Louisiana (Art Gallery)

The Scandinavian winter made the inside of the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art considerably more pleasurable than the outside. The outside required a deep breath and a patience for modern art that was, I regret, beyond me. There are only so many sculptures that may or may not resemble the collapse of society, that I can tolerate, when my nipples could cut glass.

I found this specific exhibit quite moving. Although there was no description, I presumed it was a meditation on what would have happened if the Simpsons had been subjected to the kind of forever chemicals that are necessary to produce Teflon. If only they’d known about the stainless steel alternatives, the omelettes would have been less lethal.

If I gave you three guesses, you’d never be able to tell me why this museum, about an hour north of Copenhagen, is called Louisiana. 1. Was the museum’s founder impressed by the fact that prisoners produce all of Louisiana’s number plates? No. 2. Did this museum once fall under the colonial influence of the French, as New Orleans did? Non. 3. Is this just another American diplomatic claim from the Kingdom of Denmark? Maybe, not clear. Guesses exhausted, I’d pat you on the back and wink and say: this museum is named ‘Louisiana’ because the original owner had three wives all called Louise. And with that we’d chuckle, and walk off into the distance.

Some places are best enjoyed in the summer. This bench was left alone. Untouched by the frozen arses of the masses. The seagulls took advantage of the privacy.

I have a lot of time for museums and galleries that recognise their own beauty is half of the fun. The beauty can be in function, it is not reserved to form. In Louisiana, an impeccable heating system lends itself to thoughtful contemplation. The toilets were well distributed, the gift shop was unavoidable. Perhaps most importantly, throughout, there are rooms with no art. These are rooms that offer a gateway to the natural world in which Louisiana sits. From the comfort of a serene 28 degrees European, you can watch the wind ignite the faces of any mammals who have forgotten to hibernate.

I didn’t take any pictures of my lunch. I don’t really believe in all that. Photos of food should be reserved for the advertising panels of kebab shops, so that you are reminded of the importance of not touching 97% of the menu. But it does feel important to tell you how wonderful it was. The cold and modernism had left me quite peckish and the lunch on offer hit all my spots. Equal parts pickled and roasted, with a leg wobbling 8% pale ale to wash it all down.

And that is all there is to say. Except it’s not. Read more in my expansive Field Notes edition about Copenhagen. It has been described by several people as “very funny”.