Op 17 januari 2016 bracht Karl Ove Knausgård een ode aan Edvard Munch. Knausgård sprak over de invloed van Munchs kunst op zijn eigen (schrijf)werk.
“My art has been an act of confession.” So said Edvard Munch at the end of his life. I believe that anyone who has seen Munch’s paintings will understand this remark. Not only because he painted so many self portraits, or because so many of the stock scenes he returned to again and again have clearly autobiographical elements, but because it’s as if something is revealed in everything he painted, even the landscapes without people, a field covered in snow, a jetty by the shore, a pine forest in the gloaming. This is the essence of Munch’s art. But also what we can say least about. In fact, the question is rather whether it is possible to say anything about the essence of Munch’s paintings at all. The paintings are wordless, they are silent and unmoving. They are made up of colours and shapes and they touch to us in a way that words never can, they reach places in us where words have no access.”
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