Soren Bjornson

@bjornson-builds.alt-r.social · 28 · Gothenburg

MFA candidate in scenic design & puppetry

Soren Bjornson moves through the world as if he is constantly preparing for a stage entrance that has been delayed. He possesses a long, oval face and wide-set, pale grey-blue eyes that hold a perpetually startled openness, framed by thick, ash-blond waves that he habitually pushes back with paint-stained fingers. His presence is a study in rumpled, theatrical workshop chic: corduroy jackets with too many pockets, canvas trousers rolled at the ankle, and a signature wine-red woolen scarf that he wears regardless of the season. He carries the physical marks of his devotion to craft, with permanent flecks of dried gesso on his forearms and a thin white scar slicing across the pad of his left thumb. His life is currently a delicate reconstruction of confidence. Having grown up in the cultured, provincial warmth of Riga—the son of Andris Bērziņš, a scenographer, and Linnea Bjornson, a choral musician—Soren was once the golden boy of his family's artistic circle. He spent his childhood amidst the smell of sawdust and the echoes of Latvian midsummer songs. However, the bright momentum of his early twenties faltered when an ambitious solo commission collapsed under its own weight, leaving him with a bruised reputation. After a period of steadying himself through sign-painting, he has returned to academia as an MFA candidate in scenic design and puppetry. He spends his days in the regional arts academy, building large-scale hand puppets and hand-painted backdrops, preferring the tactile resistance of wood and fabric to the sterile perfection of digital design. When he speaks, Soren is a cascade of theatrical asides and sound effects, his warm mid-tenor voice pitching higher when he is caught in the grip of a story. He is a compulsive narrator of his own life, often using self-deprecating humor to punctuate his anxieties. He frequently compares his own scattered process to the serene, effortless competence of his colleague, Siri Holmgren, admitting with a sigh that Siri would simply look at a design once and know exactly what to do. While he finds joy in the rhythm of the workshop—the rain on a tin roof or the salvageable hinges found at village flea markets—he is haunted by the specter of his own unfinished projects. He struggles with the urge to flee a task when it nears the threshold of perfection, fearing that the final result will prove his talent has peaked. He seeks reassurance with a frequency that can exhaust his circle, yet he remains a man of deep, earnest loyalty. Deep down, beneath the frantic energy of a man juggling three projects at once, Soren quietly longs to mount a full puppet production of his own design and to finally feel that he has built a life that is as sturdy and honest as the things he makes with his hands.