Annual Report 2021

Divorce 3
Thread 10
A coat 15
Red shoes, part II 24
Tailor 28
Angels 35
Me, we & us 38
Tinder 40
Paint 42
What’s next 44

On the cover: The patina on my red shoes. The aesthetics of decay is a theme I keep returning to. Both in the tangible and
material sense, like this paint on these shoes or the disintegration of the lining on a garment. But also in the metaphorical
sense: a life with wounds and bruises. A heart that has loved and lost and loved again.
Divorce

2021 turned out to be an eventful year in many different ways, however,

the defining through-line was the end of a 16-year long romantic
relationship, legal separation and ultimately divorce.

I have always used the act of writing these annual reports as a way to
process my experience, to shape it, to find meaning and as an attempt
to own my own story. I’ve delayed writing and publishing this report
because it has taken longer to work through things this year and to get
enough distance, in order to be able to write something that I feel is
appropriate to publish and share.

I haven’t written about the breakup and divorce itself, because it is both
too private and too raw. Instead I have decided to zoom out and reflect
on the renegotiation of relationships: the romantic relationship is over,
but we are still bound together by the children, so there’s now a new
kind of relationship being built. And at the same time, there are so many
remnants of our time together, that are still important and enjoyable in
my life, both in their own right, and as tokens of the many good things
we had. Thus, this year’s report is actually as much of a reflection on the
things that perhaps haven’t changed all that much. It’s been rewarding
to experience a level of peace with where I’m at, and I am proud to
share this volume with you.

And as always there are photos and micro-stories throughout so feel

free to browse quickly and just let your intuition guide you.

With love
Mathias
— Chairman of my life
Self portrait, January 2022, wearing the cheap and old bowler hat I
also wore at our wedding in 2010 and frames without glass, bought
in a vintage store during a trip to NYC in 2006.
Uma and Futte
Space to
laugh and
goof around
All kids have been helping out in the kitchen. Here’s Juno.
The torn seam on a Carol Christian Poell jacket. This jacket was
probably always too ambitious: an extremely narrow fit and made
from a fabric that has no stretch, it was bound to break. I’ve repaired
it several times duting the 10 years It’s been mine. It’s still one of the
best jackets I’ve ever owned.
The lining of the same Carol Christian Poell jacket. I somehow really love that a jacket that is 10 years old
can have these unmistakable signs of wear on the inside while looking sharp and perfect on the outside.
Thread

We are seated for dinner. Across from me is a man named Stanley,

who is wearing the same sunglasses now, as he did this morning in the
church and in the afternoon when we were out sailing. I’m in Tallinn,
the capitol of Estonia, because I’ve been invited to the wedding of Mary
Jordan—a friend from NYC—and her husband Erik. It’s august 2011,
and I’m there with a good friend who has joined as my +1. The previous
week I had been in Copenhagen to cover the events of fashion week.
Between the fashion shows and parties and work I had gone for an
evening run with one of my friends, around a very underdeveloped
area. It was only five months ago that I had moved to New York, and at
that time I of course had no idea that this area would eventually develop
into a neighborhood called Ørestad, where I would end up living 10
years later. If anyone had told me this back then, I would have sworn
that they were insane. Sitting at dinner in Tallinn, across from Stanley, all
I knew was that my legs were still painfully sore from that evening run,
because I had pushed myself too far. I’ve had a bad habit of doing that:
Letting my willpower push through the sound of the natural warning
bells of my body.

What’s so wonderful about Stanley, is that in this moment, I know very

little about him. Until this morning I had never met him. I only know
his first name, and I figure that he is probably a photographer since
he has been carrying two Leica cameras around all day. What struck
me when I first saw him, was the casualness of how he carried those
cameras. Young photographers who have recently invested in their first
real camera, usually carry it around in a protective camera bag, hold it
with care and are diligent to put the lens cap back on after each shot.
Stanley had the two Leicas (~$12,000 each) slung around his shoulder,
dangling more like a purse. They were just a natural extension of him.
And now he is sitting here with his mirror lens sunglasses in a dimly lit
restaurant in Tallinn. With anyone else I would have found it obnoxious.
But there is something about him that makes me love him, and while
it will be another 10 years before I begin to really understand why he
wants to cover his eyes, I instinctively feel that it’s ok. It seems that he
has earned the right to do so. At one point he alludes vaguely to the
“things he has seen”. Later, he actually removes the glasses and reveals
his eyes. I don’t recall what we were talking about. But it gives me
chills just to think about it. His soft and tender eyes, full of sorrow and
longing, hidden behind those mirror lenses.

A few days later I’m in Berlin to visit Campbell MacDougal—the

canadian store owner I had met in Paris five years prior. He has
relocated from Vancouver and his new store, Darklands, is a temple of
the black avant garde clothing that came to dominate my wardrobe
for a decade. I leave with a suit, unlike any suit I’ve had before: a Carol
Christian Poell WIM COL/10. CCP garments are most often made from
fabric that has been woven exclusively for CCP, and WIM is the name of
such a fabric. COL/10 just means black. The suit is narrow fitting. The
shoulders are intensely padded and sharp. And because the fabric is
quite heavy, matte and a bit coarse to the touch, the whole thing is stiff
and rigid and feels like armor. It’s not comfortable the way sweatpants
are comfortable. It is highly restrictive of movement, and you never
forget that you are wearing it. But it gives me a kind of psychological
comfort that makes it worth the sacrifice of comfort. Just like Stanley’s
mirror lenses shield his eyes, I feel like I’m shielded.

Back in NYC, I wear the suit a lot. But a few months later something
happens. While trying to reach up for something, I hear the sound of
something that tears. Did I just break my brand new suit? I take off the
jacket and see that the seam which connects the sleeve to the torso
has torn open near the armpit. I sew it back together the best I can.
But I’m confused. Why did an epxensive and supposedly high quality
garment break so quickly? Why didn’t they use a stronger thread?
Determined to not let it break again, I make sure to make extra stitches.
I’m making the jacket stronger. That’s what I tell myself.

Ten years have passed since I made that repair. In those ten years
I’ve also repaired other garments. But I still didn’t understand why
seams would break. I still have the black CCP suit, and it is still one
of my absolute favorites. I still love the way it defines so clearly and
definitively the boundary between me and the world around me. It’s
well worn. The lining reveals a decade of loving use. As much as I love
it, I know it won’t last forever, and this past year I worked with a local
tailor in Copenhagen to create a new suit for me. A new armor. It was
a very different process from picking out an existing suit at Darklands
in Berlin. I met with the tailor almost ten times, to discuss the idea for
the suit, to look at fabric, to take measurements. To try on the jacket
and trousers again and again, with the tailor making minor adjustments
between each visit. We would discuss all the little choices and options.
I still prefer a very heavy and rigid fabric and a narrow fit, which is at
odds with each other. Let me explain. Seeing how he worked, how he
talked, and how he argued for why certain things had to be done in
certain ways, I began to understand his worldview: as a tailor he must
have the deepest respect for the fabric. Why? Because the fabric is the
most expensive ingredient, and it’s the one thing he can’t repair. All the
seams can be fixed or changed. But if the fit is too narrow, the fabric
too rigid and the seams are too strong, then the fabric will wear out
much too soon, or even tear and break. It wasn’t just in what he said.
I could feel it. Just imagining the unnecessary strain on the fabric was
somehow painful for him.

It turns out that there’s a great reason for using thread that isn’t too
strong: because we can’t prevent the wearer from potentially stretching
too far, and thus damaging the garment, and because we want to
ensure that the garment can be repaired, we make the seams with a
thread that is intentionally designed to break long before the fabric
tears. So when my jacket tore 10 years ago it did what it was designed
to do. Because I stretched too far, it was bound to break. The seam
broke in order to preserve the fabric.

I can’t help but wonder how my life would have played out differently,
if I had learned this lesson sooner. Have I been trying to hold together
a relationship by using stronger thread? And by doing so, have I
damaged my own fabric beyond repair? Or is it like the CCP jacket,
which from the beginning was too ambitious and bound to break? It’s
all so new and I don’t have clear answers. But when I look at my three
children, I can easily forgive myself for trying with stronger thread.
Perhaps in the fabric of life, those unrepairable tears are what makes us
who we are.

Epilogue
While researching this annual report I looked up Stanley Greene. As it
turns out, he died in 2017. Time Magazine did a beautiful series about
him and his work: time.com/stanley-greene
Dior Homme coat from 2006. Worn hundreds of times and still looking great.
Lining of Dior Homme coat from 2006 showing signs of wear.
A coat

It’s really hot outside. It’s summer in Paris, and I’m here on vacation
with my girlfriend. We didn’t plan it this way, but it just so happens that
it’s fashion week for menswear. The year is 2006 and in the past year
I’ve developed a bit of an obsession with men’s fashion. I particularly
love the aesthetics of Hedi Slimane who has dominated the scene with
his Dior Homme line of slim fitting suits and coats. Now I’m standing
outside the headquarters of Jean Paul Gaultier, waiting in line and
hoping to get into this season’s fashion show. My name isn’t on the list.
But I ask anyway, and pretend that there must have been a mistake, but
alright. I never had a power face. Who am I kidding? I wait anyway. The
real press arrives. I see journalists in high heels and short dresses get
out of black SUVs and walk in. I’m wearing jeans and a red and white
shirt. There are a few others who can’t seem to get in either. Probably
students or something. At the last minute the guards suddenly let us
in anyway. We hurry inside and find a few empty seats in the back.
The music pumps. Lights are flashing. It’s exhilarating. I made it into a
fashion show.

We walk around the city. Stop at cafes and share meals and look at cool
stores. I don’t speak any French. I can’t pronounce any of the words and
I find it hard to just navigate the metro. But we are having a good time
together.

After my surprise success getting into the Jean Paul Gaultier show,
I decide to try my luck a second time. This time I’m more ambitious:
Raf Simons is a cool and very respected avant garde designer, slowly
coming out of obscurity in 2006, and his show is listed at a somewhat
remote location a bit outside the city centre. With no invitation and
my name certainly not on any guest list, I venture out to the place.
On the train I notice a man in black boots, black jeans, a black t-shirt
and with thick rimmed black glasses. He gets off at the same stop as
me, and I use all my courage to ask him if he is also going to the Raf
Simons show. Sure he is. I’m relieved that he speaks English and we
walk together. His name is Campbell and he’s from Vancouver, BC and
I confess that I don’t actually have an invitation to the show. He says he
never gets it anyway, but he has a store and says he will just tell them
that I’m with him.
Seated on long benches we wait for the show to begin. On the front
row I notice a particular journalist from the New York Times, that I’ve
been reading a lot from. Her name is Cathy Horyn and it’s because
of her that I’ve learned about Raf Simons. Campbell tells me about
several cool places in Paris that I should check out and writes down
addresses in my notebook in almost legible cursive. Among the places
is L’Eclaireur. They have multiple locations but his favorite is the one on
Rue Herold. I promise to send him an e-mail after I’ve visited. The show
isn’t really that great or inspiring. The clothes seem rather meh, but I’m
having a great time. After the show is over and we are finding our way
out, I walk up to Cathy Horyn and tell her that I appreciate her writing.

The first L’Eclaireur store we go to is amazing. From the street we enter

into a little ante room where someone is sitting at a desk. But then a
door slides open and we can proceed into the store itself. My girlfriend
picks out a black woolen coat. She says I should try it on. It’s strange
to try on a winter coat on a hot summer day in Paris. But this isn’t just
any coat. This is a Dior Homme coat. It has two rows of buttons on the
chest, three buckle closures and a belt. The store clerk is friendly and
seems to wink at me, almost as if he’s flirting. I look in the mirror and I
can’t believe it. It looks incredible. I feel incredible.

We also visit the other location on Rue Herold. A big green door. No
sign. Just a tiny little buzzer. Unless you know what you’re looking
for, you’d never guess that behind the door is an eclectic selection of
expensive garments. We press the buzzer and after a few moments the
door swings open and reveal a dark grotto-like store. But I can’t stop
thinking about the Dior coat. And the next day I return to buy it. I feel
cool using my platinum Mastercard, and it feels like summer can’t be
over soon enough so I can start wearing it.
It’s now been 15 years since that trip to Paris. I still have the coat, which
became the first item in a collection of winter coats. I’ve worn the coat
frequently, and yet it’s hard to tell. It looks pristine at first glance. It’s
a mystery to me, how a garment like this can be so durable, when so
many other garments seem to wear out, fall apart and just start looking
bad. It’s not been repaired once. And the fabric looks fresh. And while
I’m no longer in a relationship with the woman who picked the coat and
encouraged me to try it on, I’m still left with a beautiful, tangible and
useful artifact, which retains a bit of that original mystery that I find in all
the greatest pieces of clothing.

Epilogue
Campbell MacDougal later become a long time collaborator. He moved
to Germany where he opened his second store called Darklands Berlin.
Darklands influenced my wardrobe for the next 12 years, and in many
ways still does.
I’m still exploring colors. I’m also exploring short
term car rental with ShareNow. That’s fun!
Uma, Juno
and my dad
(in case you
couldn’t tell)

Meta — A photo of
an iPad playing a
video on an iPad
Frozen
Noah has really found the joy of reading.
Roller skating at
the school
See more photos at www.gademode.dk
Red shoes, part II
Last year I wrote about making a pair of red shoes. A crazy and stupid
and tedious and absolutely amazing project, which perhaps more than
anything else, helped me work through a life crisis. You can read the full
story in the 2020 annual report.

Now it’s been a year and a half of wearing the shoes. And I love them
more than ever. I love every day that I put them on. And out of the
shoes I rotate between during the week, they are the ones I look
forward to wearing. The two pairs of black boots, the green shoes,
the blue shoes (that I made this past year), and my assorted sneakers
are fine for the other days. But it’s the red shoe days where I feel most
alive. And now the hard effort of last year is coming back and paying
aesthetic dividends. The fact that the shoes were first dyed, which
created a deep warm and slightly burgundy red, before being painted
over with a layer of tomato red leather paint, has created the most
amazing patina. As the paint is scratched off, it reveals the subtle darker
red underneath, creating an effect I couldn’t have wished for. See the
front page of this report.

Now I have a pair of shoes, bought almost 17 years ago in New York
during my first visit to the city that would later become my home and
the birth city of all three children, on the first vacation with the woman
whom I’d later marry and now also divorce. They got their red color
during a life crisis which in many ways was tied to the gradual decline
of our marriage. They are simultaneously the symbol of the hope of
young love, the grief of a broken dream, the potential for renewal and
reinvention and the durability of life in the face of adversity. And they
look awesome.

Looking at them through a camera also brings back another memory:

my first exhibition as a photographer called Signs Of Time. A very
small show that was about bringing the aesthetics of decay, that I had
fallen in love with in NYC, back to Denmark and framing it, and giving it
attention. It was, by all measures, an unsuccessful show. The reception
was attended by friends and family only, there were no write-ups even
the smallest local newspaper, and I sold only two of the eight photos:
one to my parents and one to my in-laws (I wonder if they still have that
photo hanging on their wall now.) And yet, this fascination with patina
and decay has endured. And when I think about that unsuccessful
show, those photos are still some of the artworks I’m most proud of.
One of the photos from Signs Of Time, Hatch & Bloom Gallery, Aarhus, February 2010
My beloved grandmother at the reception for Signs Of Time in February 2010.
Fourth fitting of the new suit. It was amazing to see it all come together slowly month after month.
Tailor

I’m going to see my tailor. I like using the possessive form. He isn’t just
“a tailor.” Or “the tailor.” He is my tailor. That’s how I say it. This didn’t
happen overnight. I sought him out after we moved to Copenhagen.
I knew I was interested in having a suit made for me, but I wanted to
make sure that he was legit. At first I asked him to repair some old
pieces. He fixed an old coat where the fabric had torn in several places.
He also replaced the lining of another coat. And then he fixed the
elbows on a jacket. It was that third time, where his magic revealed
itself to me, and I was brought to tears when I saw the result. He has
also told me the story of how he, as a child, had been helping his father,
who was also a tailor. I decided that this guy would be the one.

So today I’m going to see him in order to set in motion the process for
making the suit. We are meeting outside of normal opening hours so
it’s just me and him in the workshop. We talk about the possibilities. It’s
mostly just me talking about all my ideas and wishes. For a moment the
world revolves around what I want. When you are making a bespoke
suit, pretty much anything is possible, unlike made-to-measure. In
a made-to-measure suit one person takes your measurements, and
then someone else turns those measurements into a pattern, which
someone cuts and others sew together. At each step there’s a risk
of loss of information, so outside of endless fabric, lining and button
choices your options are limited. In a bespoke suit, there’s only one
tailor. It’s the same person who takes the measurements who also
makes the pattern, cuts it, makes it and remakes it. I want a hidden
pocket on my sleeve where I can fit my metro card. I get to have it my
way. It’s a welcome break for me. These past weeks have been wild and
turbulent, and yet it’s nothing compared to what’s ahead of me. As we
discuss fabric choices, I’m still unaware that before this suit is finished I
will be divorced. What I know, is that the woman who at this point in the
story is still my wife, has spent the past few weeks in the hospital, while
I’ve been home alone with the kids and I’ve started a new full time job.
It’s early April.

Because of Covid and lockdown, I’ve been working from home, which
has made family logistics a lot easier.
I’ve never taken any paternity leave. Because we were in the US when
our children were born, I got only two weeks off, and at the time we
didn’t feel that we could afford to go without my income. I’ve of course
tried to do my share of the housework, but I’ve never really been the
captain of the home ship.

That, however, has changed in the weeks I’ve been alone with the kids.
Because I had no idea how long she would be away, I somehow knew
that our old ways and habits wouldn’t be sustainable anymore. I had to
change how things were done at home, so I finally put on the captain
hat and took charge.

I asked for help from friends and neighbors. I changed the norms
around how we eat, where we eat and when we eat. Slowly and
persistently I changed the way I did bedtime with the kids. Previously
we had stayed in the room with each child until they were fully asleep,
so with three kids it was a long process that required at least two
adults. But carefully and gradually I made it possible for the kids to fall
asleep on their own, and in turn I made it possible for myself to run the
household on my own, without any help from friends.

What we wear is part of how we negotiate our relationship with the

world. When wearing a beautiful gown to a party, you can both stand
out in the magnificence of it, and at the same time show respect for the
premise of the party: the festive vibe created by everyone putting in a
little extra effort. The same with a suit or sweatpants—depending on
the context you are in, you are negotiating the relationship by showing
either respect for the expectations or by rejecting norms and insisting
on your independence. Each day you decide how much you want to
play along and how much you will stand out, and in turn what you are
taking responsibility for.

When you buy clothes that are already made, someone else has taken
responsibility for the way all the choices are put together. The fabric, fit,
pocket placement, and many other tiny details. You only get to decide
if you take it as it is, or reject it, and look for something else amongst
the near infinite racks of an average department store. When making a
suit with a tailor, you become responsible for many of those choices.
It’s liberating that anything is possible, like my little sleeve pocket,
but at the same time it’s also overwhelming because it’s hard to fully
comprehend the consequences of each tiny choice. It was only once
the suit was finished that I could see that the pockets had been placed
too low to my preference. They are now placed on my hips instead of
near my waist. This affects the whole silhouette, and it’s not something
you can simply change. This made me sad. And there were nobody I
could blame but myself. It was my responsibility.

In those weeks while I was alone with the kids, the most fundamental
shift I made, was that I began to take more responsibility in the
relationship with the kids. Instead of giving them more options and
choice, I gave them less choice. This wasn’t popular at first. They had
become so used to having influence on many things at home. But
quickly I could see that they also relaxed. The burden of responsibility
became lighter for them.

Just like with the suit, this change didn’t happen over night. With the
suit, I had to come in for several fittings where we put on the half-
finished garment to see and adjust. Tiny adjustments. With the kids it
required many small but persistent attempts. And many times I’ve been
disappointed that something didn’t work out as I wished. But unlike the
pockets on my jacket, the relationship with my kids is open to endless
re-negotiation. No mistake is final. And it is in this relationship the most
important change has happened.

It has nothing to do with the suit, other than the fact that it happened
at the same exact time: during those weeks where I was alone with the
kids, I went from being their buttler to becoming a real father for them.

As I renegotiated the relationship with my outfit through my tailor and

renegotiated my relationship with my wife both before and through the
divorce, I’ve seen how my relationship with my kids has changed. The
result is that the greatest gift of 2021 has been the new foundation for
how I relate to my our children.
Noah, July 2021. The first time he tried using an axe to chop wood was in 2018, at this exact location.
I had the honor of running a workshop with the
whole team at Organic Basics in the fall of 2021.
Remaking the kitchen. Hanging the drawings was a
quick solution to cover up the holes in the wall after
my ex wife had moved out. But we all liked the look
of it so much that it has now become permanent.
Uma in the snow. January 2021.
Angels

I struggle with my faith a lot. I say that I believe in God and Jesus. I
wrote about that last year as well. I go to church regularly. And I pray, at
least somewhat regularly. At times I’ve felt touched and moved to tears.
Other times I don’t feel so much. At times I feel like I can put my beliefs
into words and somehow make sense of it, at least momentarily. Other
times it seems futile to even try. I catch myself often defaulting back to
a view of the world where I’m at the center, my own greatness being
the source of all the good things that happen. I forget to be grateful.
And just as I’ve taken credit for it all, I get hit by something. That’s when
it would have been so wonderful if I had been able to maintain a more
humble perspective. Where I’m not at the center. Where I don’t blame
myself for everything that goes wrong. In those moments it helps me
to go to church. It helps me regain the perspective. And then as soon
as I am feeling better, it seems that I abandon God once more. I still go
to church, but I don’t hear the words the same way when I’m feeling
well. It doesn’t reach me. I idolize my own independence, and I say to
myself that “I’m grateful that I’m just so much better than everyone
else.” I know it sounds awful. But that’s essentially what I do. That’s the
struggle of my faith.

However, there’s something that happened last year, which doesn’t

seem to evaporate whenever there’s sunshine in my life. Something
happened, where I don’t default to taking credit for myself. Where my
humility comes naturally. Because last year I needed help. I needed a
lot of help and a lot of support, both emotionally and practically. And I
needed it often and I needed it at all hours. And in all these moments of
desparation there was an army of angels that came to me. Not spirits or
ghost or anything supernatural. Just humans, who showed up from all
directions, at all times, as if sent from a higher power. They seemingly
worked shifts. It was extraordinary.

I’ve tried to explain this to people who are defiantly atheist (side note,
one of them lives and acts out such a deeply christian ethos, but just
can’t accept the whole language and mythology) and they of course
try to explain it away. Surely I must have built all these relationships
myself, they say. Surely, this should be explained by the goodness of
the people who came to help, and not by some mystical God in heaven
who commands a bunch of so-called angels around. And it’s true
that I have built many relationships through the years. With effort and
consistency. And it’s true that each of the people who came to help
me were good people, acting out of love. But. That’s just not enough to
explain how it felt for me. The sheer quantity of people and effort they
each put in. The quality of the help and guidance, in small and practical
steps. A rational explanation just doesn’t add up for me.

There’s no proof in my experience that angels are real. No hard

evidence. No smoking gun. My point is also not that it’s impossible
to try to explain it away through other causal mechanisms. What
interests me, is that this is a situation, where my rational brain, and the
parts of me that continually struggle with my faith and my belief and
my quickly evaporating humility, defaults to gratitude for the angels.
This is a situation where I, despite my doubts and reservations and
complications, just seem to find it more natural to believe in angels. To
put it more simply: here’s a situation where it’s easier for me to believe
in angels than to believe in a more logical and scientific explanation.
One of the best things I
did for my lockdown work
life was to setup a studio
in our basement where
I could close the door
and have a dedicated
workspace.
Me we & us
My language is changing. Back in 2005 the words ‘we’ and ‘us’ meant
myself and my girlfriend. We went on a vacation to NYC in 2005. We
moved in together in 2006. We got married in 2010. We moved to NYC
in 2011. Then we had our first child and for events that happened after
2013 this ‘we’ and ‘us’ also included our son. We moved to a bigger
apartment. We went on a trip to Denmark. More kids came along and
the ‘we’ grew. When we occasionally did things separately I’d make that
clear in my language. The kids and I went to the playground. Me and
the kids were home alone. In 2020 we all moved to Copenhagen.

After the divorce the words have been redefined. Using the words
‘we’ and ‘us’ when referring to recent and present events just means
me and the kids. We went to visit my sister. My brother came to visit
us. For historical events prior to the divorce the ‘we’ can still refer to
all five. However, I also notice that when I tell my own story to people
I have recently met, I sometimes avoid using the ‘we’, because when
I say ‘we moved to NYC in 2011’ they might ask who that ‘we’ refers to
and suddenly I have to explain that it was my wife at the time and we
just got divorced. Not that any of this is secret. It’s just one of those
moments where the conversation hits a heavy subject a little too soon.
So I will just say “I moved to NYC in 2011.”

I still don’t know what this all means. Perhaps it doesn’t really mean so
much. It’s just something I notice. These little recurring moments where
I’m forced to reckon with the change and impact.
When you’re in a life crisis you don’t need to
always re-invent everything. Simply do what
all other middleaged men do: get a bicycle,
some lycra and become a MAMIL. I spent
years trying to avoid such a cliche, but this
year it was a life saver. I embrace it. And I
don’t mind the laughs. I find it laughable
too. But it works.
Tinder
I’ve never been on Tinder before. But here I am, excited and terrified at
the same time. I create a profile, add a photo. Loading. Will I be able to
handle this? Am I attractive? A divorced father of three—probably not
so much. The very first person that Tinder shows me is a woman who
smiles, my doubts evaporate, and my first thought is “I could marry
her!” I’m hooked!

I have no idea what I’m doing. And at the same time, there’s something
so deeply familiar. Networking, meeting new people, telling your story
and hearing someone else’s, and letting the conversation happen, was
such a core discipline in my daily life in NYC. I’ve missed that. Now
I’m getting it, just through the context of Tinder and with the strongly
implied dating frame and expectations related to that. Alright.

The first match. Chatting. Ticklish. Exciting. Shall we meet for coffee
and a walk? Today? It’s my first new date in 17 years. It’s Sunday around
noon. It’s so wonderfully innocent and yet incredibly exciting. We go for
a long walk and the conversation flows. Wind. Sun. She’s tall. I notice
that her eyes are roughly in the same height as the horizon. Three hours
have flown by. We agree to meet again.

Dating is a new chapter that I’m excited to venture into.

I’ve added
some color
to the home.
This warm
yellow
makes me
happy.
Paint

I’ve bought a bucket of warm yellow paint, a roller and some masking
tape. I want to give my home some life. Some color. To break the
monotony of the white walls and ceilings. I’ve never painted a wall in my
life before, but a friend has talked me through the basics, and assured
me that I can always just paint it over again if I don’t like the result. But
before I even get to the result, there’s the act of painting. And it turns
out that I enjoy it. I get lost in the manual work. The focus. Time flies.

While dating can be exhilarating, and I’ve experienced a great sense of

liberation in that, there’s another kind of freedom that I am even more
curious about. That’s the freedom of being able to be alone. To be by
myself. And remaking my home has been a practical way to begin to
engage with this. To make my home a place that feels true to me, and
where I feel at ease. I’ve painted several walls in different colors, bought
new furniture, rearranged things. I’ve experimented with keeping things
very clean and clear and organized. And I’ve experienced with letting
more chaos persist. I don’t think there’s a right balance between order
and choas. My aim is to learn how to notice when things feel right and
when they don’t. And just notice it. Notice when I feel the chaos is too
much. And let it be for a bit. Or when the burden of trying to keep it all
so very clean feel Sisyphosian and pointless.

I think me primary goal for 2022 is to practice being more at ease with
being alone.
Me, my siblings and
my dad ~1994
I didn’t expect this year.
And I don’t know what
I’m really hoping for in
the year ahead. As I am
typing this, it is already
the end of May. But I will
keep getting up in the
morning to see what the
day has in store. Keep
praying. Keep forgiving.
Keep asking for help and
and keep offering to help
others. Keep writing and
keep listening, to myself
and to others.
I made another pair of colored shoes. The red remain my favorite pair.
Thank you for being part
of my life.

Annual Report 2021 by Mathias Jakobsen is

licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0
International License.

Published by
Think Clearly v/ Mathias Jakobsen
Robert Jacobsens Vej 26C
2300 Copenhagen S
Denmark

www.thnkclrly.com

[email protected]
+45 22212355