For most of us, most of people reading this now, school was a given. Has it ever been difficult for us to attend it? Yet knowledge is a gift, a tool which helped us to become who we are, helped us to find and define our place in the world; even, for some, to make it a better place. And these children are determined to go through whatever it takes, in order to have access to education, and later help their families and their people.

Towards the perfect embrace - Munch's quest for the perfect representation of love

"I will paint living people who breathe and feel and love and suffer"

Edvard Munch 

Kiss by the window, 1892 © The National Museum of Art, Architecture and Design, Oslo

To celebrate the 150th anniversary of the birth of Edvard Munch this year, The National Art Gallery and the Munch Museum in Oslo present a retrospective of his most famous works. Most people would refer to Edvard Munch as the creator of The Scream and The Madonna. While these paintings certainly are masterpieces, there is an extreme sadness about them. When I visited the Edvard Munch Museum and the National Gallery in Oslo I was more intrigued by Munch's obsession to represent love in his paintings, rather than death, although both were often alike. During his Berlin years he produced some of his most beautiful representations of love, far from the darkness of The Scream. A series of these paintings was exposed for the first time in Berlin, in 1893, in Unter den Linden, under the name "Frieze of Life - a poem about Life, Love and Death", which made Munch a highly controversial figure, while also establishing him as a master of his art.

The Kiss, 1897 © Munch Museum, Oslo

I loved this Kiss mostly because when I came near it in the Munch Museum, a couple of French tourists was staring at it. And I believe they weren't together yet by what they were talking about. The young man was trying to explain to the woman how he saw the embrace, and they seemed to disagree about the woman's position in it. They still had that awkwardness that preceeds love, avoiding each other's eyes, keeping some distance even as they were recreating the embrace with their bodies. It was just very beautiful to witness with this painting in the background. I could have just sneered and found them ridiculous but they were playing a beautiful game and I hope their trip to the museum was worth it. I reckon Munch would have loved these lovers too.

Love and Pain: The Vampire, 1893-4, © The National Art Gallery, Oslo

I found The Vampire interesting because in most of his paintings representing an embrace, Munch depicted women in a submissive way. They are kissed more than they kiss, they are held rather than holding their partners. Yet, in this one, the woman is dominating the scene, and that seemed only possible by giving her the power of a vampire. (In other words, it is very tempting to try to find out what kind of relationship the painter had with his partners.)

The Dance of Life, 1899 © The National Art Gallery, Oslo

The Dance of Life made me think of a scene from Thomas Hardy's novel Tess of the D'Ubervilles. I read on an art blog that the sun's reflection in the water was a phallic representation which gave the painting its sexual connotation. I'm aware of that, and of Eros and Thanatos etc, but maybe sometimes a painting ought to be appreciated without over-analysing it. It might well be true but somehow I think the sexually charged atmosphere is due to the dancing couples representing the various stages of life. And to me the interlacing of fingers in this one for example is a highly erotic representation, more so than the sun, and so are the embraces in the background, but maybe this is a simple-minded reading of the painting. Then I remember that "That which, perhaps, hears more nonsense than anything in the world, is a picture in a museum." (Edmond de Goncourt), and I just feel like not explaining beauty anymore.

Preliminary study for The Kiss

"Nature is not only all that is visible to the eye...it also includes the inner pictures of the soul"

Edvard Munch

Ten Famous Norwegians

1. Edvard Grieg (1843 - 1907) created beautiful music to match both Norwegian sceneries which inspired him and the stories he used. Peer Gynt (originally a play by Henrik Ibsen) is his most famous suite (Morning Mood, The Death of Ase, In the Hall of the Mountain King...). A native of Bergen, Grieg debuted as a concert pianist and knew both Liszt and Tchaikovski. He composed more than 250 works during his lifetime and was appointed Music Director of the Bergen Philharmonic Orchestra.

Edvard Grieg (1843 - 1907)

2. Christian Krohg (1852 - 1925) was a writer, journalist and painter born in Christiana (now Oslo). He founded the art journal Impressionisten in 1886, the year of the publication of Albertine, his novel about a seamstress forced into prostitution in Oslo. Following the confiscation of the book, public prostitution was abolished in Norway. He married artist Oda Krohg and together they moved to Berlin in the 1890. There they socialised with fellow artists August Strindberg, Frida Uhl, Edvard Munch, Stanislaw Przybyszewski, Holger Drachmann, Axel Maurer...in a tavern Strinberg had nicknamed The Black Piglet (Zum schwarzen Ferkel). Located of Unter den Linden and Wilhelmstr., the tavern was destroyed during WWII. The Krohgs moved to Paris afterwards, before coming back to Norway. 

Christian Krohg (1852 - 1925)

3. Henrik Ibsen (1828 - 1906) Born in a wealthy family of Skien, he faced adversity in his youth when his father encountered financial difficulties. Unable to finish his studies, he worked as a pharmacist's apprentice. He then moved to Oslo where he published his first works, which didn't bring him the success he was hoping for. He then work in Bergen at Det norske Theater (now Den Nationale Scene), one of the oldest theatre in Norway. He left Norway for Italy in 1864, and spent 27 years abroad. In 1865, his play Brand was critically acclaimed, as would afterwards The Doll's House, An Enemy of the People and Peer Gynt. His son Sigurd Ibsen became Prime Minister of Norway.

Henrik Ibsen (1828 - 1906)

4. Tarjei Vesaas (1897 - 1970) is the author of The Ice Palace, the story of two girls in rural Norway who share a secret that will lead to tragedy. Vesaas also wrote The Birds, a novel from the point of view of a mentally ill character. Both have been translated into English. He married poet and writer Halldis Moren Vesaas.

Tarjei Vesaas (1897 - 1970)

5. Fernanda Nissen (1862 - 1920) was a journalist, teacher, literary critic and feminist. She participated to political debates from the 1880 onwards, and signed in 1885 a manifesto to form an association for women in Norway. A member of the Norwegian Labor Party, she was one of the first women elected at the Christiana Workers Society. She worked towards the improvement of living conditions of poor people and participated to a number of social reforms, primarily those concerning access to education and improvement of the status of women. She was the sister-in-law of painter Erik Werenskiold. 

Fernanda Nissen (1862 - 1920)

6. Edvard Munch (1863 - 1944) is probably the most famous Norwegian thanks to his painting The Scream. While the latter is definitely the height of his works, hundreds of other paintings of his are showing the man's genius and ability to pass from one painting style to another throughout his career. But no need for a short introduction, I will come back to his work later...

Edvard Munch - Autoportrait, 1866, National Gallery, Oslo

7. Erik Werenskloid (1855 - 1938) was a painter and illustrator mostly known for his drawings of norwegian landscaped and portraits. He illustrated the icelandic saga Heimskringla, written by Snorri Sturluson, and painted portraits of Edvard Grieg, Henrik Ibsen, Gunnar Heiberg, Bjornstjerne Bjornson and Knut Hamsun amongst others.

8. Sigrid Undset (1882 - 1947) was awarded the Nobel Prize of Litterature in 1928 "principally for her powerful descriptions of Northern life during the Middle Ages". She was the third woman to be awarded this prize, after Selma Lagerlöf (1909) and Grazia Deledda (1926), and the third Norwegian after Bjornstjerne Bjornson (1903) and Knut Hamsun (1920). Her most famous novel is the trilogy Kristin Lavransdatter, a series of historical novels set in the Middle Ages, in which she describes the life of the main character in 14th century Norway.

Sigrid Undset in 1920 ©Alvilde Trop

9. Amalie Skram (1846 - 1905) was an author and feminist, member of the Modern Breakthrough, a movement of naturalism that took place in Scandinavian literatury circles in the late 19th century. After her family's bankrupcy she was forced into an unhappy marriage and spent several years in psychiatric institutions, before remarrying in 1884 with Danish writer Erik Skram. Her life experiences led her to write about the condition of married women and female sexuality.

Amalie Skram (1846 - 1905)

10. Max Manus (1914 - 1996) was a Norwegian resistance fighter during WWII. Born in Bergen, he volunteered fought in the Soviet-Finnish Winter War in 1939-1940. He came back to Norway on April 9th, 1940, the day Operation Weserübung (the invasion of Norway by Germany) begun. He joined the resistance forces, and was arrested by the Gestapo in 1941. He escaped and trained in England, Scotland and Canada. He specialised in sabotage and tried to assassinate Himmler and Goebbels when they visited Oslo. After the war, he became an entrepreneur and in a bid for reconciliation hired people who had collaborated with Nazis in his company. He married one of his fellow resistance fighters, Tikken Lindebraekke, and died in Spain in 1996. A biopic was released in 2008.

Max Manus (1914 - 1996)