| When I first saw Dorte and Villy standing at the bar in matching red anoraks I was at a crossroads in my life, also in relationship to photography. The book 3×1 marked a major departure in my work, where the social realism of previous projects was superseded by the universal and familiar. The intimacy, banality, and ultimate eventlessness not of this particular family, but of family life. I visited the family over a year, entering and leaving their home and lives, shifting between closeness and absence. Whilst it was Dorte who invited me inside, it was her daughter, Helene, who became my witness. |  |
Nicolai Howalt
When I first saw Dorte and Villy standing at the bar in matching red anoraks I was at a crossroads in my life, also in relationship to photography. The book 3×1 marked a major departure in my work, where the social realism of previous projects was superseded by the universal and familiar. The intimacy, banality, and ultimate eventlessness not of this particular family, but of family life.
I visited the family over a year, entering and leaving their home and lives, shifting between closeness and absence. Whilst it was Dorte who invited me inside, it was her daughter, Helene, who became my witness. Looking at them. Looking at us. People who know me often ask if Helene and I are related. We have the same red hair and features. But the relationship was entirely experiential and emotional.
An 11-year-old on the cusp of puberty experiencing the breakdown of a relationship was something I’d experienced at the same age. Something I knew. Something I’d seen. Having your life shattered like a house of cards. Seeing your mom break down as your dad walked out the door.
I got close. Under the skin. The voyeuristic role of the camera is up front: the book starts with a close-up of the spyhole in the door of the apartment, the boundary between the inside and outside. Between the purple, pink, and red intimacy of the apartment, and the barren bile green outside. The colors and shapes of their lives were as important as the story for me. An aesthetic distance combined with extreme intimacy.
The book is guided by these formal aspects of the images rather than any linear narrative. The story is there, but more as recognizable emotions than as a portrait of a single family. There is no beginning or end—happy or not. The emotions are repeated. In their lives and in ours.
Physical elements are also repeated and deleted as Dorte, Villy, and Helene disappear from each other’s lives. The sofa on which they live so much of their lives gets dismantled and ends up as trash in the yard.
The book ends with an abandoned apartment, the clown lampshade from Helene’s childhood bedroom ripped from the ceiling on the empty floor.
