The Brain Is in the Belly: A Conversation with Tori Wrånes

Tori Wränes, whose latest works feature in the Nordic pavilion at this year’s Venice Biennale, has a wonderful knack for communicating things difficult to express in words. Within her environments, we might encounter primeval or hybrid beings, an igloo that grows hair, or a static object that is said to be a performance—strange objects and situations that encourage us to search for latent meanings, explore our thoughts and feelings, and become aware of life’s underappreciated rhythms. Wränes’s projects highlight her love of material, while also reflecting her experience in theater and the expressive arts. The former rock band member is also an exceptional vocalist, who views the latter process, which often involves paralanguage, as a means of releasing sculptures into space.

John Gayer: Your works in the Nordic pavilion are suggestive and full of energy, calling attention to Sverre Fehn’s exceptional building. What brought these different aspects together?
Tori Wrånes: I think the pavilion is about a dialogue between architecture and nature. You can see how the tree roots are affecting the floor, and the trees themselves are pressing on the building. We humans are a combination of architecture and nature—we construct buildings, but we’re also mammals.

JG: There’s the idea that we not only affect the environment, but the environment also affects us.
TW: Exactly, that’s why I have humans growing together around the tree to move slowly up and down. We don’t know if they are experiencing pleasure or pain. It’s like the duality you just mentioned, that the environment is doing something to us and we are doing something to the environment. I titled this work Erotic poetry by the architect, nature and me. The sound element is a foghorn from the city where I grew up.

JG: That’s Kristiansand, Norway, isn’t it?
TW: Yes. I felt that a foghorn was needed here. It leads you to a safe space under hazardous conditions. I love it when boats blast their foghorns. It’s comforting.

I remember when my dad and I became lost at sea. We were out fishing and suddenly the fog moved in, leaving us with no idea of what was around us. It’s scary, but it’s also exciting and related to all of the unknown things we wrestle with in life, all the possibilities that may exist there.

JG: Do you think it mimics a psychological or an emotional state?
TW: I think that everything incorporates psychology and the physical form. Even here, this work is moving up and down, the large sculpture moves from the inside to the outside, the colors are light and dark, high and low. They are psychology and physical form.

JG: So, the foghorn and the works are connected?
TW: I feel that everything in my work is connected, but I don’t always know how.

JG: The intense blast makes me wonder if it, on some level, is a determining factor?
TW: Maybe it is. It only blasts once an hour. But sound itself is very physical. I love working physically with sound. When the foghorn goes off, the sound moves across the space.

JG: Its loudness might startle people unfamiliar with coastal areas. Others probably wonder why it’s going off here and now.
TW: Absolutely, it is a signal, and signals are not necessarily good. This specific foghorn is meant to save you, which feels important right now. The Nordic pavilion sits between the Russian, American, and Israeli pavilions. When the world has come unstuck, the foghorn becomes important to gather softness, love, and strength.

JG: There are many people who use “I think” and “I feel” interchangeably. But you have a different perspective. You’ve said, “I don’t think my brain is in my head.”
TW: True. It really is in the belly. My work is very intuitive. It’s something I rely on. Though I don’t always know what my works are about while I’m making them, I know that I will at a future point. I just trust the gut feeling and go for it.

JG: I recently came across another phrase that may apply to you: making is thinking.
TW: Yes, making is thinking. I like that, because I do think with my hands. Like when I sculpted the hands out of clay for Human Lace, my largest work in the pavilion. It let me lose the head somehow, to just keep doing what I was doing.

JG: Today, the way we use our hands has changed. They seem to be less important.
TW: And that’s unfortunate, since we miss out on benefitting from tactility and the insights we receive through touch. We cannot access the same information from digital artifacts. We lose the senses of sensibility, vulnerability, and strength, important things received through our hands.

JG: You used sailcloth to make Human Lace, but what about Erotic poetry?
TW: It’s the same sailcloth, but I didn’t want another white work. It felt nice that it coheres with the other artists’ work, so we dyed it to create this duality.

JG: The color of Human Lace works well with the architecture.
TW: Yes, I love it to be honest. Those sails crossed the Atlantic many times, traveled around the world, and were torn by the wind. We found holes in them, old repairs, even bloodstains left by those who repaired them. Because the cloth is so sturdy, I had to learn how to use sail needles, which was like sewing with a knife. I also like how the wind has patinated the surface. I appreciate the fact that the sails’ purpose is to catch the wind. Whether the wind is with you or against you, their purpose is to move you forward.

The bronze parts in Human Lace contrast with the flexibility of the sailcloth, and with each other. I used sand-casting to make the birds and the lost wax process for the hands. The title derives from Koyo Kouoh’s “In Minor Keys.” Humans are so small in the big context, like a shoelace, how we tie things together. In a way, we are shoelaces, since we are all connected somehow and need to support each other and keep the shoe stable. That is what led me to create the collaborative movement that begins inside, goes up into the ceiling, and out into public space.

JG: This work really surprised me. Your earlier works have included two figures, but you’ve joined eight or more together here. Have you produced anything on this scale before?
TW: Not with so many figures.

JG: So, this project provided an opportunity?
TW: Yes, but for me, the architecture also seemed to be screaming about something. The ceiling is incredible, and I wanted to go through it because it’s possible. My work is also very much about a search for freedom, to be rid of all categories and definitions. So, while it’s great to be in the Nordic pavilion, it’s important to take the work outside, too.

JG: It complements and contrasts with the building’s openness and rectilinearity. Your chain of figures takes the difficult path—or more exciting one—through the ceiling.
TW: If you look at the goose feet extending from the heel of the last figure’s boot, you see that each one has a ring. My father is an ornithologist and, when I was a child, he let me help him band birds for tracking. He gave me one of the rings, when the bird it was on died. The other ring was made by a brilliant hometown friend, Lise Shønberg, who is alive. I like the idea that the living and dead are flying through the work together. It refers to generations and the passage of time.

The birds and the sails also relate to each other, in part because they both travel. There are birds that travel from where I live in the south of Norway to Nigeria. Though the situation is trickier now, sailboats still sail around the world. Both convey a sense of freedom.

JG: One of your earlier works featuring conjoined bodies includes a pair of birds flying out of the place where a head would be. What do these works represent for you?
TW: For me, they are a kind of adventure, like The Wonderful Adventures of Nils [by Selma Lagerlöf]. I want to be Nils, the boy who flies all over the place on his goose. I really like geese, and in my first sculpture, two fly out of the face. In the second one, the two geese and a pierced baby chicken are connected. They are together for life. Then, in this one, three geese are flying out toward freedom. I think they refer to everything between the extremes, including gender and ready-made ideas of being a woman or a man. It’s the freedom of being in between that I appreciate.

JG: As I understand it, then, it’s about the spectrum between the extremes.
TW: Yes, and it also applies to being happy or sad. There are many degrees between these opposite feelings. Since I like to collaborate with locals on my projects, the glass drops were made with Berengo Studio in Murano. They could be seen as body fluids, or ice that’s melting away. I like it when there’s no correct interpretation.

JG: That makes it difficult for viewers who expect clear answers, rather than a range of possibilities.
TW: That’s like the fear that builds as fog surrounds you. You don’t think, “Oh wow! This is exciting.” It’s about seeing possibilities instead of limitations.

JG: There are three large birds here. And a baby?
TW: It’s a seagull. I mixed forest birds with sea birds. It’s about dualities again, inside and outside, up and down, and the colors.

JG: And the bodies? For me, acrobats seem most likely.
TW: I see it as more of an emotional ride—they could be your life—or mine. Or it could be everyone inside the pavilion at a given moment.

JG: What about the little hands that grow out of the fingernails of larger hands, and the metal loops on some figures?
TW: The small hands might represent hope, new life, or a new idea. The whole chain might be a portrait of the struggle and the strength of being connected—generations woven together across time. The loops are for ropes that serve to secure the sails and get the wind where you want it.

JG: In your performance In Minor Keys, the zipper’s mass, your climb to the platform, where you sang so evocatively, was slow and labored—so different from the energy projected by Human Lace. Was your prime intention to add another layer of contrast to your group of works?
TW: The human chain includes a lot of people, while the performance character is completely alone. I guess I wanted to emphasize the loneliness.

JG: The singing you delivered through the costume’s open zipper struck a touchingly plaintive tone. It seemed to be a call for something. What was it meant to express?
TW: I think of the zipper, or fly, as a border between what we keep out and what we let in. It’s a type of protection. I am not sure if others would think this—and it certainly is not a conclusion—but, for me, the zipper is leaning on the Pope’s repeated calls for dialogue. I improvised a nonverbal language based on rhythm and temperament accessible to anyone.

Tori Wrånes’s work, together with that of Klara Kristalova and Benjamin Orlow, is on view in “How Many Angels Can Dance on the Head of a Pin” at the Nordic pavilion of the Venice Biennale through November 22, 2026.