Artist Anders Sunna sparked a debate in Sweden about identity politics and economic interests, which even calls into question artistic freedom.
Dark figures silhouetted against dramatic icy landscapes. Faceless decision-makers at a conference table. A man in camouflage trousers leans against a chain-link fence. Suddenly, Anders Sunna's large-format paintings became famous.
It came as a surprise to the artist himself in 2022 at the Venice Biennale, where Sunna was one of three Sámi artists given the stage in the Nordic Pavilion. The focus on representatives of Europe's only indigenous population group was emphasized by the highly symbolic gesture of abruptly renaming the building the "Sámi Pavilion."
The focus was thus on the situation of the Sámis, who have lived in northern Scandinavia and the Kola Peninsula, which belongs to Russia, for thousands of years and mostly live from reindeer herding.
In fact, this demonstrated how effectively contemporary art can interfere in political processes. Since the Middle Ages, the Sámi have had to defend themselves against various forms of cultural and geographical colonization. Strictly speaking, they still have to. Sunna's six-part, life-size painting cycle "Illegal Spirits of Sápmi," now on display at the Moderna Museet in Stockholm, demonstrates that restrictions on the Sámi's traditional way of life continue to exist due to (regional) political decisions.
Global economic interests often lie behind such strategies. In the case of the Sámi of northern Sweden, for example, the extensive reindeer grazing land arouses interest in the mineral resources found there, such as rare earths.
In his work, Sunna uses sophisticated artistic means to recount the more than 50-year-long dispute over this ancient customary right to reindeer herding. His family's right to reindeer herding was denied in the 1970s. These conflicts of interest between indigenous peoples and their colonizers, which are certainly transferable to other regions of the world, have recently ignited a heated debate over identity politics, the interaction between minorities, and, not least, artistic freedom.
Sunna's paintings evoke strong reactions. His vibrant visual language finds its dynamism in the tradition of street art, graffiti, and stencil art. This seems acutely contemporary. Yet, by situating his art, Sunna goes far beyond the gesture of political protest.
It is clear that Sunna appreciates the work of Neo-Impressionist Peter Doig; snow and forest landscapes with deep horizon lines are reminiscent of Caspar David Friedrich, and the clarity of an ice-blue, subarctic lake exudes the freshness of the Swiss Art Nouveau painter Ferdinand Hodler.
Only upon closer inspection does one notice that the lake is contaminated by masses of reindeer skeletons, or that the Nordic forest idyll is not, in fact, a landscape destroyed by iron ore mining. The artist's cultural and social critique is as subtle as it is direct. It seduces its audience with beauty and then, in the moment of recognition, delivers an even greater shock.
"Painting is like hunting," Sunna once said: You lure your prey, and when it's close enough, you strike. Likewise, it's no coincidence that the collages of his family's portrait photos, painted over with expressive brushstrokes, get under your skin: these open, friendly faces of those who, in real life, have been harmed for decades by death threats, slander, or arson.
One also sees pastel-painted figures of local politicians in combat uniforms with red armbands, their faces distorted into grimaces. Although these paintings are clearly situated in the Sámi context, they generally criticize power relations. In such moments, Sunna's paintings find direct connections to the post-World War I political and demimonde grotesques of George Grosz, Otto Dix, and Max Beckmann.
Sunna's solo exhibition "Meän Meän Sápmelaš" ("Our Our Sápmi") demonstrates that this art exemplifies complex social dynamics in many countries where the problematic treatment of minorities is currently being negotiated. It is on display in subarctic Luleå, the capital of the Swedish province of Norrbotten.
It is also symbolically charged as a place because the Sunna family spent five decades in court trying to enforce their reindeer herding concession. However, Sweden's interests already become clear at Luleå Airport: Image posters for the state-owned mining company LKAB euphemistically advertise the slogan "pushing boundaries, moving mountains, and even cities in the service of progress." The latter is an allusion to the relocation of the city of Kiruna in 2023, whose stability was threatened by the system of mine shafts beneath it.
All of these activities reduce the territories of indigenous peoples and curtail their ways of life. This leads to conflict. And so, even before visiting Sunna's exhibition, one must ask oneself which side one stands on: Do we welcome the mining of rare earths in Europe so as not to be dependent on China for cell phone and electric car batteries? Or do we support the protection of minorities?
Sunna's exhibition in Luleå has now caused a scandal. His provocative art addresses a long-simmering conflict within various Sámi groups and the Tornedalingar, a Finnish minority in the region. It involves mutual accusations of cooperation with the Swedish national government, the curtailment of the rights of individual Sámi groups, and certainly also jealousy over the attention Sunna is now receiving for his cause as a successful artist.
The spokesperson for the Tornedalingar group is the media-connected Eva Kvist. She is clearly recognizable in one of his paintings, grinning innocently in a line of her historical predecessors, including the Swedish colonizing King Gustav I (1496–1560). Kvist is sitting on the neck of a reclining reindeer. The background to this depiction is her commitment to a change in the law that would allow her minority to keep reindeer – not nomadic like the Sámi, but as stabled animals.
Kvist's pressure group is now outraged about Sunna's painting on social media, accusing the artist of malice and slander, of "sowing hatred between minorities" because "he wants to put himself in the spotlight." They demanded that the police intervene, that there be legal consequences, and that the painting be taken down. Indeed, shortly thereafter, the police arrived at Sunna's exhibition, but the painting remained hanging
The scandal demonstrates how identity politics can get out of hand. When ethnic minorities who later immigrated position themselves against older, indigenous people in order to secure a favorable position in the nation-state's structure of attention, power, and prestige, artistic freedom is quickly at stake in such a power struggle.
Unfortunately, the exhibition curator's clever suggestion to bring the disputants to a table was thwarted by the provincial government's concerns. Authorities confused by identity requirements are the last thing that can help such a heated situation.
Anders Sunna, meanwhile, continues. While the controversial exhibition just ended, he's already announcing a new show at Luleå's Lindberg Gallery: "Coffee. Fight. Repeat." There it is again, the artist's gallows humor.
Text by Gaby Hartel
