Nina Enger
It has taken me a long time to trust my feelings. My inner world is rich, dark and deep and I have kept it hidden for years, spending more time observing than expressing. Many years back I went to a gallery with a friend. Looking at one of the paintings I said: ‘I can do that’. ‘Yes’, my friend said, ‘many people say that, but the difference between them and you is that they do it and you don’t.’ Her comment was the start of my artistic career.
Based in Oslo, I work intuitively, following the threads of inner experience as they translate themselves onto the canvas. I’m not attached to any one style—I follow what feels true in the moment, exploring themes that lie beneath the surface. Using mostly acrylics for abstract and water soluble oils for landscapes.
My work has revealed that darkness is not the absence of light, but rather condensed or trapped light—potential, waiting to be released, reflecting what I have always been feeling. I hope my paintings can work as visual meditations on this principle, opening a contemplative space where light and darkness exist in dialogue, where meaning unfolds in layers. A single candle can illuminate an entire room and even the smallest flicker of awareness can reveal what was once hidden in shadow.
To me, colour is more than something I see—it is something I feel. My affinity for colour arises from deep bodily sensations, a kind of intuitive knowing. Especially when I add dark tones to a painting, I often feel an immediate sense of grounding. It’s a strange but deeply satisfying experience, as if the painting had been waiting for that very resonance to become whole. With the presence of darkness, something essential clicks into place. The piece becomes significant—complete—in its own right.
I view human beings as small resistors of light; tiny transformers in the vast space of vibrational energy. The alchemical process within each of us gradually releases light in stages, transforming our inner worlds, making the subconscious conscious. My art may be a reflection of this process—a quiet transformation of heavy, dark and contracted energy into a light, luminous release of energy.
In an attempt to merge with essence I sometimes resort to writing lyrics to express what is known, but not easily expressed through visual art.
When I paint landscapes, it is not merely to depict nature, but to deepen my awareness of how the natural elements coexist in harmony. I’ve come to see that when we isolate a single element, it might seem harsh or flawed. But when viewed within the whole, every part finds its place—and what once seemed imperfect becomes beautiful. Through painting landscapes, I tune into this unity. Nature becomes a mirror of the human journey.
The sky, especially, holds a unique place in my work. I often think of clouds as thoughts. When we focus heavily on them, they cluster and grow heavy and dark, eventually bursting into a manifestation of its potential. But when we let go, they drift, dissolve, and disappear. In this way, our lives are shaped by attention and intention—what we nourish will grow. It’s tempting to believe that we live in a world created entirely by our own minds.
Every piece begins as a kind of conversation — between myself, the canvas, and something greater than either. Trial and error is part of it. I seek discovery, rather than control. My process is guided by instinct, not strategy. I seek to reveal, to explore, to express, to empty myself. I value truth over polish, depth over perfection, presence over performance. Authenticity is the still point in my life—the quiet force that shapes both my art and who I am.
One of the deepest reflections in my journey has been on the nature of sacrifice, not as hardship, but as relaxation. I’ve come to see that the ultimate development of a human being lies not in becoming more, but in becoming less. I compare it to a leaf falling from a tree, decomposing in the soil to nourish new life. In even the smallest surrender, I sense a peace that nothing else can give.
My abstract works often carry this same essence of quiet revelation. They unfold with mist, movement, contrast, and mystery. Sometimes dark and bold and sometimes light and soft. My landscape paintings attempt to reveal the beauty in our surroundings. Adding people to the painting comes about when I feel a strong need to share what to me carries a certain significance. I hope these pieces create a space where the viewer can feel, not just see. A space where the visible and invisible touch. And in this space, I hope you’re reminded that your life, too, is an artwork in progress. That within you exists a potential as luminous as it is tender. And that sometimes, all it takes is a small spark of expanded awareness.
Nina, your work consistently straddles the border between abstraction and landscape, evoking both the ephemeral nature of clouds and the permanence of emotional truth. In a world increasingly obsessed with clarity and definition, what compels you to embrace the ambiguous, the misty, and the undefined in your visual language, and what do you believe is revealed through that resistance to fixed form?
These questions carry a spiritual weight pulling my attention to what may be deeply hidden in my work. I am not entirely conscious of my own process, but there is a sensation in the body that is directing the movements of the brush. When a form becomes too fixed, it seems to exclude what lies behind it — revealing only half of its nature. There is always form and formlessness, the visible and the invisible. My work perhaps arises from an unconscious longing to reveal the invisible
Much of your process, as you've described, is intuitive and open-ended, more a dialogue with the canvas than a predetermined composition. Could you unpack the emotional or metaphysical space in which this dialogue occurs? At what point does a painting shift from being an experiment in process to becoming a vessel of revelation, for both you and the viewer?
Each time I face a white canvas, a nervous tingling arises — a feeling of personal responsibility for whatever might emerge. Beforehand I may have decided to use a specific variety of colours, but then my hand reaches out to choose another colour. The state is very difficult to describe, but I seem to enter a trancelike state where my conscious self takes the backseat. When I discover that what I first saw as a mistake — a misplaced brushstroke — is what makes the painting come alive, I must bow to that which animates this body.
Your treatment of color, particularly your orchestration of fiery reds, spectral whites, and earthen tones, feels less like palette choices and more like emotional frequencies. How do you approach color as a language of sensation, and how do you know when a particular hue is emotionally correct, even if formally unexpected?
Earthy tones ground me and give me a peaceful feeling. Being truly honest with myself, I realize that dark colours protect me from the light. They give me time to process, to reflect, and to prepare for what is still hidden in the dark. I love the smooth transition from black to warm brown. It is exhilarating to stand at that threshold — where darkness prepares to reveal itself as visible aliveness..
Nature plays a central role in your work, not merely as subject matter but as a spiritual interlocutor. Clouds, in particular, recur as dynamic symbols of transience and transformation. How do you see the act of painting clouds as a metaphor for navigating the unconscious or mapping the unseen territories of the psyche?
Clouds are like thoughts to me. My mind is a continuous questioning machine and I find all the answers in the movements of the clouds. And the answer is that there are no answers or definite concepts that can survive the movements of thoughts, as there are no cloud shapes that will last forever. Focusing on a single thought draws others to it, forming a visible shape — much like clouds converging and releasing their potential as rain.
There is a profound tension in your work between light and darkness, not only in the chiaroscuro of form but also in the emotional tonality of the pieces. Is this duality something you consciously cultivate, or does it emerge as an inevitable consequence of your engagement with inner and outer landscapes? Might you see light itself as a kind of protagonist in your visual narratives?
Great question. I am not sure what defines what in my work. Perhaps there is an attempt to visualize the connection between light and dark — to show that there is no true duality, only a fluid transition between the two. Like the Yang-movement emerging from Yin-stillness, being mutually dependent to enable distinct terms.
Your painting “Pressure” seems to resonate with a somatic weight, a visceral density that transcends representation. How do you translate internal states such as anxiety, release, or longing into painterly decisions? Is there an ethics of vulnerability in your practice that allows personal emotion to materialize through abstraction?
There may seem to be a contradiction between the ascending and descending movements in my work, but I have found that rising and releasing are, in essence, the same motion. Sometimes a violent release creates the greatest feeling of expansion. When my dog died, it felt as if something inside me died with him. What emerged in the emptiness of grief was a space inside that could hold so much more. There is great wisdom in the phrase, ‘Freedom is just another word for having nothing left to lose.’
In works like “Detaching,” the emotional climate feels markedly different, lighter, more suspended, even meditative. How do you navigate these tonal shifts within your body of work? Do you experience these paintings as different psychological chapters, or are they part of a singular, unfolding emotional landscape that merely changes weather?
‘A singular, unfolding emotional landscape that merely changes weather’ is a very precise description of how this is felt. I have a tendency to want to conclude, to finalize and simplify, telling myself that I only want to paint abstractly from now on, and a few days later find myself painting a house in the forest. There is no willful consistency in what I do, often leaving me with the sense that I have no personal will or fixed identity — a little sad, but true.
Many viewers describe your paintings as atmospheric or mystical, suggesting a sense of liminality, the threshold between knowing and not knowing. Do you see your art as part of a broader spiritual or philosophical inquiry? And if so, how does that inquiry shape your compositional decisions, or even your life outside the studio?
I do not usually see my art as part of a broader spiritual or philosophical inquiry, yet these questions bring attention to that connection. I spend a lot of time alone allowing me to engage with a deeply felt presence, no matter what I do. Having plans for the future often feels disturbing — as though they block the open space and infinite potential of what wants to naturally unfold. Moving to the rhythm of what the body wants is a privilege I deeply honour. In 2013 I bought a ring and ‘married myself’ as a decisive act to stay true to myself the rest of my life, no drama, just me.
The absence of hard edges, the emphasis on movement, and your willingness to allow “mistakes” to remain visible suggest a rejection of control in favor of surrender. In a culture that often values precision and mastery, how do you reconcile the discipline of painting with the freedom of relinquishing authorship to the moment?
It has been revealed to me that there is no true authorship of actions — only the unfolding of what becomes possible when conditions allow. When clouds gather, rain manifests; when heat meets cold, lightning appears. Likewise, when inspiration infuses the body, something inevitably takes form. I am definitely not in charge of what makes me think, feel and do things.
Your oeuvre calls to mind the late works of Turner, where landscape becomes a vessel for emotional and cosmic contemplation. Do you see yourself as working within or against a particular lineage of landscape abstraction? What historical or contemporary influences have shaped your approach to painting, and in what ways have you sought to diverge from or subvert them?
I have been preoccupied with my inner world all my life and cannot label myself as being very knowledgeable. I discovered Turner’s work long after I began painting, yet immediately felt a deep resonance. The colours, the movements and the wildness in his expression speaks to something inside me. His movement from the figurative to the abstract mirrors my own journey. As a lover of nature my first paintings were attempts to create landscapes based on my photos. When I dropped motives all together a space opened up in front of me, a feeling of: ‘I can do whatever I want. I do not have to relate, to adjust or fit into anything’. That was an expanding moment freeing me from having to do this or that. I completely disagree with the notion that an artist must stay true to one expression or define a fixed style. Such ideas belong to the world of labels, not to the realm of creative freedom. My experience is that I cannot force something to come through in an attempt to fit the labels of man. Inspiration is how God speaks to me — and that voice is the true director of my life.