Vem är Yvonne?



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2018 - ongoing / Practice-based Research / Fiction / Public Housing / Right to housing / Shared memories
Case Study: Valla Torg, Årsta, Stockholm
Diary note, April, 2019

…. There was something meditative about how the gray-green tone of the paint slowly covered the chalk-white wall. Its white, hard, staring gaze suddenly became softer, calmer with the green. Gray green. That is exactly what the salesman had said by the way, ”If you take Greyishgreenforestolivemoss with velvet finish, but with just a little gloss, you will get a calmer, warmer and more vibrant wall.” And who wouldn’t want that. On the other hand, an old Advent star lamp serves rather poorly as work lighting, maybe that velvety soft would be sharp, cold and dead after the night?

It was dark outside. Even though it was only a little after 4 in the afternoon. You could still understand that the view from the apartment must be panoramic. The concrete towers stood tall, proud, as if on guard at the edge of Årstafältet. Their gaze high over the pine tops, the motorways, the terraced houses in Linde, the villas in Enskede, ”posh-Årsta” on the other side of the tracks and somewhere down there in the field, the allotment gardens.

Our view was to the south, towards Östberga, Stureby and Högdalen’s equally high (but not nearly as nice) concrete towers. Those who were lucky and got one of the apartments on the opposite side of the stairwell, probably saw Södermalm. If they turned their heads far enough to the right, their eyes could wander from the bridges at Skanstull to Liljeholmsbron.

Their view was probably framed just like that, by the concrete bridges. We had evening sun on the balcony though, us south-facing.

The shiny metal body of the step ladder was reflected in the window, the roller with paint swept methodically over the wall. Maybe the ceiling should be painted in the same tone?

The state of the ceiling’s painting or not was interrupted by the sudden sound of the doorbell. It would be 2 weeks before the move, who was looking for me here?

Outside stood a man in his mid 60’s, with dark red, colored, hair. His eyes were kind, but his face bore witness of a tough life. He looked very surprised. ”Where is Yvonne?” He spoke. ”Who are you?” he continued, with a strong Finnish accent, before I even had time to reflect, not to mention answer his first question. ”Who is Yvonne?” I mumbled. ”Sorry, I’m sorry,” muttered the kind little man and backed away from the door, down the staircase. “But wait”, I said, ”who is she?”.

Not strange really, to ring the wrong doorbell. It must have happened to everyone at least twice. Especially if you live in a 13-story house. The little man with the dark red hair was out of my mind the second the sticky, whistling, sound of the colorful roller once again filled the apartment.
As was Yvonne.

A move, a Christmas, a New Year passed. The first time the other man, the aggressive junkie, rang the doorbell was an early Saturday morning. Not yet fully awake, I tried to derive the sound of a bell. Where did it come from? I stumbled to the door.

This time I did not open. Who would ring so persistently? Even through the distorted lens, it was clear that the man was stressed, almost feverishly angry, pacing back and forth. ”Yvonne!” He shouted suddenly. ”Open!” ”Open the fucking door!” The screams at, and for, Yvonne took turns as he frantically rang the doorbell. Maybe I was still in some level of sleep, for I stood there calm, looking through the small hole, at this clearly distraught man. Until he left. I crawled back into bed.

Three weeks later I woke up to the same persistent ringing. Now my actions were a little more resolute, resulting in swinging the door open. Which, in fact, made the same junkie pause in his rage. A moment that lasted a very short time.

”Where’s Yvonne?” he shouted, ”Who the hell are you?” ”What have you done with Yvonne you bastards?” ”Where is she?” The information that there were no Yvonne living here, was of little help. After countless “I’ll kill you! ” ” Where’s Yvonne? ” and some physical attempts to break past us, we closed the door.

Then he started kicking the door, tearing, or cutting it with something, maybe a key. When suddenly, he just stopped. It became just as quiet as when you turn off a kitchen fan that has been on for too long. Deafeningly silent. Only then did I realize that he had been ringing the doorbell constantly, every half second throughout the confrontation.

The police did not know anything about this Yvonne.

A few more times we were asked (nicely) by other people, about the whereabouts of Yvonne.

Somewhere now she started to become a recurring thought.

Who is Yvonne?

Where is she?



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