I hadn’t planned to be naked in the woods for more than a minute or two. One year on from completing my master’s degree in fine art, I organised an Easter residency in my native Norway with four other artists. We were staying in the house my father grew up in, on a sparsely populated island, and one afternoon I went out with my video camera and tripod, having briefly outlined what I planned to do.
Most of my work involves film and performance, and the piece I was making required a fleeting shot of me hanging unclothed from a branch. I tied some safety knots in a length of rope. I tied the rope over a bough about 8ft up, got undressed, and pressed record.
The resulting film starts with me approaching the tree, placing my left foot into one of the loops, then swinging my right foot right up through another loop hanging a couple of feet beneath the branch. Then I lean back until I’m hanging upside-down, my head and shoulders resting on the grass. I hold this pose for about half a minute. Those seconds of stillness were all I needed for my film, yet as the camera captured them I felt the rope tighten around my ankle and knew I’d made a terrible mistake.
My first thought was, “OK, you’ve fucked up, Hilde, but let’s try to get you out of this so nobody needs to know.” I hauled myself up, hand over hand, until I was swinging horizontally, just below the branch, and tried to yank my foot free.
It was hopeless. Righting myself, I put my free foot back on the ground to rest for a moment, then tried again, pulling myself up and fighting, puppet-like, against my bonds. My left foot, taking my weight in the lowest noose, started to spasm and I knew my strength wouldn’t hold out. But my pride was still uppermost – the idea of having to draw the attention of others to my humiliating plight still seemed unthinkable. I was losing strength, but full of adrenaline, my face dragging along the woodland floor, leaving me spitting twigs.
Exhausted, battered and finally beaten, I accepted I was going to need help. I became worried that the circulation in my right ankle, which was raised awkwardly at head height, was being cut off by the tightening knot and that I might even end up losing my foot. My position meant it was hard to breathe, too. Nevertheless, I sucked in as much oxygen as I could and, facing the direction of the house, yelled “Adam!”
I kept calling at intervals, every shout leaving me panting. To save breath I called for the two friends with the shortest names – Adam and Sarah. Eventually, I just settled for “Help!” At least it was too early in the year for insects to start biting, and the island was free of wolves and wildcats. Even so, I had no wish to be discovered by a stranger. As my shouts grew increasingly broken I realised I’d be happy to see anyone at all. But there was no response – just wind in the trees, birdsong and the drone of insects.
It was another half an hour before help arrived. I think my rescuer – a friend from the house – was appalled. By then I was oblivious to my nakedness, but she struggled to undo the knots while averting her eyes.
My friends were horrified when I hobbled in, pale, bruised and with bark in my hair. They had heard my shouts but initially passed them off as the cries of a distant seagull. I went straight to bed, and when I woke I watched the film. The camera had cut out after 11 minutes, just after I’d started calling for help. It was a film without resolution, ending at its most distressing point.
I watched it again with my friends and, seeing how their initial laughter gave way to groans of dismay, I realised I’d inadvertently created something powerful. My instinct was borne out when the film was selected, unchanged, for a nationwide touring art exhibition. After that, interest snowballed. The film went viral online – my grandmother was shocked to learn that half a million people saw me naked. But she and my parents have since expressed delight that it’s helped my burgeoning art career.
• As told to Chris Broughton
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