Stillness is not an absence, but a form of presence —
Her compositions do not ask to be interpreted; instead, they invite closeness.

Composed of slim lines and plastered textures, her works shimmer gently under shifting light, what she calls ‘shapes in constant motion with no beginning and no end’ and in that motion, a space opens — not for answers, but for presence. 

Through shifting textures and quiet reflections, Ida traces a conversation between light, material, and perception — between what we see and what we feel.

In this slow unfolding of forms, we spoke to Ida about attention, material intimacy, and the gentle resistance of quiet things.

Your practice feels like an ongoing dialogue between nature, material, and perception.
How has your relationship with nature — or raw material — evolved over time?

Nature and its way of giving have been fascinating to me for a long time, and my relationship to it has evolved into an interplay where I have learned to be a part of the creative process instead of creating it. There is an endless exploration of materials that, in many eyes, are waste — but it's there to guide me, teach me, and let me stretch its abilities. I have learned to work with materials and perceive them in a different way than might have been their original purpose, and I am enjoying seeing how it will continue to grow.

Is there a memory — a place, a gesture, a moment — that shaped the way you relate to stillness?

Growing up in a small village, with quite minimalist surroundings consisting of open fields and thick forests, I early on felt grounded and safe being in these environments. In the winter, when the cold lays around -30 degrees — I walk these forests, and it is completely silent. For as long as I can remember, I have felt that this, to me, is stillness.

What kind of silence do you need, in order to create?

I need physical silence, first of all — my work cannot be rushed or made 'on the go'; it requires presence and time. If I am not in a state where I feel balanced, it will be shown in my work. Minimalism, to me, is an act of presence, and it implies that both I and my surroundings should be calm for me to be able to create.

There is no object, you’ve said — only an invitation to step closer.
What does “stepping closer” mean to you? Is it a visual act, a bodily one, or something slower, more internal?

The sentence to me hold a lot, as I want the viewer to actually step closer to experience the piece and the texture. But what I truly wish for is that the viewer shall enter a state of stillness — to take time and be present, and hopefully find new nuances within and around the piece and oneself.

In today's hectic environment, we are fed with impressions, fast movements, and colours, all meant to capture our attention. My work acts as an antithesis to all of this — the pieces are an invitation to yourself.

Your process seems to be about listening — to materials, to light, to your own pace.
How do you know when to stop, when a work is ‘complete’?

I enjoy the process of not knowing exactly how a piece will turn out before it is completely dry — it goes through so many stages of nuance and depth before I can see the result. Though the process of a piece itself is finished, I do not see any of my artwork as 'complete'; it continues to move, grow, and breathe depending on the surroundings it’s in, how the light reflects — it tells different stories every time.

What have you been noticing lately — in your materials, in your surroundings, or simply in yourself?

I have noticed that I have found a sense of security in myself and my expression — something that I felt lost in for a period of time. There is nothing that has to be forced or explained, that can't be found in my work, as it speaks for itself in so many ways.