Hilma af Klint

Writing a one-woman show on the path-breaking artist

Hi People!

I am working on a few new projects which I will explore, here, in the next weeks. At the moment I am writing the first draft of a one-woman show on the life of Hilma af Klint (1862 - 1944), the extraordinary Swedish painter who pioneered abstract and visionary art, for my friend Tilly Scott Pedersen, a Danish actress.

I am particularly fascinated with Klint because of her involvement with spiritism, Theosophy, and the ideas of Rudolf Steiner. When I read about Klint’s work with mediumship, I feel she and her collaborators tapped into profound nonordinary states without needing psychedelics. They created their own group, “The Five,” based on Rosicrucianism and Theosophy, where they directly interacted with spirits who told them their names and dictated automatic writing and drawing.

Hilma af Klint “Evolution, №15, Group IV, The Seven-pointed Stars”, 1908

I realize there other ways to get ideas into the culture than pure nonfiction — perhaps they can reach more people through drama and storytelling.

I thought I would share my (very early) start on this… I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas. Perhaps you want to help us produce it? Send me a message, if so!

My ancestors – my father and grandfathers - were naval men, officers, going back generations. My father, Victor af Klint, was a Naval commander. Summers we spent at our manor, Hanmora, on the island of Adelsö in Lake Mälaren.

As a child, I would lay on the rocky shore and let the waves wash over me, imagining myself as a brave sailor on a grand vessel. I felt called to something wordless and wondrous.

They say as a young girl I was often studying the stars, seeking to decipher their secrets. 

Of course society had other plans for me. I was expected to marry an officer, to lead a quiet life on land, raising a family. 

Each Sunday we went together to the old St. Nicholas Cathedral, I looked with awe at the giant statue of Saint George battling the dragon. His sword raised high, his eyes turned up to the heavens for strength.

I already felt this feeling… this yearning… to be a vehicle for some power, some force greater than myself. The sun light streaming through colored glass bathed us all in rainbows. I was mesmerized, ecstatic.

Papa gave me the name Hilma, which means "protector" or "sheltering arms." I always felt different from the other children around me. My inner world was more real to me, more alive, than the physical one I could sense and touch. I knew there was something beyond all of this.

Our family had been Lutherans for generations, like all good Swedes. Any deviation from the doctrine was frowned upon. 

I remember, one day, how I walked with Papa through a snow-shrouded landscape. The clatter of reindeer hooves in the distance approaching closer. Suddenly, the Sami surrounded us, dressed in traditional purple and gold garb, adorned with intricate silver jewelry. They revealed their connection to the other world in every gesture. I felt so drawn toward these nomadic people — I knew they held great secrets for me.

The Sami, indigenous people of Sweden

Papa named me Hilma, which means “protector,” or “sheltering arms.” I was so different than the other children. While other girls played with dolls, I was seeing inner visions, waiting for the stars to speak to me, revealing their secret language. 

At school, how I fidgeted in my seat, my small fingers clumsily stitching a pattern of milkmaids and violets onto a scrap of fabric. I couldn't focus on the task at hand. My mind wandered to more exciting things — anything — climbing trees, playing with our dog. The classroom was suffocating. Why do they keep us trapped within these four walls, I wondered? When will the bell ring to release us from this torment?

Art class was my refuge, where everything else fell away. My hands brought to life fairytale creatures, enchanted landscapes on the page. The teacher scoffed at my work, dismissing it as "fanciful daubs" from a young lady with no real talent.

At home, I pored over Papa’s old maps and sea charts by lamplight. Those maps symbolized freedom, the unknown. Entire worlds laid out, navigable, before me. I’d sail across those seas in my mind. The age of the great explorers was over, Papa said. I wondered what unseen lands remained to be discovered?

Papa indulged his “little mystic.” He alone saw and sanctioned my strange gifts, though he hardly understood them. “The child has her mother’s imagination,” he’d say with a smile. But Mama thought my visions came from reading too many fantastical tales.

I was 18 years old, full of youthful enthusiasm, when I met Bertha Valerius for the first time. I was brought to her house by a mutual friend. Grey haired and stately in her petticoats, Bertha took us on a tour of her photo studio, showing us the portraits she had taken of the Royal Family. We struck up a friendship immediately — even though she was forty years my senior! I became a regular at her salons, where she introduced me to artists, aristocrats, and suffragists — Bertha herself was a passionate advocate for women’s rights.

Berthe Valerius

Berthe brought to my first seance. How this changed everything for me!

For the first time, I entered the drawing room where the seance would be held. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. The room was dimly lit, with only a few candles flickering in the corners. Five women sat in high backed chairs around a round table. The air was heavy with the scent of burning incense and mystery, forboding…

Bertha led me to my chair at small table where we would be seated for the whole night. She instructed us to hold hands and close our eyes. She began to chant softly in a language I did not understand.

I felt flutters in my chest and heard strange whispers all around me. My mind was racing, and I was thankful for Bertha's reassuring presence beside me.

A cool breeze brush against my skin, a weight pressed on my hand. I knew someone else had joined our circle. Bertha continued to chant, her voice growing more intense with each passing moment.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. A spirit was there, hovering over us.