Living without knowing

Living without knowing Henrik Nor-Hansen by Henrik Nor-Hansen | Make Your Own Book

This is the second book from our stay in Alaska. Please view in fullscreen.

This place of love and darkness by Henrik Nor-Hansen | Make Your Own Book


This book is from our winter in Alaska. (It's not possible to leaf through it on iPad)

Night photography

Our stay in Nome, Alaska, was way too short. I walked around for hours every night, trying to photograph as much as possible.

Then it struck me that houses really looked different when people sleep. The houses seemed more vulnerable. There was even intimacy. And the more intimate it felt, the creepier I become. 

I wished people somehow could project their dreams on the walls outside. But I just snapped a pic- ture and quickly moved on. 

Lakeshore Loop

I kept coming back to this neighborhood in Wasilla, Alaska. Although it wasn't really a neighbor- hood. Not yet.

I've always been slightly afraid of old houses. I guess an old house is somewhat associated with the deceased.

But this was different. It was as if I felt uneasy about the future, and everything that will take place in the years to come.

What kind of people will be living here? How many kids will grow up, and what kind of people will they become? What will their memories be?

Angry man

Suddenly a man tore up the door and asked why the fuck I was taking pictures of his house. This was the first time I realized that my hobby might come across as slightly intimidating.

- It's only art, I said.

Then it was quiet for a while. I was a bit nervous. I could see him peering out in the dark, looking for clues.

- What art, he shouted flatly.
- l'art pour l'art, I answered.

Green orbs

I took three exposures of this house, all within a couple of minutes. The exposure time varied from 2-8 seconds. I didn't see anything strange, but later I realized that all the exposures had these green orbs over the house, at the exact same spot. 

Of course, I could have made those orbs in Photoshop. It wouldn't be difficult. But the thing is I didn't, so I'm a bit puzzled. You can click on the image and see for yourself.

Apparently the UFO sightings are numerous in Alaska. The theory goes that aliens are interested in gold, which again merge with the conspiracy revolving around the US government and a sudden devaluation of the dollar. You may wonder why the American currency should be under attack from outer space. Is it a more plausible explanation than budgets out of balance?

However, we shouldn't be so occupied with intelligent life in space. We should rather look for intelligent life on earth. It may not exist.

A global view on architecture

I've always felt that Nome is one of those places on the edge of the world. It's just about to tip over. Some of the houses have tipped in their own ways, standing on stilts that have sunk down in the summer melt.

But new houses are also being built, and for some reason these facade-like boxes seemed to be in fashion.

 

I mentioned this to a guy from the lower 48. We were sitting in Polar Bar and there wasn't really much to talk about. There's a lot of strange houses here in Nome, I claimed. He'd probably done some traveling because he had this theory that houses got stranger the further north you came. What's more, you could see the same tendency south in the southern hemisphere – meaning that all houses, and architecture in general, got weirder towards the poles. I asked if it would mean that architecture was at its best at equator. I doubt it, he said.

Miniature thinking

The last decades we've seen several artists building meticulous models of houses and cities, as a twisted representation of reality. What is less talked about is the somewhat vague notion of the opposite.

The drunk woman in Nome

 

A drunk native came up and asked if I was taking pictures. She asked if I wanted to photograph her, but being drunk she had some problems standing still under the long exposures. I was getting frustrated because I knew the pictures would be good if she only could stop moving. Then it turned out she thought I was making a movie. We got that sorted out, but suddenly she lost interest and took off.

Moosehead Bar

The camera was on a tripod and I waited for someone to come out of the bar. It might be a good shot, but I waited and waited and were wondering if it was a waste of time on a Tuesday night.

Finally I walked over and opened the door. A couple of skinny guys turned their heads, eyes peering through the dim light. Would anybody ever leave?

I returned to the camera. I waited a bit more, then I started to wonder if I saw a stuffed moose head anywhere on the walls inside. I wondered if it could really be that plain.

I decided to go back for another look. The bartender looked at me. "You again," he said.

Death and Desire

Photography has been associated with death by Roland Barthes; we look into the past when we look at photographs. These trivial photos will lie around for decades, long after we're gone.

Our lives are about action and movements. But a photograph can stop a fork that's on its way to the mouth: the fork will stay like that forever.

But we're not at ease with having our moments slipping into eternity. I realize this every time I try to photograph people. I guess we all just want to look good. Even though we're rotting in our graves we want to look good.

I'm thinking about this as I'm driving slowly and hungry through the dark. Photographs may be creepy, but I'm aware that most people would consider me creepy as well.

The creepiness of a photographer lies in his eyes; he's watching without taking part. He's both restless and persistent. He's full of unknown desire.

And I have no idea what I desire as I drive through these silent streets. Being this far north the gardens are desolated and barren, but shouldn't there be tracks in the snow? Shouldn't there be kids playing? Then I realize that a lot of the houses are empty. No curtains, no nothing.

I'm driving down Fairview Loop. I still can't see any people. The whole neighborhood appears eerily lifeless.




I pull into an empty street and stop the car in front of a big house. The Christmas decoration has been blown out of all proportions. It's hard not to think that all these lights must be compensating for something.

Roaming

I'm roaming in the dark. I'm just driving. I'll get lost but I'm alone and it doesn't matter. I never really blame myself for anything.

It's the second night I'm out. I'll get antsy and say that I'll go for a drive. I'm better off in a car when I'm anxious.

Not dark yet

We're on our way to get a turkey for Thanksgiving. I suggest waiting until Thanksgiving, but now Nina has the turkey on her mind and it won't let go. Besides, it's not dark yet.

Then she declares she has to buy Christmas cards. I suggest waiting. Instead I get the shopping list with turkey and gravy and whatnot.

I also get the bright red shopping bag. Don't get me wrong: plastic bags should be banned world wide. Those bags wreaks havoc in the sea.

But as I walk towards the store I'm thinking the red shopping bag doesn't feel right. Quite frankly; it feels a bit gay.* A shopping bag of cotton may be fine in California, but this is Alaska.

I get the turkey and the rest and get in line. The cashier is good-looking but I'm about to jeopardize my manhood. I guess I'll just have to brave it out.

* I'm all for gay rights, gay marriage, etc.

In the Ditch

It's early Sunday morning. My face is stiff and strangely hot. I rub the cold gloves hard over my face.

But I can't help noticing the number of cars that have ended up in the ditch. Even on the short trip I'm taking.

There's an elderly couple who has plunged straight into the snow for no apparent reason. I watch as a trooper enters the scene. The couple just sit put. They won't budge. It's like they can't believe this is happening to them.

Then there's a brown pickup close to Knik Bar. I think we passed that one yesterday. He's probably still sleeping it off.

Soon after I pass a red sedan that seemed to have taken a spin. I walk back with my camera and start taking pictures.

I feel slightly uncomfortable when a dark van slows down behind me. Is it offending to take pictures of a ditched car? Maybe. I'm not sure.

There're two men in the front seat. A dog is barking in the back of the van and I hear someone shouting shut the fuck up. So they are three, I gather.
- Is it your car? I ask.
- It's my wife's car.
- Is she okay?
We pause for a moment. My concern may have sounded a bit false. I also realize that his eyes keeps shifting down to my camera.
- Who want's to know?
- I just passed the car.
- Are you from Germany?
- No.
- She's fine. She dodged a moose and got ditched instead.
- The Saturday night moose?
- Whatever.

Suffering, or just snow

I'm walking the dog when it starts to snow. The wind picks up and heavy snow is making it hard to see. Everything changes. People are lurking forward, their faces turned away from the wind.

What I like about heavy weather is the way it breaks down barriers. Strangers talk to each other. You may suffer, but it's easy to see the suffering in others too.

A special feat about Alaska is the way many people dress. They seem to prolong the summer by holding on to shorts and flip-flops. They may have heated cars in heated garages, but even so.

People with kids are also an interesting theme. They seem to suffer the most. I guess the snow comes on top on everything else.

The latecomers

"We got this place between Palmer and Wasilla because it was cheap. There's no work and my wife hates it here. The kids are still young. They don't know anything else. Anyways, the con- struction has started. I'll guess we just have to see how it goes."

Burned house

He slowed down the car to a crawl. This was the house where he grew up in Wasilla. His parents stayed on to the end, but he eventually lost contact with them.

He kept talking while driving. His childhood seemed strangely distant, as if without any real emotional impact. "Then there was a fire. God knows what happened."

The art of restoration

We met an elderly woman on our drive from Fairbanks. She told us about her deceased husband. He wanted fancy cars, but could only afford wrecks. It was the art of restoration that he played out in his head.

But he never got around to do any restoration. Through their forty odd years of marriage the cars piled up in the woods behind the house. They detoriated in the rain, in the snow. Then he got cancer. It all went very quick.

Palmer Bar

Nobody says much in Palmer Bar. Whatever you talked about when entering, you'll end up silent. It's a place to study the full effect of alcohol.

I'm sort of waiting for the bar to fill up, but the clientele is already there. Most are heavy set men with baseball caps and bewildered gazes. They're all sitting along the bar, wearing shirts and jackets of thick flannel. There's a pool table, but nobody's playing.

Around midnight it seems like some of the men are trying hard to be cheerful, but you can tell by their faces that loneliness and desire is a bottomless pit.

I look at Nina and wonder why it's always impossible for us to hold a conversation in a bar. Is it because we met in one?

First snow, Wasilla

It's still dark when I leave the house. I brush off a thin layer of snow and sit down in the painfully cold car.

I can taste the reflux of acid as I drive the empty streets through Wasilla. This is way too early for me. But it's the first snow of the season and it had gotten into my head that I wanted to see what the Alaskans were up to.

I drive into an empty Shell station. It's Sunday, and I sit for a while and just watch. Everything is silence and neon.

I follow a couple of cars that eventually ends up in front of an enormous bowling hall. It's like a hangar. I suddenly find everything perplexing. The parking lot alone is absolutely enormous.

I turn the engine off and sits quietly in the car. I'm really trying to contemplate why anybody would want to go bowling at 9 am on a Sunday morning. It just doesn't make sense.

I'm about to pull out of the parking lot when I notice a high-heeled woman who leans conspicuously into a car. It's not a prostitute, I gather, not 9 o'clock on a Sunday morning and certainly not in a small town like Wasilla. But now she's got my attention and I'm lingering in the parking lot to see in which direction this is heading.

Then I slowly start to feel old and ridiculous. I reason with myself, and quickly butt out of the place.