Dignity Is Slowly Returning

"Winter Clouds" | Gouache | 2016

Most of us have the need to do something exceptional—to be special. This compulsion has always been a catalyst for human exploration and advancement. We want our lives to matter. I have met many people who experience a crisis if this need goes unfulfilled, if they believe they can’t contribute anything of value to the world. As someone who has struggled with depression for most of my adult life, I finally understand that my illness has been all about self-hate, about the loss of my personal dignity. I used to have goals and ambitions, but they suddenly vanished, and I told myself I had failed. Thoughts of being a total loser were always pressing, and I often felt my family would be better off without me. Now I realize these kinds of thoughts are at the very heart of the illness. Every clinically depressed person I’ve met has felt this way. It doesn’t matter how often we hear that we are loved. We don’t feel it—or believe it. When I was in the throes of the illness, fatigue, hopelessness, and physical pain constantly reinforced this belief. No one could fix me. The train had left the station, and the world had continued on without me. In my memoir, I write, “Depression [has] to be the only illness that [strips] its victims of any desire to get better.” At rock bottom, we are the living dead to some extent, without any self-respect. Of course, such thinking is a huge challenge for friends and family members. A man once told me how frustrating it was to be the friend of someone who struggled with long-term depression. “He’s so selfish,” he told me. “He never wants to do anything I suggest or even be there for his own children.” “Let me ask you something,” I said. “How did you feel the last time you had the stomach flu and you were vomiting all over the bathroom floor? Would you have been able to go to the movies or attend a parent-teacher conference?” “That’s different. His depression has gone on for years, and the flu wouldn’t last that long.” “Would your view change if your friend was diagnosed with cancer?” He paused. “I’ll have to think about that.” “Be there outside the bathroom door,” I said. “Tell him you understand he is in pain, and that you’re there for him when he’s ready.” It’s important for loved ones to understand that those of us with a mental illness are struggling with a difficult medical condition. When we aren’t judged, glimpses of self-awareness can occur over time. Now sixteen years after I was diagnosed, I feel that life is finally manageable, and my dignity is slowly returning. It has been a long and hard road, but I believe that empathy is what I needed the most. Today I focus on giving it to others.

Ferdinand and His Parrots

After deciding to become a full-time artist in 2003, I often visited Galleri Varden in Moss, one of the most prestigious galleries in the city where I lived. Big names in the Norwegian art scene exhibited there—Frans Widerberg and Odd Nerdrum—as well as those who had recently passed on—Victor Sparre, Kai Fjell, and Ferdinand Finne—artists who had influenced Norwegian art for decades.

Left: Ferdinand Finne, 1935, age 25; right: Finne's World of Leaves

I was drawn to the painters who expressed emotion through colors the way Gauguin, Van Gogh and Kandinsky had done before them. One picture in Varden's permanent exhibit section grabbed me in particular: Ferdinand Finne's "Blant Blader" (Among Leaves), showing a red parrot perched above a baby parrot. Low on funds, I asked the gallery owner if he would consider a payment plan. He agreed, and I started making monthly payments. I didn’t want to bring it home until I had paid in full. Six months later, I proudly hung it on our living room wall, feeling it symbolized my love of nature, color, and my life as an artist. Little did I know then the effect this picture would continue to have on me. For seven long years, I worked hard in my studio, and in 2010, Galleri Varden agreed to show a solo exhibit of my own. What a special moment! Three years later, in 2013, two Norwegian artists from the Oslo area called and asked to visit me in my studio: Bjørg Thorhallsdottir and Svanhild Rhodin. They especially liked my gouache paintings on paper. Bjørg, a prominent printmaker, asked if I had ever considered making etchings of some of my motifs. I said it seemed terribly difficult and expensive. "Yes, it is costly," she said, "but you cannot survive as an artist without offering prints. If you can save some funds, I will call my print studio in Barcelona. This is meant to be—think positive thoughts. It will work out." Another year passed by. I often thought about her words, but I didn’t have the confidence. When Bjørg contacted me and said that her printmaker, Ignasi Aguirre Ruiz, was coming to Oslo for an exhibit of his own, I didn’t hesitate to drive there to meet him. After the opening, we sat down and talked. I showed him photos of some of my work and asked if he thought I could make etchings. "Yes," he said in broken English. "Your colors are great, like Chagall!" Encouraged, I decided to make it a priority to learn from this master, who had done work for Dali, Miro, and Tapies. In October 2014, right after closing my second exhibit at Galleri Varden, I packed my bags and headed for Barcelona. Arriving at the print studio close to the Rambla, I was so nervous my legs shook. Could I really do this? I pushed the button next to the door bearing the name of the studio and heard someone say, "Hola." I gave my name and the door opened. Walking up the stairs to the second floor of the old building, I finally stopped by a large door. By it hung a framed etching. I immediately recognized the artist: Ferdinand Finne. Had he been here? Before long, I learned that Ferdinand had worked in the same studio for 30 years and produced over 300 etchings together with Ignasi.

Master printmaker Ignasi Aguirre Ruiz holding Ferdinand Finne's etching Among Leaves, 2014

The master printmaker brought out a huge folder of proofs, slamming them on a large table. One of the first in the pile was an etching of the painting hanging in my living room. It all seemed surreal. Not only was I standing in the same studio where it had been created, but I would also learn printmaking from the man he had worked with. Soon I sat and etched at the same desk used by Ferdinand.

I returned to Barcelona in 2015, and for my third trip in 2016, I decided to make a multicolor etching in honor of Ferdinand, also symbolizing my own artistic journey. The motif was clear. It would be of a single parrot, titled “Ferdinand.” ​In the three years I had worked with Ignacio, he hadn’t asked me to sign any of my etchings he kept. But this time, he did. It was a special moment for both of us.

Matisse said, “Creativity takes courage.” I am glad I dared to follow Bjørg's advice. Had I not stepped on that plane to Barcelona, I would never have met Ignasi, started with printmaking, or had the special experience with Ferdinand.

Events can occur in our lives we don’t understand at first, but later have real meaning—if we stay open and pay attention.

I have three copies of the Ferdinand etching for sale. Signed and numbered in an edition of 30. Price: 3500 NOK (425 USD) + shipping

Parrot etching, ©David Sandum

Announcing the Winner of the September Drawing

Thanks so much to all of you who checked out my first blog and posted a comment.

We held a random drawing for one of my hand-numbered etchings, and Hannah Kozak was selected.

Congratulations, Hannah!

Stay tuned for my next contest!