On Saturday 22 August, we visited GLUPSK på Dalsland in Fengersfors Bruk. The name is quite telling in Swedish: ‘glupsk’ roughly means gluttonous, greedy or pleasure-seeking. However, what is meant here is not thoughtlessness, but a love of good food, local produce, craftsmanship, music, conversation and the joy of sharing a space together.
You will already be familiar with Fengersfors Bruk and Not Quite from previous newsletters. This former industrial site was not simply left to its own devices after paper production ceased. Since the 2000s, Not Quite has developed here into an arts and cultural centre: studios, workshops, exhibitions, concerts, catering and community projects breathe new life into the old factory buildings. It is one of those places in Dalsland where the industrial past has not been frozen in a museum-like state, but continues to serve as a physical and material foundation for new work, art and public life.
GLUPSK fitted into this setting particularly well. Between the buildings, in the halls and along the paths of the old mill, people came together – some drawn by the food, the art, the music, or simply by the atmosphere. There was good food, market stalls, conversations, great music and a palpable joy in the fact that a place could be full of people for a day.
A spot at the egg-oil workshop
For me, the day began with the mini-workshop ‘Tempera from egg-oil paint’, which I’d signed up for. It focused on egg-and-linseed-oil tempera, a traditional paint made from egg and linseed oil, which is considered relatively environmentally friendly and durable. At first, the title sounded very technical. But that was precisely what made it so appealing. Paint isn’t just paint. It has a temperature, a consistency, a way of reflecting light, bonding with the surface and ageing over time.
Egg-tempera is not just about a historical material, but also about a different relationship with surfaces and objects: it is about layers, patience, craftsmanship and the question of how one can work with as few problematic substances as possible.
In a world where paint often appears merely as a ready-made product, it was interesting to reflect on its composition and its physical, sensory qualities. Paint has weight, smell, temperature and resistance. It serves as a reminder that even sustainable design is not merely a question of labels, but of knowledge: What am I using? Where does it come from? How does it behave? And how long does it last? On the right, you can see the result of my experimentation with tempera paint. What do you think of it?
Tissilawen: Sounds from the Sahara
For me, the musical highlight of the day was Tissilawen. The band from Djanet in south-eastern Algeria were playing in Scandinavia for the first time. Djanet lies at the foot of the Tassili n’Ajjer mountains in the heart of the Sahara – a barren landscape rich in geological and cultural diversity, close to the borders with Libya and Niger. In the Tamasheq language, the name Tissilawen refers to the people and landscapes of the Tassili.
The group was founded in 2008 by childhood friends and guitarists Bakrin Timlfati and Cheikh Taberni. Their main inspiration is Tinariwen, one of the most internationally renowned Tuareg bands and a seminal group in the so-called ‘Desert Blues’ genre. Tissilawen builds on this tradition: vocals in Tamasheq, polyphonic passages, deep bass lines, percussive rhythms and hypnotic guitar riffs blend with influences from rock, blues and reggae.
‘Desert Blues’ is not a particularly precise term, but it points to something audible: guitar music that does not simply transpose American blues to the desert, but emerges from Tuareg traditions, North and West African rhythms, electric guitar and experiences of mobility, loss, home and community. The music often develops a circling, trance-like power. It does not rush forward frantically, but builds a rhythmic space in which voices and guitars repeatedly intertwine in new ways.
Tissilawen played in a style that was both raw and highly controlled. The guitars could flash sharply and electrically, whilst the vocals remained rather solemn.
It was particularly lovely that this music was not performed in a closed concert hall, but in the midst of a festival characterised by food, market stalls, children, conversations and the comings and goings of many people. For a while, an unexpected musical space emerged between the old factory buildings of Fengersfors and the images of the Sahara.
Flank & Klang und Dalslands Musik
Flank & Klang struck a completely different musical note. The folk duo specialises in traditional music from Dalsland and spent the day wandering around the festival grounds with their instruments. It wasn’t a performance with a clear boundary between stage and audience, but rather music that unexpectedly became part of the festival’s everyday atmosphere: on a path, near a stall, or wherever people happened to be standing together.
Tom Cubbin plays the nyckelharpa and the durspel, a diatonic button accordion; Alexander Rawlins plays the violin and complements the melodies with counter-melodies and rich harmonies.
To many seeing it for the first time, the nyckelharpa appears almost like an enigmatic hybrid of a violin, a hurdy-gurdy and a mechanical instrument. It is played with a bow, but has keys that shorten the strings; additional resonant strings give it a shimmering, lingering tone. The Durspel, in turn, brings rhythm, breath and dance-like movement to the music.
These instruments may seem strange at first glance. But it is precisely their materiality that reveals how music is always bound to specific hands, bodies, construction methods and landscapes.
Tissilawen and Flank & Klang could hardly have been more different: electric guitars, bass and desert blues on the one hand; nyckelharpa, violin and regional dance music on the other. And yet it was precisely this juxtaposition that was so compelling. Both forms of music embody a sense of place. Without needing to explain everything, both tell stories of landscape, paths, community and memory.
Not Quite as a space of possibility
Not Quite has now become a household name for many people far beyond Dalsland. For me, however, the place remains remarkable every time I visit. The old factory buildings serve as a reminder that Fengersfors was once shaped by industry. Its current use shows that an industrial past need not be told solely as a story of loss.
This does not mean that arts centres can simply replace the economic significance of former factories. Jobs, production know-how and the social structure of an industrial town cannot easily be compensated for by studios and exhibitions. But places like Not Quite create something else: they keep spaces open. They facilitate encounters, experiments, craftsmanship, aesthetic experiences and a public sphere that is not reduced to consumption alone.
GLUPSK demonstrated this very clearly on that day. Between local food and arts and crafts, between egg-oil tempera and music from Algeria, between regional folk music and many conversations, a day unfolded that could not be pinned down to a single theme. Perhaps that was precisely what made it so special.