A poem by the Danish writer Klaus Rifbjerg

Skagen

I’m the one who’s painted

the pictures at the Skagen museum.

I said to myself

that is your life and then

I began to paint.

I think it all started with the lunch picture

I got so hungry

felt quite at home.

I painted Krøyer and Drachmann

Tuxen, Ancher – her and him

and all the others

right down to Tørsleff.

It was a colossal undertaking

but I was feeling fine

so that didn’t matter.

Drachmann helped me a bit

and Krøyer

we talked a lot

looked

and drank just a little.

We looked at Skagen

painted lots of pictures

brought out the light

but most perhaps a way of life

our own

the one I fell for.

I remember the hours

with Krøyer’s wife

beneath the elders at Drachmann’s,

the burgundy in those heavy glasses

and everything seen

in summer images

melancholy

as if it was all long over.

I remember the evenings at the Prong

the waters that met

and the trouble getting the colours

to toe the line

after all I was the one who was going

to paint everything

wanted to paint everything

before it was no longer there.

There was a scent of death

idyll and linen drawers with lavender

about my Skagen canvases,

but there was plenty of life

back then

there was that.

We got up from the table

after the long drawn-out lunch

and the voices had become more subdued.

We stood in the twilight

before going home our separate ways

but it was hard to take our leave.

Then Anna Ancher turned round

and said:

We’re going to sleep now.

She took her husband’s arm,

went with him through the gate

and slowly everyone followed suit.

The steps died away between

the houses

the host put out his lamp

it was too late to do any more painting.