Vi använder cookies för att ge dig bästa möjliga upplevelse. Välj vilka cookies du tillåter.
Läs mer i vår integritetspolicy
Jörgen Thornberg
The Girl and the Duck, 2025
Digital
50 x 70 cm
3 200 kr
The Girl and the Duck
Morning light casts a warm stripe across the majestic Øresund, a sight that inspires awe. A little girl stands shin-deep at Ribersborg, cupping a yellow duck that bobs in the chop like a thought that refuses to sink. The bridge threads Skåne to Denmark in a diagonal hum of steel; Turning Torso twists pale on the skyline, a grown-up toy overlooking smaller ones.
Here, scale morphs into a language. For the map, it’s a strait; for the girl, a sea she’ll bravely navigate someday; for the duck, an ocean measured in centimetres and courage. Each lift and fall teaches us that buoyancy can be learned, that play is a form of physics, and that even the tiniest bright thing can maintain its line against the water. The girl, a mere speck in the vastness of the sea, is a testament to the power of perspective and growth potential.
“Afloat
Little Yellow, Big Bright Luck
They bobbed in baths with saucy squeaks,
miniature suns for rainy, soap-soft weeks—
And who could guess those beaks and grins
would nudge the world to brighter spins?
They learned to float where fears get stuck:
Little yellow, big bright luck.
A squeak for courage, light and quick,
a joke that makes the heavy tick.
They marched in the streets, a buoyant parade,
where anger cooled and nerves unmade;
a rubber shield, a comic sign—
soft power in a sharper line.
They grew to giants on the tide,
in Harbour Light, they laughed and cried;
a city saw itself anew—
monuments that smile at you.
They raced down rivers, number-tagged,
to raise hands where hope had lagged;
each bobbing dot a kindly dare:
Let’s help because we’re almost there.
They sat by screens when nights ran long,
debugging code with patient song;
explain it to the duck—and then
the tangled path turns clear again.
So here’s the secret, bright and small:
to float is not to dodge the squall,
but teach the storm a gentler art—
a yellow buoy for every heart.”
Malmö. October 2025
The Girl and the Duck - The Little Yellow Echo
The little girl and her rubber duck teach a lesson about proportion. The Öresund, a significant strait that separates Denmark and Sweden, may seem narrow—especially in the narrow throat beneath the Öresund Bridge connecting Skåne to Denmark—yet for the girl, it appears as a sea, a vast, shimmering expanse of water that could belong to a whole country. She can see the neighbouring shore like a promise spread out on the horizon. She has a friend on that side, a name she can call across the wind, but she is still too small to cross it alone, still learning the language of waves, ferries, and time.
For the duck, the scale shifts once more. What the map labels as a strait becomes an ocean, vast and luminous, with waves as high as houses and currents as long as lullabies. The other side is a legend, yellow and unreachable. The bridge above combs the sky with steel; below, the duck rises and falls—a pilgrim of centimetres on a journey of miles. The girl steadies it with her palm and, for a moment, the world aligns: a sea she might cross one day, an ocean to hold for now, and a horizon that keeps them both honest.
From Gum to Glow — How the Duck Learned to Float
In the early 1900s, when vulcanised rubber was considered a miracle of modernity, toymakers created soft, squeezable animals for the bath. The first ducks were solid and heavy—pleasant to bite, but not to float. Only in the 1940s, with the introduction of soft PVC and latex, did the hollow, sealed-body duck appear, finally floating like a tiny yellow ship—a practical domestic revolution. This transformation marked the birth of a cultural icon, the rubber duck, from a simple toy.
By the 1950s–60s, the design became fixed: rounded shape, saturated yellow for warmth and visibility, orange beak, calm dot eyes. The nickname “rubber ducky” caught on, along with a character trait: genderless, harmless, always cheerful. Not quite an animal—almost an emoji before emojis.
From Bathtub to Billboard — The Duck's Entertaining Journey into Pop Culture
Canonisation occurred in 1970 when Ernie from Sesame Street sang “Rubber Duckie, you’re the one…,” a whimsical love song to a squeaky toy that climbed the Billboard charts. The song, which expresses Ernie's affection for his rubber duck, became a cultural phenomenon, further solidifying the rubber duck's place in popular culture. From there, the bird waddled across screens and genres—The Simpsons, Friends, Toy Story 3, and countless adverts promising joy in a bubble. The duck became a symbol of safety, silliness, and innocent fun—a memory you can purchase for the price of a bath bomb. Its role in popular culture is a testament to its enduring appeal and influence.
A Giant Floats Into Town — Hofman’s Soft Monumentality
The twenty-first century gave the toy a loudspeaker. In 2007, Dutch artist Florentijn Hofman launched Rubber Duck, an inflatable sculpture measuring approximately 5 to 26 metres in height—constructed with sectioned PVC skin, internal rigging, blowers, anchors, and pontoons. It floated from Rotterdam to Hong Kong, Sydney, Pittsburgh, Kaohsiung, Seoul, Osaka, Shanghai, and beyond; in 2023, Hong Kong welcomed “Double Ducks.” Cities paused to smile. Here was monumentality without menace: borderless, apolitical, instantly recognisable.
Hofman’s gambit also raises a civic question. By enlarging the most domestic of toys and placing it on public water, he reconnects the city and its shore, childhood and scale—a choreography of reflections, weather, movement, and crowd enjoyment. This 'choreography' refers to the way in which the Rubber Duck sculpture interacts with its surroundings, reflecting the city's skyline, responding to weather conditions, and attracting crowds who enjoy its playful and monumental presence. Predictably, copies and near-duplicates appeared, along with debates over authorship and environmental concerns about PVC and transportation. Even joy requires logistics.
Why a Duck? — Symbolism That Floats
Yellow here signifies temperament as much as colour: warmth, visibility, a chick’s promise. The shape is round and nonthreatening, sized for a toddler’s palm and a parent’s reassurance. Silent and gender-neutral, the duck is a friendly observer. In the bath, it becomes a portable horizon: splash and it responds—cause, effect, reassurance. Adults keep it for the same reason children reach for it: it is a relic of buoyancy.
Symbolically, ducks are border crossers—at home in air, water, and on land. Miniaturised, the bath duck signifies intermediate states: growing up, washing away the day, the nightly reset from chaos to order. It is baptism without theology. You push life down, but it pops back up, smiling.
Prehistories and Cousins — The Duck's Ancestry
The modern bath bird is a twentieth-century creation, but it has older ancestors:
Antique clay bird whistles (Greece/Rome), some water-whistles that quacked when blown—serving ritual, play, and sound in one small object.
Floating wooden birds from Egypt to East Asia, bright and buoyant in basins and ponds—festive fun blending into devotion.
The 19th-century pull-along duck on wheels—head bobbing, beak clacking—demonstrates that rounded, friendly shapes comfort in motion.
The nursery icon of mother duck and ducklings, along with Andersen’s The Ugly Duckling (1843)—a parable of belonging, the bath duck quietly completes: this one always belongs, wherever there is water and a child.
The Politics of a Squeak — The Duck as a Symbol of Intriguing Protest
No icon remains innocent forever. Inflatable ducks have bobbed through street protests (notably in Thailand), serving as humorous shields and semi-ironic symbols. The tactic is clear and straightforward: a regime appears absurd when confronting a pool toy. This is soft power by design—resistance with a smile that the cameras can’t ignore.
Page, Screen, Stage, Song — The Duck That Learned to Speak
In literature, the duck functions as punctuation in picture books and as a metaphor in essays; within tech lore, it becomes a method—rubber-duck debugging—a plastic confessor that helps organise thoughts. Film and TV have granted it a global passport through Ernie’s song and numerous sight gags; directors use it like a dab of cadmium yellow to add immediate warmth. On the stage, a single squeak can shift a scene from menace to farce; in public art, Hofman’s giants democratise the waterfront. In music, beyond Ernie’s hit, the duck reappears as code—“Rubber Duck” leading the convoy in C. W. McCall’s song—and as a sonic grin in children’s tracks and samples.
Design, Memory, Meaning — Why It Lasts
Some icons endure because they reconcile opposites. The rubber duck unites:
Warm memory with industrial modernity;
Private ritual with public spectacle;
Personal safety with collective fun.
It is also a small masterpiece of empathetic engineering: low centre of gravity, sealed cavity for natural buoyancy, high-contrast colours that photograph beautifully. The squeak is a smile you can hear.
Coda — A Sea to Cross, An Ocean to Hold
Call it small, but not insignificant. The rubber duck has transitioned from soap scum to a part of world culture, enduring the arc of the plastic age as toy, song, sculpture, mascot, meme, protest sign, and collectable. Perhaps we return to it because it affirms a modest theology of resilience: things can rise again.
Back on the shore, the girl cups her duck against the chop. Denmark glows like a postcard beyond the bridge; Malmö hums behind her. One day, she will cross that sea. For now, she holds this ocean in her hand and lets it bob, light and brave—a little yellow echo teaching scale, patience, and the art of staying afloat.
Jörgen Thornberg
The Girl and the Duck, 2025
Digital
50 x 70 cm
3 200 kr
The Girl and the Duck
Morning light casts a warm stripe across the majestic Øresund, a sight that inspires awe. A little girl stands shin-deep at Ribersborg, cupping a yellow duck that bobs in the chop like a thought that refuses to sink. The bridge threads Skåne to Denmark in a diagonal hum of steel; Turning Torso twists pale on the skyline, a grown-up toy overlooking smaller ones.
Here, scale morphs into a language. For the map, it’s a strait; for the girl, a sea she’ll bravely navigate someday; for the duck, an ocean measured in centimetres and courage. Each lift and fall teaches us that buoyancy can be learned, that play is a form of physics, and that even the tiniest bright thing can maintain its line against the water. The girl, a mere speck in the vastness of the sea, is a testament to the power of perspective and growth potential.
“Afloat
Little Yellow, Big Bright Luck
They bobbed in baths with saucy squeaks,
miniature suns for rainy, soap-soft weeks—
And who could guess those beaks and grins
would nudge the world to brighter spins?
They learned to float where fears get stuck:
Little yellow, big bright luck.
A squeak for courage, light and quick,
a joke that makes the heavy tick.
They marched in the streets, a buoyant parade,
where anger cooled and nerves unmade;
a rubber shield, a comic sign—
soft power in a sharper line.
They grew to giants on the tide,
in Harbour Light, they laughed and cried;
a city saw itself anew—
monuments that smile at you.
They raced down rivers, number-tagged,
to raise hands where hope had lagged;
each bobbing dot a kindly dare:
Let’s help because we’re almost there.
They sat by screens when nights ran long,
debugging code with patient song;
explain it to the duck—and then
the tangled path turns clear again.
So here’s the secret, bright and small:
to float is not to dodge the squall,
but teach the storm a gentler art—
a yellow buoy for every heart.”
Malmö. October 2025
The Girl and the Duck - The Little Yellow Echo
The little girl and her rubber duck teach a lesson about proportion. The Öresund, a significant strait that separates Denmark and Sweden, may seem narrow—especially in the narrow throat beneath the Öresund Bridge connecting Skåne to Denmark—yet for the girl, it appears as a sea, a vast, shimmering expanse of water that could belong to a whole country. She can see the neighbouring shore like a promise spread out on the horizon. She has a friend on that side, a name she can call across the wind, but she is still too small to cross it alone, still learning the language of waves, ferries, and time.
For the duck, the scale shifts once more. What the map labels as a strait becomes an ocean, vast and luminous, with waves as high as houses and currents as long as lullabies. The other side is a legend, yellow and unreachable. The bridge above combs the sky with steel; below, the duck rises and falls—a pilgrim of centimetres on a journey of miles. The girl steadies it with her palm and, for a moment, the world aligns: a sea she might cross one day, an ocean to hold for now, and a horizon that keeps them both honest.
From Gum to Glow — How the Duck Learned to Float
In the early 1900s, when vulcanised rubber was considered a miracle of modernity, toymakers created soft, squeezable animals for the bath. The first ducks were solid and heavy—pleasant to bite, but not to float. Only in the 1940s, with the introduction of soft PVC and latex, did the hollow, sealed-body duck appear, finally floating like a tiny yellow ship—a practical domestic revolution. This transformation marked the birth of a cultural icon, the rubber duck, from a simple toy.
By the 1950s–60s, the design became fixed: rounded shape, saturated yellow for warmth and visibility, orange beak, calm dot eyes. The nickname “rubber ducky” caught on, along with a character trait: genderless, harmless, always cheerful. Not quite an animal—almost an emoji before emojis.
From Bathtub to Billboard — The Duck's Entertaining Journey into Pop Culture
Canonisation occurred in 1970 when Ernie from Sesame Street sang “Rubber Duckie, you’re the one…,” a whimsical love song to a squeaky toy that climbed the Billboard charts. The song, which expresses Ernie's affection for his rubber duck, became a cultural phenomenon, further solidifying the rubber duck's place in popular culture. From there, the bird waddled across screens and genres—The Simpsons, Friends, Toy Story 3, and countless adverts promising joy in a bubble. The duck became a symbol of safety, silliness, and innocent fun—a memory you can purchase for the price of a bath bomb. Its role in popular culture is a testament to its enduring appeal and influence.
A Giant Floats Into Town — Hofman’s Soft Monumentality
The twenty-first century gave the toy a loudspeaker. In 2007, Dutch artist Florentijn Hofman launched Rubber Duck, an inflatable sculpture measuring approximately 5 to 26 metres in height—constructed with sectioned PVC skin, internal rigging, blowers, anchors, and pontoons. It floated from Rotterdam to Hong Kong, Sydney, Pittsburgh, Kaohsiung, Seoul, Osaka, Shanghai, and beyond; in 2023, Hong Kong welcomed “Double Ducks.” Cities paused to smile. Here was monumentality without menace: borderless, apolitical, instantly recognisable.
Hofman’s gambit also raises a civic question. By enlarging the most domestic of toys and placing it on public water, he reconnects the city and its shore, childhood and scale—a choreography of reflections, weather, movement, and crowd enjoyment. This 'choreography' refers to the way in which the Rubber Duck sculpture interacts with its surroundings, reflecting the city's skyline, responding to weather conditions, and attracting crowds who enjoy its playful and monumental presence. Predictably, copies and near-duplicates appeared, along with debates over authorship and environmental concerns about PVC and transportation. Even joy requires logistics.
Why a Duck? — Symbolism That Floats
Yellow here signifies temperament as much as colour: warmth, visibility, a chick’s promise. The shape is round and nonthreatening, sized for a toddler’s palm and a parent’s reassurance. Silent and gender-neutral, the duck is a friendly observer. In the bath, it becomes a portable horizon: splash and it responds—cause, effect, reassurance. Adults keep it for the same reason children reach for it: it is a relic of buoyancy.
Symbolically, ducks are border crossers—at home in air, water, and on land. Miniaturised, the bath duck signifies intermediate states: growing up, washing away the day, the nightly reset from chaos to order. It is baptism without theology. You push life down, but it pops back up, smiling.
Prehistories and Cousins — The Duck's Ancestry
The modern bath bird is a twentieth-century creation, but it has older ancestors:
Antique clay bird whistles (Greece/Rome), some water-whistles that quacked when blown—serving ritual, play, and sound in one small object.
Floating wooden birds from Egypt to East Asia, bright and buoyant in basins and ponds—festive fun blending into devotion.
The 19th-century pull-along duck on wheels—head bobbing, beak clacking—demonstrates that rounded, friendly shapes comfort in motion.
The nursery icon of mother duck and ducklings, along with Andersen’s The Ugly Duckling (1843)—a parable of belonging, the bath duck quietly completes: this one always belongs, wherever there is water and a child.
The Politics of a Squeak — The Duck as a Symbol of Intriguing Protest
No icon remains innocent forever. Inflatable ducks have bobbed through street protests (notably in Thailand), serving as humorous shields and semi-ironic symbols. The tactic is clear and straightforward: a regime appears absurd when confronting a pool toy. This is soft power by design—resistance with a smile that the cameras can’t ignore.
Page, Screen, Stage, Song — The Duck That Learned to Speak
In literature, the duck functions as punctuation in picture books and as a metaphor in essays; within tech lore, it becomes a method—rubber-duck debugging—a plastic confessor that helps organise thoughts. Film and TV have granted it a global passport through Ernie’s song and numerous sight gags; directors use it like a dab of cadmium yellow to add immediate warmth. On the stage, a single squeak can shift a scene from menace to farce; in public art, Hofman’s giants democratise the waterfront. In music, beyond Ernie’s hit, the duck reappears as code—“Rubber Duck” leading the convoy in C. W. McCall’s song—and as a sonic grin in children’s tracks and samples.
Design, Memory, Meaning — Why It Lasts
Some icons endure because they reconcile opposites. The rubber duck unites:
Warm memory with industrial modernity;
Private ritual with public spectacle;
Personal safety with collective fun.
It is also a small masterpiece of empathetic engineering: low centre of gravity, sealed cavity for natural buoyancy, high-contrast colours that photograph beautifully. The squeak is a smile you can hear.
Coda — A Sea to Cross, An Ocean to Hold
Call it small, but not insignificant. The rubber duck has transitioned from soap scum to a part of world culture, enduring the arc of the plastic age as toy, song, sculpture, mascot, meme, protest sign, and collectable. Perhaps we return to it because it affirms a modest theology of resilience: things can rise again.
Back on the shore, the girl cups her duck against the chop. Denmark glows like a postcard beyond the bridge; Malmö hums behind her. One day, she will cross that sea. For now, she holds this ocean in her hand and lets it bob, light and brave—a little yellow echo teaching scale, patience, and the art of staying afloat.
3 200 kr
Jörgen Thornberg
Malmö
Lite om bilder och mig. Translation in English at the end.
Jag är en nyfiken person som ser allt i bilder, även det jag fäster i ord, gärna tillsammans för bakom alla mina bilder finns en berättelse. Till vissa bilder hör en kortare eller längre novell som följer med bilden.
Bilder berättar historier. Jag omges av naturlig skönhet, intressanta människor och historia var jag än går. Jag använder min kamera för att dokumentera världen och blanda det jag ser med vad jag känner för att fånga den dolda magin.
Mina bilder berättar mina historier. Genom mina bilder, tryck och berättelser. Jag bjuder in dig att ta del av dessa berättelser, in i ditt liv och hem och dela min mycket personliga syn på vår värld. Mer än vad ögat ser. Jag tänker i bilder, drömmer och skriver och pratar om dem; följaktligen måste jag också skapa bilder. De blir vad jag ser, inte nödvändigtvis begränsade till verkligheten. Det finns en bild runt varje hörn. Jag hoppas att du kommer att se vad jag såg och gilla det.
Jag är också en skrivande person och till många bilder hör en kortare eller längre essay. Den följer med tavlan, tryckt på fint papper och med en personlig hälsning från mig.
Flertalet bilder startar sin resa i min kamera. Enkelt förklarat beskriver jag bilden jag ser i mitt inre, upplevd eller fantiserad. Bilden uppstår inom mig redan innan jag fått okularet till ögat. På bråkdelen av ett ögonblick ser jag vad jag vill ha och vad som kan göras med bilden. Här skall jag stoppa in en giraff, stålmannen, Titanic eller vad det är min fantasi finner ut. Ännu märkligare är att jag kommer ihåg minnesbilden långt efteråt när det blir tid att skapa verket. Om jag lyckas eller inte, är upp till betraktaren, oftast präglat av en stråk av svart humor – meningen är att man skall bli underhållen. Mina bilder blir ofta en snackis där de hänger.
Jag föredrar bilder som förmedlar ett budskap i flera lager. Vid första anblicken fylld av feel-good, en vacker utsikt, fint väder, solen skiner, blommor på ängen eller vattnet som ligger förrädiskt spegelblankt. I en sådan bild kan jag gömma min egentliga berättelse, mitt förakt för förtryckare och våldsverkare, rasister och fördomsfulla människor - ett gärna återkommande motiv mer eller mindre dolt i det vackra motivet. Jag försöker förena dem i ett gemensamt narrativ.
Bild och formgivning har löpt som en röd tråd genom livet. Fotokonst känns som en värdig final som jag gärna delar med mig.
Min genre är vid som framgår av mina bilder, temat en blandning av pop- och gatukonst i kollage som kan bestå av hundratals lager. Vissa bilder kan ta veckor, andra någon dag innan det är dags att överlämna resultatet till printverkstaden. Fine Art Prints är digitala fotocollage. I dessa kollage sker rivandet, klippandet, pusslandet, målandet, ritandet och sprayningen digitalt. Det jag monterar in kan vara hundratals år gamla bilder som jag omsorgsfullt frilägger så att de ser ut att vara en del av tavlan men också bilder skapade av mig själv efter min egen fantasi. Därefter besöks printstudion och för vissa bilder numrera en limiterad upplaga (oftast 7 exemplar) och signera för hand. Vissa bilder kan köpas i olika format. Det är bara att fråga efter vilka. Gillar man en bild som är 70x100 men inte har plats på väggen, går den kanske att få i 50x70 cm istället. Frågan är fri.
Metoden Giclée eller Fine Art Print som det också kallas är det moderna sättet för framställning av grafisk konst. Villkoret för denna typ av utskrifter är att en högkvalitativ storformatskrivare används med åldersbeständigt färgpigment och konstnärspapper eller i förekommande fall på duk. Pappret som används möter de krav på livslängd som ställs av museer och gallerier. Normalt säljer jag mina bilder oinramade så att den nya ägaren själv kan bestämma hur de skall se ut, med eller utan passepartout färg på ram, med eller utan glas etc..
Under många år ställde jag bara ut på nätet, i valda grupper och på min egen Facebooksida - https://www.facebook.com/jorgen.thornberg.9
Jag finns också på en egen hemsida som tyvärr inte alltid är uppdaterad – https://www.jth.life/ Där kan du också läsa en del av de berättelser som följer med bilden.
UTSTÄLLNINGAR
Luftkastellet, oktober 2022
Konst i Lund, november 2022
Luftkastellet, mars 2023
Engleson Galleri Caroli, april 2023
Hydra, Greece June 2023
Engleson Galleri Caroli, oktober 2023
Toppen, Höllviken december 2023
Luftkastellet, mars 2024
Torups Galleri, mars 2024
Venice, May 2024
Luftkastellet, oktober 2024
Konst i Advent, December 2024
Galleri Engleson, Caroli December 2024
Jäger & Jansson Galleri, april 2025
A bit about pictures and me.
I'm a curious person who sees everything in pictures, even what I express in words, often combining them, for behind all my pictures lies a story. These narratives, some as short as a single image and others as long as a novel, are the heart and soul of my work.
Pictures tell stories. Wherever I go, I'm surrounded by natural beauty, exciting people, and history. I use my camera to document the world and blend what I see with what I feel to capture the hidden magic.
My images tell my stories. Through my pictures, prints, and narratives, I invite you to partake in these stories in your life and home and share my deeply personal perspective of our world. More than meets the eye. I think in pictures, dream, write, and talk about them; consequently, I must create images too. They become what I see, not necessarily confined to reality. There's a picture around every corner. I hope you'll see what I saw and enjoy it.
I'm also a writer, and many images come with a shorter or longer essay. It accompanies the painting, printed on fine paper with my personal greeting.
Many pictures start their journey on my camera. Simply put, I describe the image I see in my mind, experienced or imagined. The image arises within me even before I bring the eyepiece to my eye. In a fraction of a moment, I see what I want and what can be done with the picture. Here, I'll insert a giraffe, Superman, the Titanic, or whatever my imagination conjures up. Even stranger is that I remember the mental image long after it's time to create the work. Whether I succeed is up to the observer, often imbued with a streak of black humour – the aim is to entertain. My pictures usually become a talking point wherever they hang.
I prefer pictures that convey a message in multiple layers. At first glance, they're filled with feel-good vibes, a beautiful view, lovely weather, the sun shining, flowers in the meadow, or the water lying deceptively calm. But beneath this surface beauty, I often conceal a deeper story, a narrative that challenges societal norms or explores the human condition. I invite you to delve into these hidden narratives and discover the layers of meaning within my work.
Picture and design have been a thread running through my life. Photographic art feels like a fitting finale, and I'm happy to share it.
My genre is varied, as seen in my pictures; the theme is a blend of pop and street art in collages that can consist of hundreds of layers. Some images can take weeks, others just a day before it's time to hand over the result to the print workshop. Fine Art Prints are digital photo collages. In these collages, tearing, cutting, puzzling, painting, drawing, and spraying happen digitally. What I insert can be images hundreds of years old that I carefully extract so they appear to be part of the painting, but also images created by myself, now also generated from my imagination. Next, visit the print studio and, for certain images, number a limited edition (usually 7 copies) and sign them by hand. Some images may be available in other formats. Just ask which ones. If you like an image that's 70x100 but doesn't have space on the wall, you might be able to get it in 50x70 cm instead. The question is open.
The Giclée method, or Fine Art Print as it's also called, is the modern way of producing graphic art. This method ensures the highest quality and longevity of the artwork, using a high-quality large-format printer with archival pigment inks and artist paper or, in some cases, canvas. The paper used meets the longevity requirements set by museums and galleries. I sell my pictures unframed, allowing the new owner to personalise their artwork, confident in the lasting value and quality of the piece.
For many years, I only exhibited online, in selected groups, and on my Facebook page - https://www.facebook.com/jorgen.thornberg.9. I also have my website, which unfortunately is not constantly updated - https://www.jth.life/. You can also read some of the stories accompanying the pictures there.
EXHIBITIONS
Luftkastellet, October 2022
Art in Lund, November 2022
Luftkastellet, March 2023
Engleson Gallery Caroli, April 2023
Hydra, Greece June 2023
Engleson Gallery Caroli, October 2023
Toppen, Höllviken December 2023
Luftkastellet, March 2024
Torup Gallery, March 2024
Venice, May 2024
UTSTÄLLNINGAR
Luftkastellet, oktober 2022
Konst i Lund, november 2022
Luftkastellet, mars 2023
Engleson Galleri Caroli, april 2023
Hydra, Greece June 2023
Engleson Galleri Caroli, oktober 2023
Toppen, Höllviken december 2023
Luftkastellet, mars 2024
Torups Galleri, mars 2024
Venice, May 2024
Luftkastellet, October 2024
Konst i Advent, December 2024
Galleri Engleson, Caroli December 2024
Jäger & Jansson Galleri, April 2025
Utbildning
Autodidakt
Medlem i konstnärsförening
Öppna Sinnen
Med i konstrunda
Konstrundan i Skåne
Utställningar
Luftkastellet, October 2022
Art in Lund, November 2022
Luftkastellet, March 2023
Engleson Gallery Caroli, April 2023
Hydra, Greece June 2023
Engleson Gallery Caroli, October 2023
Toppen, Höllviken December 2023
Luftkastellet, March 2024
Torup Gallery, March 2024
Venice, May 2024