A new exhibition at Oslo’s Munch Museum sheds light on Edvard Munch’s 1922 Freia frieze, a collection of twelve canvases originally commissioned for the women’s canteen of the Freia chocolate factory. This ambitious display connects the renowned artist’s work with the historical struggles surrounding labour rights, gender equality, and the often troubling legacy of cocoa sourcing.
A Dance of Contradictions
Upon entering the Munch Museum, viewers may initially feel as if they’ve been transported to a realm of joy. The vibrant murals depict scenes of idyllic life: women watering flowers, fruit pickers reaching for their harvest, and couples strolling on the beach. Munch’s use of blues and greens creates a lively atmosphere, almost inviting observers to join in this choreographed dance of life.
However, the initial allure quickly dissipates when one contemplates the underlying motives behind these artworks. Commissioned to brighten the lives of the “chocolate girls” who worked at Freia, the frieze raises questions about whether Munch and the factory’s management genuinely cared about the experiences of their female workforce.
Curator Ana María Bresciani poignantly states, “Those years when Munch was working on the Freia frieze were very dramatic and dark for the whole of Europe, especially after the First World War.” Her exhibition, aptly titled *Edvard Munch and the Chocolate Factory*, explores the broader implications of the frieze, delving into the historical context of workers’ rights and the ongoing fight for gender equality. It also confronts the exploitative and racially charged history of Freia’s cocoa sourcing, which involved labour from South America, the Caribbean, and later Ghana, a former British colony.
A Forgotten Workforce
The exhibition represents a significant milestone, being the first time the frieze has been displayed outside of the factory since its creation. The murals, which were originally installed in 1923, coincide with pivotal advancements in workers’ rights in Norway, including the introduction of the eight-hour workday. Yet, Bresciani highlights a stark reality: “Many of the girls and young women would not have had experience of the kinds of scenes Munch depicts. I don’t think they had access to summer cottages, swimming, or much art yet.”
Munch’s portrayal of idyllic leisure can feel almost patronising when juxtaposed with the grim realities faced by the women employed at Freia. The artist himself seemed detached from their struggles, aiming instead to educate them through visual narratives. “The little chocolate girls, sat there eating, understanding the pictures better and better,” he reportedly noted after visiting the canteen.
This disconnect is underscored by complaints regarding the absence of realistic details in Munch’s paintings. He was asked to add doors and chimneys to the houses depicted, a request he initially ignored until a chauffeur was promised to wait for him outside the factory—a detail that speaks volumes about his priorities.
The Economic Divide
The financial disparity between Munch and the workers is stark. The chocolate mogul Johan Throne Holst commissioned the frieze for a hefty sum of 80,000 Norwegian kroner—equivalent to approximately £192,000 today—while the female workforce scraped by on meagre wages. Arbeiderbladet, a local newspaper, captured this inequality in a biting critique published on 15 October 1923, stating, “While the workers are kept on starvation wages, large capital is invested in costly paintings, which in time could be sold at a large profit.”
Despite these issues, Freia aimed to project an image of a progressive employer, offering workers benefits such as weekly baths, monthly manicures, and access to modern facilities. Yet, one must question whether these gestures were genuine acts of care or merely public relations attempts to mask the exploitation that lay beneath the surface.
Munch’s Legacy and Public Art
Munch’s interest in public art was evident throughout his career, with the Freia frieze being one of his two public commissions, the other being a series for the Aula at the University of Oslo. His desire for public recognition was clear; Munch viewed these commissions as a strategic route to fame and influence. “He was really interested in public commissions,” Bresciani explains. “Because he thought his art was to be lived with among the people.”
Yet, this drive for notoriety raises uncomfortable questions about the true nature of his engagement with the working class. Munch’s art, while undeniably significant, often danced on the peripheries of the very struggles he depicted.
Why it Matters
The exhibition *Edvard Munch and the Chocolate Factory* offers more than a glimpse into the past; it serves as a critical reflection on the intersections of art, labour, and social justice. By illuminating the struggles of the women who toiled in Freia’s factory, it challenges viewers to reconsider the narratives surrounding public art and the responsibilities of artists towards their subjects. In a world still grappling with issues of inequality, Munch’s legacy compels us to confront the uncomfortable truths of exploitation that persist today, making this exhibition not just a historical examination but a call to action in our ongoing pursuit of equity and dignity for all workers.
