April 14th, 2021


Dear Jens, how are you doing in these times? I been wondering about something I read a long time ago. It was that you consider yourself as an miniature worker in making music. Do you still feel that way? If not what has changed?
I wish you a great week full of wonder.

Dear Serafina

I think the image of the miniature artist came to me after reading a short story by Steven Millhauser called ’In The Reign of Harad IV’ about a king’s craftsman who makes miniature sculptures. I recognised myself in it. Miniature art in all it’s forms - from the typical hobby railroad models one sometimes finds in the basement of an excentric grandparent, to Hagop Sandaldjian’s microsculptures only visible through a microscope, have always fascinated me. It’s the attention to detail I think. My brain wants to go there, further into the microcosm. In my songwriting it is a form of obsession, I can spend many nights working on details that no one will ever hear or care about. I’ll zoom in on a snare drum hit and curve the pitch of it’s tail for a tenth of a second. ”Amazing” I’ll think to myself. ”That’s just the way it should be”. Or I’ll go into Street View on Google Maps to see exactly where the fire hydrant is situated on a street where I have placed a story. Or I’ll sit for hours researching what songs were in the top 10 in my town on August 31st 1997. Some of these details you will recognize, maybe even appreciate, but most of them are details that only I hear.

I made my first music video with the production team from Roy Andersson’s Studio 24 and while I was waiting for them to wrap up their equipment I got to see a scene they were about to film for ’You, The Living’. They had set up a room, grey and gloomy like most of Roy’s sets, with an aquarium. Inside the aquarium they had put candywrappers on steel wire. I wasn’t too impressed by this, you could see it was just candywrappers. But a camera operator had me look through the lens, he adjusted the focus just slightly, and all of a sudden the candywrapper became a goldfish. They had worked on this for a month he said. I often think of Roy’s films when I write my songs. One aspect we have in common is his attention to what goes on in the background. His films are like living paintings that you can view for hours and discover new details in. I understand why it takes him a decade to complete each film.

As I thought about these things I decided to read Steven Millhauser’s story again. It truly is a great analogy for any kind of writing or creating. But this time it felt more tragic. It reminded me of the loneliness involved in writing and how you inevitably start disappearing into your own work. In the end, the miniature artist is visited by two apprentices who want to see his work. They praise him, tell him that they have never seen ”anything so remarkable in both conception and execution”. But the miniature artist knows that they haven’t seen anything, the details are too tiny. He knows they’re just pretending to see what he sees and that they probably think he’s mad. He returns to his work.

”…and as he sank below the crust of the visible world, into his dazzling kingdom, he understood that he had travelled a long way from the early days, that he still had far to go, and that, from now on, his life would be difficult and without forgiveness.”

March 26th, 2021


Hi Jens,

I'm writing you again, this time to have more of a discussion (hopefully, anyway).

Basically, like many of us, my life in quarantine hasn't gone swimmingly. I won't get into things too much, but the short of it is that the life I had planned on living after graduating college last May has been looking ever out of reach - I wanted to get out of my shell after a few years of living like a recluse, and also to gain some concrete direction in my professional life. As a result of the pandemic, however, I've been mostly living at home, rarely interacting with others in person besides my immediate family, and it looks pretty unlikely that I'll actually get admitted to any graduate school I submitted applications to, due to applying in the most competitive apps cycle in history. I feel lost at sea, yet without any concrete actor (even myself) to assign much blame to about my misfortune.

I feel that so much of art is giving attention to where attention is due, whether that's romanticizing the big and small meaningful moments in life or lamenting terrible pains you've experienced. Either way, though, these situations have generally been caused by someone; you have a person, real or fictional, to associate the given feelings with. With your music, for example, even though you have songs with themes and ideas that are off the beaten path, so much of your catalog is about the clearly and obviously emotional - being in love, being heartbroken, supporting/being supported by a friend, etc. It's been a great soundtrack for when I've either experienced those things or wanted to explore those situations vicariously.

But a lot of what actually affects us in life isn't so tangible or obviously personal, right? For me, this pandemic has been one of the most significant events I've experienced, changing my life's direction for the worse, even though I don't really feel I have the grounds or makeup as a person to feel anything other than a general sense of dismay about it. The whole thing reminds me of Ursula Le Guin's quote about how artists refuse "to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain."

My question - do you yourself ever feel like art is insufficient for situations like these? If so, how do you deal with it? Either as an artist or as an art appreciator.

Thanks for listening,

Nighthawks by Edward Hopper

Dear John

Sorry to hear that your life has been so hard lately. Your story reminds me of how much harder it must be for a young person to deal with the effects of the pandemic. Your whole life has been paused just when it was about to start.
As you say, music and art often focus on the events that involve another person, love and loss, while the more difficult and abstract feelings and events remain unsung. I can't stop thinking about the interview I read last year with a guy who had defined himself as an incel but didn't anymore because he had met someone. "How long have you been together?" asked the interviewer and the guy replied "Actually she broke up with me after two months". But it was being dumped that made him stop being an incel because it was an experience that brought him from the abstract pain that turned him into a bitter incel into the more concrete pain of being dumped. Having lost someone, either in love or in life, is a pain that's sanctioned. It's a pain we sing songs about. The dull pain, the pain that seems to have fallen on us, that makes us feel worthless, give up on hope, retreat into ourselves, that prohibits us from reaching out, is often met with indifference at best.

Olivia Laing searches for this pain in her book The Lonely City. After experiencing the kind of loneliness that you can only experience in New York City - the kind of loneliness that seems to make no sense when you're surrounded by 18 million people - she turned to art for consolation and company. She found it in Edward Hopper who in his classic painting Nighthawks saw the big city loneliness like she saw it. She found it in Henry Darger, whose life illuminates the forces that create isolation and loneliness but also the way the imagination works to survive. And in the work of artists who took up arms against isolation, like David Wojnarowicz who fought against the stigmatization of people with Aids in the 1980's. In an article in The Guardian she wrote "There is a gentrification that’s happening to cities, and there’s a gentrification that’s happening to the emotions too, with a similarly homogenising, whitening, deadening effect. Amid the glossiness of late capitalism, we are fed the notion that all difficult feelings – depression, anxiety, loneliness, rage – are simply a consequence of unsettled chemistry, a problem to be fixed, rather than a response to structural injustice."

I had to look up that Ursula Le Guin quote you mentioned and found it in it's whole to be about the myth of the tortured artist.
“The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist; a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain.”
I think this is from a fictional work so I'm not sure if I'm to attribute it to her or a character in a book, either way I agree to a certain extent. As we hide away the difficult, abstract feelings we simultaneously seem to be obsessed with the recognizable, tangible kind of pain and we are required to always have a good old trauma story in our back pocket to show that we have worked our way up and deserve to be where we are in life. I've experienced this first hand as journalists have tried to squeeze the trauma out of me, because without it - how do you build a story? All stories these days are like this - "something awful happened to me but I made it through and now I'm stronger than before". I did a project called Ghostwriting in 2015 where I asked people to send me stories from their life that I could turn into songs and most of the stories, about 300 in total were like this. Especially the ones from the US. I think it's a way to make sense of the injustice and inequality of our society. To not have suffered raises suspicion. Do you actually deserve to be where you are? Is your story even worth telling? After a while it becomes self fulfilling. The trauma becomes the purpose, not the healing.

I know you didn't write to criticize me, John, but I feel an obligation to think more about these things after reading your mail. You and Ursula are right, us artists need to lift the difficult feelings to the surface and not get stuck writing the same sad lovesongs and underdog trauma stories. I've often felt like these feelings are hard to go into. I've often said that I feel a responsibility to not leave the listener in the darkness. But what I've forgotten is that when you take a listener into the darkness you don't leave them there, because you're there with them.

I hope that things work out for you.

March 26th, 2021


Dear Jens,

Hello! I wanted to ask, do you consider yourself a person of faith, and/or a religious person? Has that identity changed over your life? Does it influence your art life?

Thank you for offering Life Will See You Now on cassette - I listen to it in my car, and I always cry during Evening Prayer, both because of the story itself, and because I don't often hear other people like me (I'm also an artist, and your sister's age) talk about prayer as a normal part of our lives.


Miranda Elliott-Rader
Charlottesville, Virginia, USA

Me in the Sedlec Ossuary, Kutná Hora, Czech Republic

Dear Miranda

I’m not a person of faith but I’ve always liked people who are, probably because I’ve always enjoyed the discussions. Because I grew up in a neighborhood with a lot of immigrants and a lot of different cultures I had friends who were muslims, buddhists, christians, jews and hindus. I loved talking to them about how they saw the world. I did have a short atheist phase when I was 17 but I quickly realized that it was a weak form of rebellion when living in one of the most secular and non religious countries in the world and I dropped it. I suppose I am an agnostic.

I do pray sometimes even though it's not to a particular God and I think every song is like a prayer. It is my longing, my pain, my gratefulness, my joy that I send out into the Universe. And I go to church sometimes. I love the idea of going to church. I often look for places that resemble churches, where an agnostic like me can experience the same feeling. When I was going through a hard time a few years ago I started going to clubs alone, just to dance and be around people. It was a new experience for me and I realized when I was there that I wasn’t the only one doing this.

There’s been a number of times in my life when I’ve longed to belong to a church or be part of a congregation. I remember being in a car ten years ago, on my way to a show, when the driver turned on Bob Dylan’s ”Gotta Serve Somebody” and it suddenly meant something to me. It could’ve been existential dread, a longing for someone else to be in charge of my path. A longing for a parental figure in the newfound chaos of adulthood perhaps. But I think there was something else at play too.

John Lennon released a reply to Dylan’s song, a funny tune called ”Serve Yourself” where he criticized religion and scolded Dylan for taking the easy way out. Lennon had effectively assassinated God nine years earlier in his song ”God” but it wasn’t just God that he had declared dead. The final line of the song, "The dream is over” was interpreted as declaring the end of the 1960’s and its quest for meaning in utopian movements. Lennon was saying that meaning lies within oneself. "If there is a God," Lennon explained, "we're all it.”

I had a friend who was into new age and more alternative beliefs and this was his main thesis - that we’re all God and that we’re here to experience everything that can be experienced, from total bliss to total suffering. We’re ”God’s whiskers”, he explained followed by a look that said "now you probably think I'm some kinda nutjob". But I didn't think he was a nutjob, I kinda liked that thought as much as I like all the fringe theories of a conscious universe. As much as I like the idea of Einstein's "cosmic religious feeling" or Freud's concept of an "oceanic feeling". Freud explained the latter as a leftover from our infant days, the time before we developed an ego or self, when we didn't know where our body ended and our mother's body started. I think Lennon was saying that we should find something else that unites us as religion and political movements often do the opposite. But since Lennon died our society has become extremely individualistic. Religion hasn't been replaced by anything and the grand political narratives that used to unite us have faded away. We're all islands on a vast ocean now. Tiny gods, writing our own bibles.

I think my song To Know Your Mission represents this split between individualism and belonging to something bigger. Serving somebody vs. serving yourself. There’s a conflict between young Jens and the Mormon missionary. Jens isn’t interested in his religious faith. He’s trying to find his own inner truth. He’s an individualist much like everyone else. But the final line is ”I know who I’m serving. I’m serving you.” When I play it live I always gesture with my arm at the crowd when I’m singing that. Because you are my congregation.


February 28th, 2021


Dear Jens. What’s your favorite ailment?