Miss Helga Christianne Alixandra Ziegler

As a child, I believed my friend Alix to be scary. Her rather eccentric appearance belonged firmly in the world of mythology. Her spare time was spent in the woods, carrying around rope, pulleys and saws of all sorts. Marie, her partner, seemed perpetually placed in a garden chair, reading Hamsun beneath an enormous straw hat, holding the book daintily between well preserved almost see-through white hands. Tranquillity abounded.

On February 4th2015, well into her 94th year, Miss Helga Christianne Alixandra Ziegler died peacefully and full of hope. And by that, one of my home town’s last visible eccentrics has gone. Gone where?

Alix, who has been a part of my life since I tookmy first shaky steps at Ziko, the Ziegler family cottage by the fjord, was unique. And we are so quick to judge that which is distinctive and thereby different, with a negative. Her rather weird and wonderful appearance, and her practice as a school dentist, made her visible and exposed at a time when going to the dentist was an uneasy and painful affair.

Our little blue town on the west coast of Norway has its codes for how to behave and how to conduct one’s life. Those who are cast in a different mould become clearly visible in the landscape that constitute our public space, and easily imbued with stories and opinions about who and what they are.

Clearly Alix was noticed. And she could not care less. She knew who and what she was. Unaffected and uncompromisingly honest in all her ways, she made her existence something true and complete. Grudging eyes from citizens with far more narrow frames for how to behave than Alix could or would accept, got no room in her world.

In recent years, she was a remarkable feature in town, - on her bicycle at a staggering speed down the hills, and as time caught up even with someone who had been an advocate for all extreme sports, the bike became balance support and where she stored her strange finds of the day.

The Alix I knew was an intensely alive, knowledgeable and profound person. Behind her almost mythological appearance existed a luminous intellect. A creative soul that made strange assemblies and installations, consisting of boats, funny characters and objects she just liked the look of. Thoughts of life and faith, meaning and purpose swirled around her.

An unsullied soul in a not always mild world ...

Both Alix and my family spent the whole summer at our neighbouring summer-cottages. As a child, going to visit Alix was a fairy-tale. An adventure throughmagical objects: the collection of old rifles, which we used freely for play in the forest, the frightening Domino, which stood in the woodshed with glass eyes, a yellow fisherman’s hat, and the shining armour of an 18th century samurai, and the dollhouse over all dollhouses from the time the family owned venerable Alexandra Hotel.

Alix was mostly to be found in the forest with her chainsaw, usually hanging in a tree top 10-15 meters above the ground in ropes and tallies. Her dear Marie sat in a recliner chair with a wide-braided hat and a book between her manicured hands. There was peace in their world.

The last time Alix visited Ziko, it struck me how beautiful she was, with her funny clothes with shoes tied with steel wire and tape, pants held up by bicycle straps, - and the beautiful smile of a shy young girl hidden behind big handsome hands that gave the concept of worker hands a completely different dimension.

My dad always spoke admiringly about Alix's fabulous style when skiing. Down mountain sides we now associate with extreme sports, she made fearless and joyous runs for it at tremendous speed. Already made trails were not for her.

Or you could meet her by the ocean with her telescope in clear winter nights staring up at the stars.

In the privacy of her own home, she wrote learned words about the great Mystery.

We are moving within time; the cityscape is changing. Faces, names, lives are gone and replaced by new life, new names. By Alix's death, one of Molde’s ancient families has become history. A family, worthy novels with its rich selection of unusual personalities.

One's own little life emerges in relief when our close one’s die. When they we share our history with disappear, something happens to the experience of one's own existence. As long as we are physically present together, we confirm each other's life and identity. Our lives exist in the space between us. It is where we say to ourselves and to each other: my life has happened to me.

It's not the same when it's only memories in your own mind that tells who you are.

Dear Alix. Thank you for being part of my life and history. In clear nights, when the fjord here in Djupdalen has fallen asleep and the porpoises breathe quietly in the dark, I'll look for you up there amongst the shards of broken stars.

PS! I am sure our maker thinks it's perfectly okay to bring your chainsaw ...

Ine Harrang Syningom, February 7th, 2015