Wanås castle is something of a sanctuary in the Skåne art scene. The English garden surrounding the manor house was turned into a sculpture park in the 1980s, and has become a tradition for many to visit every summer. Additionally, Wanås shows extensive temporary exhibitions in the old farm buildings from the 18th and 19th centuries. Here I have learnt about international artists not shown elsewhere in the region, such as Kimsooja or Lubaina Himid, and seen memorable video works by artists like Santiago Mostyn and Young-jun Tak.
The international outlook is still there, but in recent years’ the exhibitions seem to have been gradually shrinking. I suppose it’s a financial issue, but since Danish curator Milena Høgsberg took over as director in the autumn of 2022, the activities have been increasingly framed in terms of sustainability, of preserving what’s there and not just producing new artworks. This year, for example, Martin Puryear’s thatched sculpture Meditation in a Beech Wood (1996) is being reconstructed.
Besides a small presentation of Indian textile artist Lavanya Mani in the entrance building, which will close in June, the main event this summer is the appearance of three temporary works in the park. The unifying theme is the connection between the forest and the ocean, the enveloping qualities they share, and the fact that all life originates in the sea – standard contemporary art fare, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be fruitful.
For Apo Ifa for the High Heart and Warrior Spirit (2024), the Nigerian artist Evan Ifekoya has converted a small wooden gazebo from 1920s into a wellness temple. The work begins with sounds of the sea playing on the path between rhododendron bushes leading up to the small structure, which has been fitted with transparent coloured walls, a plastic roof, and steel bars for doing pull-ups. From a colourful bench I looked at hanging crystals and big rubber bands while listening to a voice saying things like “a peaceful warrior,” “solitude,” “gentle and robust.” Evoking physical activity and mindfulness feels misplaced in a setting that already invites it. The experience is meant to be solitary and reminds me of how the best yoga classes are the ones where I can completely ignore the other people in the room.
At the far end of the park, a long row of Mediterranean blue deckchairs faces a meadow. The Lebanese American artist Youmna Chlalal’s sound work This Feeling, Oceanic (2024) is about memories of Beirut and art school, mixed with reflections on the sea. Chlalal is also a poet, and the text is evocative and precise. But there is something utopian about the expectation that people will pay attention. Whilst leaning back, trying to focus on the horizon as I was asked, I noticed the boy beside me playing a game on his phone; on my other side, a family laid out a picnic on the chairs. This artwork was made for a different world.
In contrast, the Argentinian artist Eduardo Navarro’s I Found a Forest at the Bottom of the Ocean (2024), a metal structure in pink and blue meant to resemble a jellyfish, built around a huge old oak tree, really adds something to the site. It features hanging chimes that can be played with sticks picked up from the ground. The sound is beautiful and not far from what I imagine the woods might sound like if the branches were to catch the wind at just the right angle. This creates a very focused atmosphere in the small clearing, and the sculpture feels a bit like a summons.
Under Høgsberg’s directorship, Wanås has become a bit trendier. When the Wanås Art & Words Festival premiered last year, the theme was mycelial networks and guests included a British star biologist and Noma’s head of fermentation. Such events might be a refreshing way to attract new visitors, but if exhibitions are being slimmed down, more rigour is required, both in terms of good sculpture and how the works interact with the site.
For example, site-specificity doesn’t have to be about nature and forests. One of the most beloved works at Wanås is Swedish artist Marianne Lindberg De Geer’s uncanny sound piece in which children’s voices are suddenly heard calling for mum on a narrow path through dense greenery. Another option is to completely ignore the site, like Dan Graham’s mirror pavilion where the walls shift from opaque to transparent with the light, leaving the visitor standing face to face with a stranger. These works don’t coddle the audience, and what should the new pieces be measured against if not the most memorable experiences that Wanås already has to offer?
