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No matter how many times you visit Oslo, a trip to the Munchmuseet is a must. You should lose yourself in its vast galleries and admire the work of one of the most fascinating painters in the history of art. Munch explores deeply human themes -such as pain, anguish, loneliness, and mental fragility- through an incredibly introspective style of art.
Every single one of Munch's works is a masterpiece in its own right. However, for The Grandma, the piece that sparks the most admiration and curiosity is The Sun. It stands apart from his usual dark, raw, and dramatic subject matter; it serves as a reminder that, no matter how harsh, cruel, or sad life may be, there are always moments of light. Pain may come and go, but the sun will continue to rise each day -illuminating our world, providing us with light and energy, and gifting us that essential vitamin D we all need.
There are museums that we visit to admire works of art, and others that take us on an unexpected journey through the human mind. The MUNCH Museum in Oslo belongs to the second category.
Walking through its galleries is a fascinating, disturbing and sometimes heartbreaking experience. The paintings of Edvard Munch (1863-1944) confront us with some of the most profound emotions of human existence: fear, loneliness, anxiety, jealousy, grief, love and death. His ghostly figures, unsettling landscapes and disturbing representations of illness and mortality seem to reveal a mind deeply familiar with psychological suffering. And yet, among these expressions of darkness, we suddenly encounter The Sun, an extraordinary explosion of light, energy and vitality.
How could the same artist create such different worlds? Perhaps the answer lies not only in Munch's psychological struggles but in something far more fascinating: the relationship between human experience and artistic genius.
Edvard Munch's childhood was marked by tragedy. His mother died of tuberculosis when he was five years old, and his beloved sister Sophie died of the same disease when he was fourteen. His father struggled with anxiety and religious fears, and illness remained a constant presence in the family. These experiences left a profound mark on Munch's emotional life.
In The Sick Child (1885-1886), he transformed the memory of his sister's illness into an extraordinarily moving painting. In Death in the Sickroom (1893), the members of a grieving family occupy the same space but seem imprisoned within their individual suffering. They are physically together, yet emotionally isolated. Death appears repeatedly in Munch's work, but it would be simplistic to interpret this recurrence merely as an obsession. Perhaps he returned to these subjects because painting offered him a way to explore experiences that could never be fully understood or explained.
In 1908, after years of psychological difficulties and problematic alcohol consumption, Munch experienced a serious crisis and received psychiatric treatment in Copenhagen. However, his artistic achievement cannot be explained by his psychological condition alone.
Millions of people have suffered, and millions continue to suffer. Yet suffering does not automatically produce artistic genius. Munch's greatness was not that he suffered, but that he possessed the extraordinary ability to transform human experience into art.
Few paintings have captured psychological distress as powerfully as The Scream (1893). Its central figure seems overwhelmed by an unbearable sensation. The distorted face, the open mouth, the blood-red sky and the unsettling movement of the landscape create an atmosphere in which the entire world appears to participate in human anguish. Munch did not simply represent a frightened individual. He gave visual form to an emotion that millions of people have experienced but might struggle to describe.
Something similar occurs in Anxiety (1894), where a procession of pale, expressionless figures confronts the viewer. Their faces resemble masks. Their eyes seem empty. Although they stand close together, they appear profoundly disconnected. The painting raises an uncomfortable question: can we feel completely alone even when surrounded by other people?
Munch's achievement was to make the invisible visible. Fear has no particular shape. Anxiety has no single colour. Loneliness cannot be measured or photographed. And yet, through his artistic language, these emotions become almost tangible. This is where suffering ends and artistic creation begins.
Does the artist express himself through art, or does art give the artist a voice? The relationship between psychological suffering and artistic creation is one of the most fascinating questions in the history of culture. It extends far beyond painting.
In nineteenth-century Russian literature, Fyodor Dostoevsky explored guilt, obsession, moral conflict and psychological fragmentation with an intensity that continues to astonish readers. Raskolnikov, the protagonist of Crime and Punishment, is not simply a man tormented by his actions. He is a literary exploration of conscience, morality and the contradictions of the human mind. In The Gambler, Dostoevsky transformed his familiarity with compulsive gambling into an extraordinary psychological portrait of dependency and self-destruction. Where Dostoevsky needed words, characters and complex narratives, Munch used colours, shapes and faces. Both artists explored the darker dimensions of human existence, but neither can be reduced to personal suffering. The same phenomenon can be observed in post-war literature. Writers such as Primo Levi, who survived Auschwitz, and Mercè Rodoreda, whose life was profoundly affected by the Spanish Civil War and exile, transformed historical trauma and human suffering into literature of extraordinary significance. Their experiences mattered, but their literary talent, imagination and ability to observe the human condition were equally essential. And this leads to an intriguing question.
Does an artist use art to express emotions that already exist, or does the creative process itself reveal emotions and ideas that the artist had not yet fully understood? Perhaps both possibilities are true. Art is not simply a container for feelings. It is also a way of thinking, questioning, interpreting and discovering. The artist transforms experience into art, but the process of creation may also transform the artist's understanding of that experience.
There is a dangerous tendency to romanticise the relationship between psychological suffering and artistic genius. The image of the tortured artist has become almost a cultural stereotype. But suffering is neither a necessary condition for artistic greatness nor a guarantee of creativity.
Millions of people experience grief, depression, fear and emotional distress without producing works of art. And countless extraordinary artists have created masterpieces inspired by happiness, love, curiosity, beauty or the simple pleasure of observing the world. What distinguishes great artists is not the intensity of their suffering but their ability to observe, interpret and transform experience through an exceptional artistic language. Their imagination allows them to communicate not only what they have personally experienced but also what they have understood about other human beings. An artist does not necessarily need to experience every emotion or situation represented in a work. Empathy, observation and imagination are also essential creative forces. Perhaps the most remarkable achievement of artistic genius is the transformation of something individual into something universal.
Munch's anxiety becomes our anxiety. Dostoevsky's moral conflicts become our questions. Rodoreda's characters make us recognise emotions and experiences that transcend their particular historical circumstances. Suffering does not create artists. Artistic genius gives human experience a language that can transcend the individual.
After encountering so many images of grief, anxiety and death, discovering The Sun (1910-1911) feels almost like entering another emotional universe. Created for the University of Oslo's Aula, this monumental painting presents a radiant sun rising above a coastal landscape. Powerful rays of light spread across the composition, illuminating the sea and surrounding rocks. There are no ghostly faces. No dying children. No figures overwhelmed by fear. There is only the overwhelming presence of light. It would be tempting to interpret the painting as evidence that Munch had finally escaped his psychological suffering, particularly because it was created after his psychiatric treatment. But human psychology is far too complex for such a simple explanation.
The painting also reflects his artistic interest in nature, vitality, renewal and the relationship between human existence and the natural world. What makes The Sun extraordinary is not that it contradicts The Scream, but that both works belong to the same artistic imagination. The artist who could represent unbearable anxiety could also celebrate the extraordinary energy of life. Perhaps we have spent too much time looking at Munch through the darkness of his most famous painting. The Sun reminds us that his creative universe was infinitely richer. The same imagination that gave darkness a face gave light an almost overwhelming physical presence.
The MUNCH Museum in Oslo is much more than a building containing paintings. It was opened in 2021 in the Bjørvika waterfront district. Its striking thirteen-storey structure, with its distinctive leaning upper section and translucent façade, has become part of Oslo's contemporary architectural identity. The building rises above the waterfront, establishing a visual dialogue with the city, the fjord and the changing Norwegian light. Its vertical organisation offers visitors a succession of artistic experiences and changing perspectives. Inside, the galleries reveal the extraordinary diversity of Munch's work, from intimate and disturbing paintings to monumental compositions.
The museum also reflects the remarkable legacy of an artist who left thousands of works to the city of Oslo. There is something deeply symbolic about dedicating such an extraordinary architectural space to a man whose paintings so frequently explored isolation and emotional vulnerability. An artist who represented loneliness has become the centre of a place where people gather. A man who explored the difficulties of human communication now speaks to visitors from every corner of the world. His personal experiences have become part of humanity's shared cultural heritage. And perhaps the museum itself can be understood as a metaphor.
Visitors move through different spaces, encounter different emotions and discover contrasting dimensions of Munch's imagination. They move between darkness and light, suffering and vitality, intimacy and monumentality. The building does not merely preserve his paintings. It invites us to experience the complexity of his artistic universe.
There is something profoundly moving, and also deeply sad, about the relationship between suffering and artistic creation. We admire paintings, novels and musical compositions that may have emerged from experiences of extraordinary pain. We celebrate their beauty while recognising the human vulnerability behind them. But we must never confuse the value of the artwork with the desirability of the suffering that may have influenced it. Art can give meaning and form to painful experiences without necessarily healing the person who creates it. Perhaps the greatest paradox of art is that something born from profound loneliness can become a universal language of human connection.
Munch painted his fears, and more than a century later, visitors entering a museum in Oslo can recognise something of themselves in his figures. The artist's experience was personal. The emotional response has become universal. And this may be the most extraordinary achievement of art: its ability to cross the boundaries of time, geography, language and individual experience.
Leaving the MUNCH Museum does not necessarily mean leaving Edvard Munch behind. His paintings remain in our imagination because they confront us with emotions that belong to the human condition. They remind us that fear, grief, love, loneliness and hope are not isolated experiences but part of what connects us to one another.
Munch was not a great artist because he suffered. He was a great artist because he possessed the talent, sensitivity, imagination and extraordinary creative vision to transform human experience into a language that continues to move us. And perhaps that is why The Sun is such an essential part of his legacy. It reminds us that the human mind cannot be defined by its darkest moments. There is suffering, but there is also beauty. There is anxiety, but there is also wonder. There is death, but there is also life.
Edvard Munch gave darkness a voice, but he also knew how to paint the light. And between those two extremes lies the extraordinary complexity of being human, because art and psychological suffering have the extraordinary ability to transform human emotions into a universal language. The tragedy is not that artists suffer. The tragedy is that so much suffering exists in the world. The miracle of art is that some human beings possess the extraordinary gift of transforming experience into something that helps others understand what it means to be alive.
Munch painted the loneliness of the human soul. More than a century later, we stand together before his paintings, discovering that even the most solitary emotions can bring people closer.
More information: Munchmuseet
Jeg maler ikke det jeg ser, men det jeg så.
Jeg så solen stige opp over klippene
My art is rooted in a single reflection:
I don't paint what I see, but what I saw.
I saw the sun rise up above the rocks
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