INGRID (ENGLISH VERSION)

ART ROOM

In the early 2030s, Ingmar and I decided to design a calendar. However, this calendar was going to be special. First, it would be painted on an A4 page, with the names of all the months arranged in a way that resembled a crossword puzzle. Then, the letters making up each month would be divided by the number of days in that month: 30, 31, or 28 in the case of February. This idea wasn't entirely my own; I had seen it online. It was a common practice among those who did yoga, marking the days they followed their practice. Ingmar, though not into yoga, helped me make this calendar because he was good at drawing.

Yoga became a part of my daily routine. I attended classes three times a week at a studio, practising simple, dynamic flow, and long-lasting yoga. The latter was my favourite because it required holding a specific pose for about five minutes. You had to keep your body completely relaxed, otherwise, the pain would be unbearable. In a very short time, I had developed a fairly flexible body, even at my age. Anna had become even more flexible.

I particularly enjoyed going to yoga with Anna because it gave me a chance to spend more time with her and discover our common interests. I knew I hadn't given birth to Anna, that I was in a sense her stepmother, but that didn't make me love her any less or consider her any less my child. In a way, I felt I was given the chance to have a child again since the only time I got pregnant, I decided not to keep the baby. On the other hand, I feared Anna didn't feel the same about me. I often feared she didn't see me as her real mother, although I couldn't base this feeling on anything concrete. We always got along so well that no one could ever suspect such a thing.

Besides yoga, I started getting into pottery. As I mentioned, my sister Monika had returned home with her two children. Her mental state was quite bad, so I wanted to help her feel better. It was a good opportunity for us to start an activity together. I took her to a pottery workshop, and we began attending some seminars there. Before the seminars, though, I had taken pottery lessons and realized how much I enjoyed working with my hands. When we completed our training, we opened a workshop in downtown Kirkenes. I'm quite a creative person and think I have a business mind, so why not use my skills and encourage my sister to engage in something other than her sadness?

In addition to reconnecting with my sister, the workshop had a broader impact on the village. It helped foster a community with shared interests. In fact, several people asked me to organize an exhibition where they could sell their ceramics alongside mine, while others considered selling paintings or other handmade items. It wasn't a bad idea. Even Anna offered to carve and paint some of the ceramics I made, as she had a remarkable talent for painting, which she had demonstrated many times. Working on crafting and painting helped me overcome my trauma with cancer. I could express my emotions and process past experiences.

When I moved out of my parents' house into my own, I had many "useless" items I thought wouldn't fit in my new home. These mainly included childhood toys, stuffed animals, comics, and even gifts, paintings, souvenirs, or anything related to art. I had no desire to part with them, as they made me nostalgic in a good way, but I didn't have space to store them in my house. So, I dedicated an extra room filled with these memories. I often spent time in this room, organizing it repeatedly, continually discovering new items that brought back memories from my childhood or my life with my father.

This space was also used by Anna, who conducted various artistic projects there, such as painting entire canvases. There were many days when she would spend hours in the room, painting. Then, she would leave the paintings there, giving me the chance to see them. Often, she was inspired by the room itself, painting objects she found inside. I would smile because she often chose objects that were personal memories I had never shared with her. So, she would create stories in her mind and depict them in her paintings. It didn't matter. Everyone interprets the world through their own eyes, so there's no point in changing someone else's perspective.

To fully describe the room, it is bright, with large windows that let plenty of sunlight in. The walls are painted a soft blue, creating a calm atmosphere. A large wooden workbench sits in the middle of the room, covered with various materials: brushes, paints, canvases, clay pots, and pottery tools. There are open shelves on the walls, filled with boxes for storing things, inside of which we keep old toys, stuffed animals, comics, gifts, and other items. In one corner, a wooden cabinet with glass doors houses my most precious and fragile items.

Various toys and stuffed animals are placed in specific spots to evoke a sense of nostalgia. One wall is covered with Anna's paintings, inspired by the room itself. One painting even depicts all my stuffed animals. Scattered around the room are small sculptures and ceramic pieces, presumably Anna's work.

On the bench, there are unfinished works: a canvas with an abstract painting, a ceramic vase waiting to be painted, drawings, and sketches scattered around. A collection of old cassette players and a turntable - probably from my grandmother - sits in one corner, providing background music for our creative moments.

We even had a large chalkboard on one wall, with chalk in various colours, which we used to write down anything on our list. Finally, a comfortable armchair sits by the window, where I sit to read or enjoy the view, allowing myself to daydream and be inspired.

One day, Anna found my favourite stuffed toy, the Dead Tiger, in the room and asked about its story. With great enthusiasm, I told her it was my favourite stuffed animal, a gift from my father, and narrated the fairy tale and the song I had created for it. Anna couldn't believe her eyes. She never imagined that the fairy tale of the Necrotiger involved a real object, let alone something in her own home.

The biggest shock, however, came one night when Anna called me from the room. "Ingrid, come see what I found!" she said.

I entered the room and found her holding some letters. "What are these?" I asked.

"Letters in Russian. Can you read them?"

"Very little," I said, taking them to look at. "I'll ask my mom."

The next day, I took them to my mother, who told me they were old love letters from my grandmother Kristi to my grandfather Lauri, written when he was at sea. How romantic! I thought. And how did I end up with them? Did my grandfather leave them for me along with the owl?