I have always been drawn to things that do not quite follow the rules. There is something fascinating about taking an idea, looking at all the boundaries that have been placed around it, and asking yourself: why should I stay within them?

At film school, I was told more than once that my ideas were “too big”. Perhaps they were. But I have never been particularly good at letting go of something simply because it seems a little too ambitious, a little too impractical or a little too different.

I make films and take photographs because I want to tell something. It does not necessarily have to be something grand or serious every time, but something that can spark curiosity, provoke a reaction or encourage someone to see the world from a slightly different perspective.

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I am drawn to the unpredictable, the creative and the things that do not feel overly polished or predetermined. So perhaps it was no surprise that I continued developing my ideas, even when they grew beyond what might have been expected of me.

Eventually, I found myself completing several of my projects on my own. Looking back, I think that may have been one of the best things that could have happened to me.

When you are alone with an idea, there is nowhere to hide. You have to work out how everything fits together, from beginning to end, and you are forced to understand the entire process.

At the same time, I was terrified of what would happen after film school. I was afraid I would not find work, afraid I would not be good enough and, perhaps more than anything, afraid that I would leave with all this knowledge and nowhere to use it.

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After my grades had dropped twice on group projects, I decided to focus more on working independently.

It made a difference. My grades improved again, but more importantly, I came away with projects I could take with me into the next stage of my career. Suddenly, I had work I could actually put in my portfolio.

Not long after film school, I was invited to a job interview that would change the direction of my career.

It was not an ordinary job interview, and I am still incredibly grateful that he chose to take a chance on me. I was fresh out of film school, without the years of experience many employers tend to look for. But that was not what he was looking for.

He wanted someone who was hungry to learn, someone with drive, curiosity and a genuine passion for the craft.

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Suddenly, there I was with a camera on my shoulder, about to film Tid for hjem, a Norwegian home renovation program. The television personalities I had previously only seen on screen were now standing in front of me, and I could no longer hide behind the excuse that I was new.

I remember the adrenaline, my jaw clenched with tension and my heart beating far harder than it had any reason to. I was terrified. But at the same time, I knew this was one of those moments when you either throw yourself into it or walk away.

Eventually, the nerves began to fade.

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What had initially felt intimidating started to become fun. I could play with the camera, experiment with ideas and search for angles that might make the images a little more interesting.

Then, quite unexpectedly, that chapter came to an end. 

TV 2 decided to bring Tid for hjem to an end, and the owners of Pandora Film AS subsequently decided to close the production company after many years in business. It was a strange feeling to watch something I had grown so fond of disappear like that.

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Suddenly, it was over. And with it, some of the motivation I had carried with me disappeared too.

Fortunately, they recommended me to TV 2, which meant an enormous amount to me. The fact that they took the time to help me move forward after their own project had come to an end says a great deal about the people I had around me. It was a kind of support I deeply appreciated.

The plan was for me to work as a studio technician and photojournalist.

 

On paper, it sounded like an exciting opportunity, but I quickly realised it was not where I belonged. I tried to settle into the role, but the work did not give me the same feeling I had experienced before. During my breaks, I would sometimes lock myself in the toilet at work, put on my headphones and dance by myself.

It might sound absurd, but at the time it genuinely became a kind of survival mechanism. A few minutes when I could switch off from everything around me and be somewhere other than where I actually was. There is a particular kind of loneliness in being surrounded by people while still feeling as though you do not belong.

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Eventually, I was offered a full-time position as a photographer in Oslo, and I moved from Bergen to the capital.

I threw myself into the job with a great deal of energy, but also with a relentless work ethic that would eventually become my biggest challenge.

There was always something that needed to be done. I was responsible for a huge number of tasks on my own, and if I was not at the workplace, I was out taking photographs. If I was not shooting, I was in the studio or sitting in front of my computer editing videos and photographs, writing contracts, conducting job interviews or answering phone calls that really should have waited until the following day.

But they did not.

The work never waited.

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Gradually, the boundaries between work and the rest of my life began to disappear. There was little time for holidays, little time to rest and even less time to simply be a person without another task waiting to be completed.

For a long time, I think I convinced myself that this simply meant I was dedicated. That this was how you had to work if you truly wanted something.

Then my body said no.

I went to see my doctor, and the tears came before I had even managed to explain what was wrong.

There was no hiding how exhausted I had become. By then, I was completely exhausted. I had pushed myself far beyond what I could sustain, and there was simply nothing left to give. Even the things I had once loved had lost their spark. It took time to find my way back.

For the first few months, it was mostly about sleeping and finally giving my body what it had been asking for for a long time.

As I began to sleep more and slowly regain some energy, my thoughts started returning too. And with them came a new question, one that proved harder to answer than I had expected:

What do I actually want?

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The long nights alone in my room in a shared flat in Oslo gave me more time to think than I perhaps wanted.

At first, the silence was wonderful. I needed it. But gradually, I went from being exhausted to experiencing an entirely different kind of restlessness.

I had spent so many years running forwards that, when I finally stopped, I suddenly had no idea what to do.

It was almost as though fear had become a habit.

I had been so focused on finding work, performing, proving that I was good enough and keeping up with everything around me that I had forgotten to ask myself what I actually wanted to build.

I felt as though I had lost my ability to think outside the box, even though that had always been where I was at my best.

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But somewhere amongst all those long nights, the sleep, the uncertainty and the need to find my way back to myself, new ideas began to take shape.

And perhaps that is exactly why Lenzeih exists today.

I do not think Lenzeih would have existed without everything I experienced along the way. Without all the jobs that taught me what I did not want. Without the people who gave me opportunities. Without film school, the solo projects, the camera on my shoulder, television production, Oslo, the pressure of work and, finally, the period when I had no choice but to stop.

Because through all of it, I have developed a fairly clear idea of what I want to create.

I want to build a network that makes everyday life a little more enjoyable than mine has sometimes been. A place where people can meet without having to fit into a particular box in order to belong.

 

A place where we can organise events for different age groups, try new things, learn from one another and, perhaps most importantly, get to know people we might never otherwise have met.

I want to create what I once needed myself.

A community where curiosity is encouraged. Where being different does not have to be a disadvantage, but might instead be the very thing that makes an idea interesting.

Perhaps I needed to lose my way for a while before I could work out where I actually wanted to go.

And perhaps it is all right not to have every answer straight away.

Because sometimes, you only find your direction once you stop running.

That is where Lenzeih begins.

And I cannot wait to see where it takes us.