Villa Flora Artist in Residency Program

SESSION 2009:

Anna Puhakka, Finland

Anna Puhakka, Still from her Silent Film

Anna Puhakka is a Finnish artist, living and working in the North East of England since 2004. She graduated in 2007 from the University of Sunderland where received the Douglas Clasper Scholarship Award for Excellence. Since then she has been working continuously, exhibiting both in the North East and Berlin as well as co-founding the artist group BaseNorth.
She is an interdisciplinary artist/writer, committed to making conceptual work in any medium that best represents the idea. She doesn’t limit herself to working in the white cube and works in response to the context of her surroundings. Using an array of mediums such as installation, performance, video, photography, sound and text she creates atmospheres for the viewers to experience.
For the past months she has primarily been working as a writer on her novel and several short stories. She has also been developing a script for a silent film, which she hopes to finish by the end of the year. During her time in Slovenia, Puhakka will be working on her novel as well as creating new work to be exhibited at the end of the residency, the inspiration for which will be drawn from her time spent at Villa Flora and in Slovenia.

Web: www.annapuhakka.com

Blue, Green, Red

Chairs

Man and Woman

Tale of the Little Water Tree Nymph

Tunnel View

Scorpions

From Literary Evening at Villa Flora 7th september 2009

Anna Puhakka read her text. The text that she wrote on the first day when she came to Villa Flora.

On the side is the journalist Tatjana Gregorič recording her for a program at Radio Koper, RTV Slovenija, National Slovenian Radio.

Text excerpt from her book:

An acrid taste enveloped his mouth as soon as the coffee landed on his palate. It was a bad omen he decided, after all what could a day begun with bad coffee be a symbol of. The middle-aged man who owned the Egg in the Urals was, a somewhat known character, in Kensington, a Russian, Glen had told him that morning. He had been rushing off to work, apologising for the lack of breakfast materials in the house and encouraged Anthony to breakfast at the greasy spoon up the street, the Egg in the Urals. He had quoted their coffee as a speciality of north London, a speciality indeed Anthony thought.

The owner was a large man and his belly protruded from beneath his shirt as spoke on the mobile glued to his ear. His gruff hands made the small device seem minuscule in comparison, like it was being swallowed by a beast, a flytrap. He spoke surprisingly good English Anthony thought, after hearing snippets from his conversation from which he concluded that the Russian was talking to a locksmith, a key maker. Apparently he needed new keys for a couple of Mercedes that he was keen to have made by the end of the day.

To Anthony’s delight the breakfast was edible even good and he began to focus his attentions on the task at hand. Thoughts of bad omens disappearing in to the slippery eggs and fried mushrooms.
He would need to get a new notebook before going to the Museum, he wanted a clear place in which to write his musings. In fact he was quite adamant that all his findings today would be clearly printed on clean pages, free from older failed attempts. He could feel that he was close to a breakthrough, that today somehow the artefacts would all connect, make sense and open up the world that he so craved to see. His thoughts were interrupted: by the young girl who had brought him his coffee.

-Is everything alright sir? She spoke with accented English, You not have touched your coffee?!

-No, everything is fine, just the bill please, he answered thinking it better not to mention his distaste for the substance, as the Russian had paused in his conversation to glance in his direction.

-I can put in to go cup, the girl tried again holding his gaze by a strand of hope.

-No! Thank you. Anthony replied a bit too abruptly to seem casual.

The girl was taken aback but composed herself and said without a smile. ‘I bring bill.’

Anthony tipped the girl five pounds: more then he usually would, especially at a greasy spoon, but the money calmed his nerves and his conscience. It was an old habit, one he hardly recognised as inheritance from his family; solving inconsistencies, hurt feelings and broken promises with a wad of money its size directly related to offence made.

London was cool this morning, but he could smell that it would turn out unseasonably hot later in the day. He was glad to be spending it in the dry, air conditioned museum – taking his time, walking through the libraries, seeing the objects that had for the past two centuries been opening up stories about civilisation. He was particularly excited about the special Mayan exhibit, the reason he had come down to London in the first place. The exhibit boasted the largest and oldest jade mask ever to be recovered, and yes he was excited to see it but it was not the object he had come to see. The object he had come to see was small not grand and colourful but mild and never studied in great detail. He believed it would be the key, to finally unravelling the truth, to get the answers he so desperately needed.

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