Danny Larsen’s journey from snow-covered mountains to serene, meditative landscapes is anything but ordinary. Once a world-class professional snowboarder, he left the adrenaline-fuelled circuit to embrace a slower, more introspective art practice. His latest exhibition, Twilight of a Day, captures both the beauty and sorrow of transformation with a near-spiritual calm. We caught up with Danny to explore how nature, depression, and pointillism converge on canvas.
Your journey from professional snowboarder to fine artist is extraordinary. What was the turning point that led you to painting full time?
Art has always been there. As I graduated high school I debated whether to pursue my dreams of becoming a professional snowboarder or attend art-school. Just so happened that as soon as I was accepted into school, I was also offered a pro-contract for my snowboarding. My reason for choosing snowboarding then was simple; art you can do whenever and wherever,I have my whole life to do that, professional snowboarding on the other hand is reserved for young people with a non-creaking body and an under-developed sense of risk. So I chose the board.
As I progressed in the pro-world I was offered more and more signature products, and I got to design all of it myself, boards, goggles, clothing and so on. Soon I reached a point where I focused more on the artwork than the actual riding, my passion for art increased while my interest in being a professional snowboarder was dwindling exponentially . As soon as my wife and I found out we were expecting our first child I decided to quit. I called all my sponsors and told them «thanks for the ride, but I’m done». From there on I jumped in with both feet, I didn’t want to be a traveling dad and I wanted to make art.
Your works in ‘Twilight of a Day’ feel deeply meditative. How does your experience with depression influence your creative process and the emotional tone of your landscapes?
As a kid I just assumed this is the way things are, same as being hungry or thirsty. I didn’t know that what I felt would later be identified as depression, I loved the things that made me happy and dreaded the overwhelming feeling when the darkness engulfed me. It is clear to me now how much I clinged to those happy feelings throughout my life. At one point as I sat hungover on a plane from the US I came to a realization that would change how I viewed pretty much everything in life. As I sat feeling miserable, contemplating the gloom, the idea of feeling miserable suddenly lost meaning to me. I felt like shit, but when I tried to pinpoint exactly what it was that made me feel terrible, I couldn’t find it. The closer I looked, the harder it was to find. I could feel it vividly, but when I tried to focus on it, it vanished like vapor for the sun. I learned that there is another side to the mind, a side that can calm the chaos. With that new understanding I started to tell myself to seek out the beauty of life and the world. I looked for moments of bliss in the mundane, colours in the shadows and glimmers of light in the fog. This lead to the general ideas behind why I paint what I paint. My feet are still planted in darkness, but I keep looking for the light.
You’ve described nature as both a sanctuary and a mirror. How do the forests of Norway—or Uganda and China—shape your sense of self and story?
It’s hard to describe, but I feel at home there. Being in a city is like a holiday or joyride, but I feel more at home in the forests of Uganda and China than the cities back home in Norway for instance. If anything it feels more like a pure connection with my surroundings. I breathe easier, my blood flows easier and my footsteps become lighter. I think a personal connection with nature is important, a walk among the trees in a park feels alleviating after being in a busy street. Walking among the trees in a forest or a park does wonders. The Japanese have even understood the importance of it enough to give it a poetic name, Shinrin-yoku, forest bathing. In Norway we’re not as poetic but we have the same mentality. We refer to it as «going for a walk», it happens in nature and is treated with the same reverence as religious people view their sacred rituals.
Your signature style has been called “neo-pointillist.” What drew you to this method of layering light and detail, and how does it reflect the way you see the world?
Originally it started as a cost-effective way to produce band t-shirts. I wanted to portray fog on screenprinted t-shirts and I didn’t like the feel of the automated raster. So I learned to make that rastered, binary way of creating gradients and nuances with hard, solid black color by hand.
Later on the technique let me see more layers and a deeper meaning in it. In all honesty, that’s what it it feels like, it was revealed to me rather than me coming up with it. With these dots nothing is really solid, the closer you look the more it dissolves into an abstract pattern that you no longer can recognize, very much like when I sat on that plane trying to see my misery. It shows that it is how you piece it together in your mind that affects what you see and experience. Reality is less set than we might think.
Furthermore it allows me to spend time with the moments that gave me joy, for each dot I recreate that feeling and atmosphere, trying not to rush through it.
The exhibition title, Twilight of a Day, suggests both ending and renewal. What emotions or narratives were you hoping to evoke with this body of work?
I’m not really sure, I don’t approach any part of practice with a well thought-out, set idea of what to achieve. I rely solely on my intuition and hope to see what it reveals later. I paint one painting at the time with no theme planned ahead. That will then release an urge to create the next painting as some kind of response or continuation of the previous ones. You might say there is a chronological order to a story I still have no clue what is about, but they are meant to work as stand alone pieces that can also take part in a bigger story. Twilight occurs twice a day, in the morning and the evening, one story ends as another one starts. This exhibition is one of those days.
You live and work in Hønefoss, in a spot Edvard Munch once painted. How does that historical proximity affect your perspective as an artist today?
True, he used to paint around where my studio is, in the building next door in fact. I’m not sure I put much emphasis on the fact that he also sat out here painting, a bit in the middle of nowhere to frank, but I do like that the same trees I look at through my studio window are the same ones that cast shadows over him. Somehow it feels like that makes us shadow-brothers, haha.
What’s one painting in the exhibition that challenged or surprised you during its creation—and why?
I think maybe the colorful, vivid ones, possibly Purple flowers and Fallen Leaves mostly. I have always felt the strongest urge to stick to black and white paintings, creating an extra visual barrier between reality and what’s happening on the canvas. But with these it felt like I was lead down a path that ended up with two rather unique paintings from what I previously have done, and I have no clue why I suddenly felt that urge, I just went along with the flow. So not challenging, but definitely surprising.
As someone who has redefined success across two vastly different fields, what would you say to others feeling called to start over creatively?
It demands loads of effort and hard work, but it is also damn rewarding. My artist career is still shorter than my snowboarding career, but my passion for art keeps increasing while snowboarding started feeling more like a chore. Nothing feels easier than what I do now, but I have never worked harder. If I can give one advice it is this; it’s ok to fuck up, you’ll get back up again.
xxx
Danny Larsen: Twilight of a Day
Open Wednesday 11th – Tuesday 17th June 2025
8 Duke Street, St James’s, London SW1Y 6BN
Open daily Monday to Saturday 10:00am – 7:00pm and Sunday 11:00am – 4:00pm
