Alice Maud Guldbrandsen is a painter, writer, and photographer who resides in Copenhagen, Denmark.

Primarily self-taught as an artist, she has also studied painting at the Art Pedagogical Institute in Frederiksberg, at the Converse College Art Department in the US, at the Aero School of Continuing Education, and the Borup School of Continuing Education. Her art has been exhibited at a variety of venues in Copenhagen, and has also been used on the covers of two novels—The Book of Mamie (Wordcraft of Oregon, 2005) and The Law of Falling Bodies (Hopewell Publications, 2007), both by Duff Brenna—as well as to illustrate articles in the essay collection The Literary Explorer by Walter Cummins and Thomas E. Kennedy and on-line as illustration for essays on the column of that title which appears regularly on www.WebDelSol.com.

During June 2007, she was a Fellow at the Chateau Lavigny Writers Colony.  Earlier in her life she worked for a photography advertising bureau. She has taken numerous portrait photographs which have been used, inter alia, on book jackets, as on-line illustrations and in magazines and literary journals.

As a writer, Alice Maud Guldbrandsen began to publish in her fifties and is the author of two books: A Nobel House for Doctors (DMA Publishing House, Copenhagen, 1995), Silence Was My Song (Documentas Publishers, Copenhagen, 2005, hardback; reprinted in paperback in 2007). In addition she has written and published a number of shorter works, most notably a converted excerpt from her most recent book, which appeared in Danish in the Copenhagen daily newspaper, Berlingstidende, an essay in English translation, also excerpted from the book, which appeared in The Literary Review (Fairleigh Dickinson University, 2005), and a humorous essay about her earlier life as a writer, "Not for Girls," which appeared in English as a guest column essay in "Writers on the Job" (www.WebDelSol.com). 

Alice Maud Guldbrandsen has also held many readings and presentations on the subjects of her books. In particular demand currently is her presentation on the subject of her most recent book—Silence Was My Song. During the last year of the German occupation of Denmark under World War II, when she was five-years old, the school where she was attending kindergarten was bombed, and she was buried beneath the rubble for many hours, digging her way out until the rescue workers found her. The bombing resulted in the deaths of 87 children and 14 adults, and the parents of the children who survived were advised never to discuss the event with their children. Even the children did not discuss it among themselves. Nearly sixty years later, Alice Maud Guldbrandsen broke that silence to gather a dozen of her former classmates and discuss the experience and how it had affected them for all those years. She gathered statements from and interviewed thirty-five survivors of the bombing—including one of the RAF flyers, then 85 years old, who had been haunted by the event all his life. The book was well received in Denmark by the public, television and press.

Alice Maud Guldbrandsen is working on a new book about a woman's life experiences from the 1950s until today. The focus is particularly on conditions in the 1950s, '60s and '70s with regard to home-life, school, youth, marriage, child-rearing, divorce, women at work, partner relationships, sex, and social conditions—with a contrast between conditions then and now.

Guldbrandsen says, "As most of those who have lived through it will know, the world has changed enormously over the past fifty years. My aim is to tell about this through the eyes of a young woman who grows through those years into maturity—and hopefully in a humorous, ironic voice. The book will also deal with the prejudices and mandatory norms and premises of then—as well as those of today which appeared dressed in different styles."

Ms Guldbrandsen's book will be informed by her own personal experience in a variety of fields—as a fashion model, fashion photographer's assistant, secretary, correspondent, legal assistant, free-lance journalist, painter and publicist. A sample of the book can be found on-line in the creative nonfiction essay, "Not for Girls," which was published on WebDelSol's "Writers on the Job," soon to appear in book form.

Duff Brenna: Where does the inspiration come from for your paintings?

Alice Maud Guldbrandsen: Inspiration comes from everyday occurrences, large and small—what I dream, see, read, hear...  These impressions often seem to call out urgently, as if they want to be fixed in time by being converted into a picture. Once that has been done, feelings of satisfaction, relief and peace take the place of that sharp sense of needing to paint.

DB: So you would call painting a "need?" You don't just want to paint, you "need" to paint?

AMG: With the word "need," I refer to the fact that many visible and verbal impressions are processed into inner pictures in my head—as though my inner eye has photographed something that wants to be developed and preserved. My situation, unfortunately, is not such that I can paint whenever I please. Impressions, therefore, often are stored behind the eye—or in sketches and notebooks. When the storage place is full it begins suddenly to overflow—then it's time to break out the easel and oils.

The actual process of painting is a pleasure.  It is challenging to work with forms, colors, the senses, imagination in an attempt to get the images out, and in these moments I find myself in another world— a place that carries me far away from everyday life, affording me room and peace to unfold. It is a deep inner desire and compulsion which makes me paint. If I do not satisfy that need, a sense of emptiness and want will arise in me, much like what I experience (as perhaps cows do) if from time to time I don't get to feel the texture of grass beneath my feet during Denmark's long summer days.

So you could say that I paint because I must—but it also brings happiness and pleasure.

An example of listening and using my intuition to work toward a picture is a little oil painting I did called "Red Frog." A few years ago, my partner Thomas E. Kennedy came home from a business trip to Iceland. In a restaurant there he had suddenly noticed a large sculpture of a red frog which instantly and profoundly fascinated him. "I want to buy that," he said to the waiter. "How much do you want for it?" The answer came without a pause. "A million." Which, of course, was an ironic, Icelandic way of saying that it wasn't for sale.

Thomas described that frog to me in great detail, and a picture of it must have printed itself in my memory. About a month later when he was out on another business trip, I had the sudden urge to sit down and paint on cotton paper with oil sticks. I didn't have any specific motif in mind, just sat down and let my thoughts fly and my eyes glide around the room. Then my eye fell on a paperweight I have—a little heavy green frog—that I'd set down on some books. Immediately the big red frog sprang into my mind, and I started painting.

When the little painting was finished, I leaned it up against a lamp to dry on a bureau in our living room—and more or less forgot about it.

Thomas came home, and a couple of hours later I heard him call out from the living room, "Where did you get this frog? That's exactly how it looked!" I saw him standing there with the picture of the frog in his hand. I was surprised and glad, but cannot explain how the Icelandic frog came to be depicted correctly in my painting. The painting immediately received the title "Red Frog" and I gave it to Thomas for his birthday that year. Today I would rather have called it "Prince."

DB: I heard an artist say once that his art was a substitute for the psychiatrist's couch. Do you understand what he was talking about? Is your art a form of therapy?

AMG: Well I certainly understand what he is talking about. Now and then I also use painting as a kind of conscious therapy—for example, my red self-portrait, entitled "Liberation" from 1995. At that time I was still living in a fog of silence about what happened to me as a child in the war—the allied bombing of my grade school, and my live burial in the rubble for several hours—I tried to paint myself out of that closed-in and barren condition. It was an attempt to "liberate" myself. And when the painting was completed, I did feel liberated, unburdened. My book, Silence Was My Song, was about those war experiences. It was written because I wanted people to know what had happened to me and the other children who were at school that fateful day. When the book was done, I felt as though I had been on a psychiatrist's couch and had—in an almost literal sense—stirred around among the skeletons. The result at first was the opposite of therapeutic, a reaction which only went away recently.

A little black painting came to be around the same time that I did the self-portrait. At that period I was one of six artists working together in a collective we called "Le Groupe." A year or so after we established "Le Groupe" we began to squabble about various things. One evening as we were preparing for a forthcoming exhibition, the atmosphere became unbearable and it suddenly occurred to me that instead of painting, I was functioning as a mediator for the parties in conflict. The courage must have come from heaven, but the voice was mine. In the course of a few seconds, I said goodbye to the bunch of them.

When I got home, I grabbed my best, most-used palette—a little canvas 18x24 cm, on which, because I didn't have a new one, I used to apply thick black-orange strokes and gobs, a cross and a hole in the canvas, which I then titled "Girl Talk." It helped. Painting the anger out—the negative feelings disappeared, and I was able to decide never again to paint in a collective. Moreover, I have a great affection for that little painting because it reminds me that I had gotten a little better at saying no—a "virtue" which has always been hard for me.

But much more than the occasional outburst of therapy, what really characterizes my work and my inspiration is the materials I use. A Danish artist awhile back pointed out that I paint and use some of the same materials as the Spanish painter, Jean Tápies. At that time I knew nothing about him, but since then have seen his paintings and read about him and about the significance of, for example, using rusted iron in art. That was a rare and good experience because I found that there are in fact many parallels between his work and mine so I had to think a good deal about that strange coincidence.

DB: As a writer I have written stories based on dreams. Jerry Bumpus (labeled "King of the Underground Writers" back in the 70's) told me that he based many of his stories on dreams. I'm sure other writers have done this as well, but I had never thought about painters doing it. How important are dreams to your painting or your artwork in general?

AMG: Very important—especially when I listen to the dreams that others have. Dreams have that quality of both surrealism and fragmentation. But by putting them together and at the same time trying to understand them, because it is the unconscious that is at work, I cannot help but listen intensely, take notes and later try to translate them in color and form.

I find it exciting to work from my own dreams, but the dreams of others fascinate me more powerfully; as I listen, somehow, inexplicably, I go into the dream and come out with a translation in picture form—a number of paintings arose that way.

Thomas likes to tell about his many dreams—best the moment he gets out of bed. The green picture I showed you was inspired by one of his dreams. He suddenly jumped out of bed one morning and stood naked in the middle of the floor, trembled and shivered a bit and ran his fingers through his hair and with a groggy voice said, "That was a horrible dream, a nightmare! Some small green things were crawling around on me. I tried pulling them off my body and the blankets, but they kept coming back. I didn't know where they came from. I looked under the bed and was horrified. A whole nest of green unidentifiable creatures were squirming around there, and I woke feeling myself trying to scream."

I was still groggy from sleep myself, but I suddenly saw one of those green things, in my mind. Later, that little green man appeared in the painting I called "The Green Dream."

Then there is also the eternal daydreaming that has followed me from childhood. Of course that's another form of dream—but I can't avoid gathering impressions from the world around me—human behavior, nature, unhappy, strange and joyous situations. I fall into a kind of spell and I imagine what these things might mean. Very often I create images in my mind and then later paint them.

The strongest experience I had of painting from my own dream came in 1995 when I was involved with another painter. He was a tall, very heavily built man with a full beard, longish dark hair and brown eyes. He had a charming manner and a personality most people could not resist—men and women both. But beneath his somewhat Grecian exterior, there were some hidden demons which slowly came out. Anger, fear and jealousy raced around in him competing with his almost manic glee, spontaneity, devotion, sensitivity, arrogance and humor. He often traveled to the Greek islands to paint nature. Mountains and the sea were his favorite motifs.

After we parted, I was relieved, but also sad. I thought about him a lot. Then one night I had this dream where I (like the Greek ballet dancer he thought I resembled) found myself on the coast of a Greek island. The water was lit with turquoise nuances, a thundering sound reverberated through the air. Suddenly I saw his familiar face as a giant, violent mountain that was about to slide down into a blue-black sea. His dark beard had already reached the water's surface, and I shouted, "If you disappear then wait for me in the border land, and I'll find you!" I woke in mid-shout, but the dream was still very lucid.

It wasn't long before I threw myself into that picture. It's entitled, "The Border Land." The experience of doing that painting was the strongest I've ever had because during the process I felt as though I were in another reality. In a condition that felt free and timeless and without borders. While I was working, I felt as though I were a part of the picture which I remembered from the dream. I worked with a conscious goal of expressing the border motif. No other thoughts disturbed me during the many hours I was modeling the pattern in cement.

I remember clearly that I finished forming the face over a whole day, in one sitting. I looked at the grey face and was satisfied with the result which then had to dry. This is the picture I sent you, both in full and from several angles and details. There was a "mystical" sense of another hand involving itself in the work which I—the only time so far—experienced in painting "The Border Land"—and partially experienced also in my red self-portrait ("Liberation").

DB: Many artists (writers and painters and sculptors) talk about the "mystery" of art, how sometimes it seems as if you aren't in control, but rather you are some sort of medium through which the art manifests itself.

AMG: Yes. When the colors have finished speaking, the result is experienced sometimes as if a stranger has involved himself in the act and guided my hand so that the art attains a very different face and language than expected. Such moments seem to be touched with magic.

DB: Where do you find your materials?

AMG: The materials are often taken from nature or by accidental discovery—rusted iron, sand, cement, parts of plants, yellowed paper, burlap, stones and many other things. Packaging that has been thrown away and other small items are recycled in an attempt to give these things another chance to express themselves.

DB: What primary pigments do you use when painting?

AMG: The pigments I use are oil, oil crayon, charcoal and acrylics.

DB: I noticed that most of your paintings don't have titles. Any particular reason why you don't use titles?

AMG: That's true, my paintings sometimes have no titles, but when they do, those titles are not meant to be taken literally, but rather as a verbal gesture toward a non-verbal form of expression. What I mean by that is that when the pictures don't have titles then I leave it to the viewer to freely interpret the work in his or her own manner—which I find a little bit exciting.

DB: Can you explain that further: "a verbal gesture toward a non-verbal form of expression"? I love the sound of it, but I'm not sure how to actually get a grip on its meaning when it comes to viewing a painting.

AMG: By giving the pictures concrete titles, I could easily be capturing the viewer in my own interpretation and in that way deny them the challenge of finding their own. By calling my self-portrait "Liberation" and the falling mountain "The Border Land," I feel I have given a little hint at an interpretation, and that is what I call a verbal gesture.  The non-verbal form of expression is, of course, the paintings' silent language.

DB: Would you agree with artists like Marcel Duchamp that an ordinary urinal can be a work of art? Can anything I choose to call art really be art?

AMG: My immediate reaction is to say no, but . . . In my view, the only positive with that form of so-called art is that the installation only is found outside and is only available to men who need to urinate, thus inaccessible to women, who thus rarely (perhaps never) experience its existence. But since its ordinary design undeniably leads to thoughts of a big, wet "sea anemone"—a cunt—it could maybe be thought of as a plagiarism of nature's own artwork—and plagiarizing nature is not all that bad as Hans Christian Andersen used to say.

But anyway it doesn't fascinate me. Just the thought of contemplating a urinal in order to interpret its meaning is pretty boring.

Whether anything one chooses to call art can really be art, I'd have to say that almost anything can be art for one person, but for another that very same thing might be nothing at all like art. Duchamp's urinal again.

Art means something to me if an aesthetic experience happens inside me when I look at a work of art. It's a moment of suspension, a moment of total focus. The thoughts that are set in motion might bring associations with my own life, or perhaps I feel a desire to explore the use of colors, the technique, the intention, etc. I always choose a picture because of its "language," the message it sends me and not the signature in its corner.

That doesn't mean that I don't follow certain artists' work—i.e., an artist whose name might be among the so-called renowned painters in certain galleries. But I still choose according to the experience I get from the individual's artwork's form of expression—what I call its language, expression, etc.

DB: What artists have influenced you? Who are your favorites?

AMG: My father's father, the artist Albert Julius Müller. Thomas E. Kennedy, who is such a fabulous and lively story-teller that I am often compelled to paint what he describes.

The Danish painters Pia Schutzmann, Leif Lage, Leif Sylvester, Hans Kjær, Hanne Mailand.

The Faro Island painters Gunleif Grubbe (who lives in Copenhagen) and Trondur Pattursson.

The American painter, Arthur Dove.

The French artist, Jean Dubuffet.

Jean Dubuffet was, in fact, one of the founders of the Art Brut movement in the 1930s. This type of art used to be called "The Art of Madmen," but Dubuffet invented the much more respectful and appropriate designation, Art Brut. That is an art type which I first came upon this summer in Lausanne and it left me breathless. With this, you can really talk about art as therapy—yet it is so much more than that, too. There is an entire museum devoted to it in Lausanne in Switzerland and it contains a great collection of multi-facetted works (paintings, textiles, sculptures, masks, even small buildings and an art "village" in a jungle) by people who are or were mentally ill, torture victims, war victims, prisoners, and many other handicapped persons. What is exciting is that they are not "schooled" in art. They do not work out of a tradition. They find their expression more or less from scratch or from a hodgepodge of influences. It is a kind of outsider art. I had seen other examples of it at an exhibition when I was studying art at Converse College in South Carolina a few years ago, but my time in Lausanne is certainly one of the most aesthetically inspiring experiences I have ever had.