Espen Jensen

I find that arranging a piece for classical guitar puts me in touch with the music in a unique way. It gives me a chance to step right into someone else’s thought process, and I get to take part in some of the decision making they faced. 

Recently, I was arranging a piano piece named Irene Waltz attributed to M.C. Bales. As I dug into the history of the piece to better understand its context, I stumbled down a rabbit hole. First, I found that the composer was quite unknown but that the little we knew about him or her was the relationship to the publishing house A.W. Perry and Sons. This in turn led me to read about the golden age of music publishing and, particularly, the fabled New York songwriting district known as Tin Pan Alley.

In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, before radio and streaming dominated our cultural landscape, music was an industry built entirely on sheet music. That brought me to Tin Pan Alley, centered around 28th Street in Manhattan, which got its famous nickname from a journalist who described the sound of dozens of songwriters pounding away on cheap upright pianos with paper taped to the strings to sound like tin pans, all trying to pitch their tunes at the same time. It was a bustling, commercial, yet deeply vibrant ecosystem. But more than just an industry, it represented a fundamental way in which human beings interacted with art.

Delving into this era left me with a profound sense of hope and optimism. Today, we live in an era where music is overwhelmingly consumed passively. We press play on curated playlists created by algorithms while we scroll through feeds designed to drain our attention spans. I think it often leaves us with a strange sense of emptiness.

But during the golden age of publishing, music was something you made yourself in the home. Families gathered around the piano in the parlor, friends harmonized together on front porches, and everyday musicians bought sheet music of pieces like Irene Waltz because they wanted to live inside the melody, not just hear it once and swipe away. People had to make their own music, and they did. The barrier to entry wasn't technical a one; it was simply a matter of participation.

I learned that, when the recording industry eventually took over, many cultural critics panicked, fearing it was the death of genuine musical expression. But looking back, we can see it wasn't the death of music at all—it was just a different medium. Human beings have need for artistic expression, and people will seek out music no matter what. Whether it’s pounding out a tune on a parlor piano in 1910, recording a track in a bedroom today, or arranging a forgotten waltz for classical guitar, the impulse is identical. We want to connect and to create.

Arranging Irene Waltz reminded me how strong the creative impulse is in us. For me, the process is like a conversation across time and it is something worth being endlessly optimistic about.

This week, I visited Bomuldsfabrikken Kunsthall in Arendal— known to be one of Southern Norway’s most interesting contemporary art venues. 

The location is set quietly by the banks of Langsævannet in Arendal, Norway.  While I grew up in this town, literarily 10 minutes away, I had only been to Bomuldsfabrikken once before and I limited memory.  My visit yesterday felt like being filled with first impressions, actually. My first thought was that, in many ways, the exhibitions inside Bomuldsfabrikken engage with the building's rugged past. Contemporary works—striking large-scale paintings and sculptures—look just right against the backdrop of raw brick, exposed wood beams, and heavy-duty pillars. The “raw” surrounding feel like an articulation surrounding the art works. 

On the second floor we find a personal narrative woven into the venue's permanent collection: the collection of Aagot Hein Sørensen, known as Lulla Sørensen (1917–2006). Per the informational posters, I learn that she grew up nearby on Hisøy before spending decades living in Oslo. I learned from the posted information that friends of Lulla had noted that no one could ever talk her into buying a piece; she acquired art exclusively based on a heartfelt, instinctive connection. Following her passing, her substantial bequest transformed Bomuldsfabrikken's future, gifting a collection of numerous works spanning from the late 19th century to 2000. The collection has been named Con Amore and this. It features prominent Norwegian names such as Leonard Rickhard, Kjell Torriset, Svein Strand, and Bjørn Carlsen. Walking among these pieces feels less like touring a clinical archive and more like being invited directly into a private Oslo apartment, where every canvas tells a story or has a personal association.

Also on the second floor is a tribute to the local master Leonard Rickhard (1945–2024). I already had some knowledge of his role in shaping Bomuldsfabriken. I turned to the helpful poster/brochure titled "Vår kjære Leo" (Our Dearest Leo), handed out at the front desk to learn more. Having settled and worked in Arendal for his entire life, Rickhard was instrumental in the establishment of the gallery when the city of Arendal acquired the old factory building in 1992.  He served as an advisor for the institution. Rickhard’s signature visual language—characterized by melancholic depictions of abandoned barracksand subdued regional landscapes—mirrors the very ethos of the industrial building itself. Unlike many coastal painters who looked outward toward the sea, Rickhard turned his focus inward to the forests and workshops of Agder. 

This seamless blending of past and present highlights one of the most striking features of Norwegian societal design: the effortless respect given to adaptive reuse. Bomuldsfabrikken—originally built as a cotton mill in 1898—stands as a prime example. Instead of tearing down obsolete industrial structures to pave the way for modern developments, communities across Norway frequently choose to repurpose them. The brick walls, old operational lifts, and multi-story layouts are preserved rather than erased. 

Taking this all in, I reflect on an interesting paradox. A low volume of visitors paired with unwavering institutional backing.  It reveals a deep-seated cultural conviction. In Norway, I feel apiece knowing art and culture are treated not merely as commodities to be traded for profit, but as public goods essential to the wellbeing of the community.