It certainly was a dangerous experiment. The Project. The Unsafe Event. My life. My art. I lost my head in it and spend the good part of a year searching to get it back. At times I’ve been totally confused of my own actions and everything they birthed. What was it that I wanted (to do)? What’s the core of The Project? Who am I? Who’s Ronja Brainstorm? What the fuck does she want? And what about the Art Whore-ism? 

When the border between life and art gets so brutally, consequently and radically dissolved, the danger it breeds is inevitable. I think I knew. I think most people knew. And they told me. Time and time again, they told me, while my own intuition roared inside of me, constantly battling my oblivious insanity and self-destructive convictions. And on the outside, out there in real-life-Leipzig, at my base, in my bubble, the stronger the reactions towards myself and The Project, the more insistent my performance grew. So why did I do everything I did? Why throw myself into an artistic endeavour so bound to go wrong, in almost every possible aspect? Why insist on pushing myself further and further into the abyss of madness, well knowingly it’d potentially be my social death? The answer: Because I could. As a self-claimed BoBo (Bourgeois Bohème) with, in my dear professors words, “eine extrem hohe Begeisterungsfähigkeit” (“an extremely high enthusiasm-ability”), an insatiable desire for danger and drama, a, according to my therapist, “narcissistic ground pattern” (which is NOT the same as having a narcissistic personality disorder), and a Danish passport, my story can be only my story. No one else’s. And this is why it’s mine to tell. One of the most shocking teachings I take with me from the madness of Summer-Autumn 2025 is how scary it can feel, when you realise that your story is constantly being told by other people. A lot. And not kind-willed, well-meaning, trustworthy people, no no. People who doesn’t want the best for you. Judgemental, gleeful, scandal-starving strangers. Or enemies who used to be your friends. 

So while I discovered new respect and compassion for actual celebrities who bend completely under the pressure of public scrutiny, I didn’t get to pull the brakes on this way too wild ride, before I crashed into a stone wall in a tunnel and my car exploded. 

I know it all sounds a bit dramatic. But I live dramatically. My entire existence takes place on a rich spectrum of violent emotions. I’m fortunate to have a handful of tolerant, impressively intelligent friends and a loving, endlessly patient family. And yes, I easily get bored. And yes, many of my life’s biggest decisions I’ve made in moments of sheer restlessness. But the year of 2025 was for my part driven by something different. At best, it was driven by passion and curiosity. At worst, ego-maniac narcissism and idolatry. 

All of this, combined with a poetic outlook on the world, is the Mother of The Project. Who’s the father, you might ask, and I’m happy you do! I’d say the father is the time and place in which Mother gives birth to The Project: Northern Europe, 2025. Mostly in tense, repressed, raw Eastern-German Leipzig, with strong ties to a healthy, stable, wealthy butter hole called Copenhagen, as well as a rather dangerous connection to a reckless, underground art cult in Amsterdam. 

Mother tells the story. She always does. Regardless of what father throws at her, Mother will tell the story. And so I will. The next eight months, I’ll publish a new text every week, telling the conflicted, twisted and ambiguous story of my beloved problem child, The Project. 

Writing about past experiences is like committing myself to live in the past for a while. This scares me a bit, I have to admit. But though there is so much of my past I don’t enjoy thinking about at all, radically plunging myself into these moments and writing about them as if I’m still living them, is to me the most powerful way of channeling lived life. Eliminating the distance time has naturally built between myself and my experiences, is what I call “writing with immediacy”. My writer-friend M says that writing as I-narrator in present tense is the most complicated method of all writing methods. He says it’s because, as a writer, this method requires an incredible overview of what information the reader will need for them to be able to understand what’s being described. And this can be very difficult to manage when writing so directly from your very own point of view.

But both writing in past tense, as well as writing about the different events of this story chronologically, would bore me to death. I want to write the story of The Project with the same immediacy and impulsivity that I lived and created it. Only in this way can it be real. That is, as real as art can be. The stories within the story will naturally intertwine and entangle, like silk threats dancing and colliding, the nonsense will make sense and the sense will make nonsense. Cause though it’s become more and more fathomable and graspable what the hell went down last year, the more answers I find, the more questions they open up. How to dig twenty thousand deep holes in a tiny field of fragile flowers? While the world around me keeps turning, screaming, yelling, pulling and pushing, violent distractions and influences for a woman who’s already been shredded to pieces, still barely has managed to put herself together again? 

Anyway, I’m loosing myself in cloudy metaphors. The point is: the story is there. And it will rise and unfold like a hundred sunflowers that have been hanging low for months, in the shadows of anxiety, fear and shame.

Ok I’ll stop now. So I can start.