Inside Out | 26 January - 24 February 2024

Encountering Trude Viken's art is a breathtaking journey into the advanced processes of decay. In her work the rot has attached itself to the selfie-fixated ego and our self-reflective times. In a world where 92 million selfies are taken daily, her Francis Bacon like distorted faces and naïve mugshots are a redemptive salvation from artificial perfection and the contemporary explosion of narcissism and self-love obsession. One almost wishes to never leave the adorably quirky world she has created.

Beneath the deliriously colorful surface lurks an inherent logic – a slow composting and transformation that is gently injected into all the layers of the (self)portraits. The newer, larger pieces are dizzying in the way they unfold ever more playful and absurd scenes. Figures with protruding cheekbones and duck-lips vie for attention, doing elaborate erotic somersaults, posing with fluffy pets, and baring their vulvas to the bright moonlight.

A film critic's eye is immediately drawn to the overtly cinematic aspects of Trude Viken's painting. How suddenly, out of Portrait 4, Vero from Lucrecia Martel's psychological thriller The Headless Woman appears – the elegant upper-class lady who accidentally hits something or someone with her car then flees the scene. Unwanted isolation, creeping fear, and the all-too-recognizable need to maintain a facade in a world that has lost its innocence and will never be the same. Similarly, Black and White Scene 1 appears to be a drawing stolen from the eerie and lonely children in Norwegian Eskil Vogt's delightfully unpleasant thriller The Innocents. And from there, it is a short distance to The Great Northern Hotel and Blue Pine Lodge in Twin Peaks, where Trude Viken's Red Scene stares at the guests from the wall in the lobby behind the concierge Julie Duvic (preferably at “the Norwegians” from the pilot episode). Speaking of resorts, there is also something about the couple in love in Moonlight Dialogue that evokes the Swedish cartoonist Erik Svetoft's dreamy and terrifying graphic novel SPA, where two newlyweds go on a relaxing getaway. In the moldy and increasingly decaying facility, both the guests and the staff begin to dissolve and erode as they are driven, reluctantly, towards their ruin.

At this point, Trude Viken has freed herself from the fairytale that her famous Instagram-breakthrough has been likened to. On her own terms, she penetrates deeper and deeper, beyond the comfort zones, expectations and pretense of middle-class art. All to, with heartbreaking precision, portray our tired souls’ longing for Elysium, a tiny kingdom of heaven in the midst of the purgatory of self-absorption. The fact that the person behind these desperately powerful brushstrokes examining our most repressed sides is a parent of three who is trained not as an artist but as a nurse, is a triumph for meta-modern contemporary art. When Trude Viken paints her maladjusted and malformed alter egos it is an act of care, that drives the art further and further away from the ever-threatening decay.

Kasia Syty, Stockholm, 2023

Att möta Trude Vikens konst är en hisnande färd in i en framåtskridande förruttnelseprocess. Föremålet för rötan är det selfiefixerade jaget och den självbespeglande samtiden. I en värld där 92 miljoner selfies tas dagligen är hennes Francis Baconskt förvridna nunor och naivistiska mugshots en förlösande räddning från artificiell perfektion och samtidens explosionsartade narcissism och självkärlek. Det är lätt att önska att man aldrig behövde lämna den bedårande udda värld hon skapat.

Under den hysteriskt färgstarka ytan ruvar en inneboende logik – en långsam förmultning och förvandling som varsamt injiceras i (själv)porträttens alla lager. De nyare, större verken är omtumlande och vecklar ut än mer lekfulla och absurda scenerier. Kindbensflexande och munputande figurer tävlar om uppmärksamhet, gör avancerade erotiska kullerbyttor, poserar med fluffiga husdjur och blottar vulvan i det starka månskenet.

En filmkritikers öga dras omedelbart till det uppenbart cineastiska i Trude Vikens måleri. Hur plötsligt, ur Portrait 4, Vero från Lucrecia Martels psykologiska thriller The Headless Woman träder fram – den eleganta överklassdamen som råkar köra på något levande med sin bil och smiter från olycksplatsen. Oönskad isolering och krypande fasa, och det högst igenkännbara behovet av att upprätthålla en fasad i en värld som förlorat oskulden och aldrig kommer att bli sig lik. På samma vis verkar Black and White Scene 1 egentligen vara en teckning stulen av de kusliga, ensamma barnen i norrmannen Eskil Vogts ljuvligt obehagliga rysare De oskyldiga. Och därifrån är steget inte långt till The Great Northern Hotel and Blue Pine Lodge i Twin Peaks, där Trude Vikens Red Scene stirrar på gästerna från väggen i lobbyn bakom conciergen Julie Duvic (– allra helst på de norska affärsmännen från pilotavsnittet). På temat resorter är det också något hos det förälskade paret i Moonlight Dialogue som påminner om serietecknaren Erik Svetofts drömska och skrämmande grafiska roman SPA, där två älskande ger sig ut på en avkopplande weekend. I den fuktskadade och alltmer bortruttnande anläggningen börjar både gästerna och personalen att lösas upp och gröpas ur, och drivs motvilligt mot sitt förfall.

Vid det här laget har Trude Viken gjort sig fri från den askungesaga som hennes omskrivna Instagram-genom- brott har liknats vid. På alldeles egna villkor tränger hon sig allt djupare ner, bortom bekvämlighetszoner, förväntningar och medelklasskonstens förställdhet. Allt för att med hjärtskärande precision skildra våra dödströtta själars längtan efter elysium, ett eget litet himmelrike mitt i självupptagenhetens skärseld. Att det är en vård- och inte konstutbildad trebarnsförälder som med dessa desperat kraftfulla penseldrag undersöker våra mest undertryckta sidor är en triumf för den metamoderna samtidskonsten. När Trude Viken målar fram sina missanpassade och missbildade alteregon framträder en akt av varsamhet som driver konsten allt längre bort från den ständigt hotande förruttnelsen.

Kasia Syty, Stockholm, 2023

Photo credits: Thomas Widerberg and Ellinor Hall

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Inside Out: Trude Viken

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