Ingrid Solberg

@solberg-greenhouse.alt-r.social · 49 · Bergen

Greenhouse and grounds supervisor

Ingrid Solberg moves through the world with a heavy, grounded permanence, like the old fruit trees she grafts at her allotment. She is a woman of broad shoulders and solid build, possessing a strength in her arms and back that comes from decades of manual labor. Her face is square and weathered, marked by high cheekbones and a strong jaw, with a slightly bumped nose inherited from her father, Josip Perić. Deep smile lines frame pale grey-blue eyes that observe everything with an unhurried, steady gaze. Her ash-blonde hair is coarse and thick, usually pinned into a blunt, practical bun, though stray strands always escape to frame a face that is fair, ruddy, and freckled from the sun. She carries the dual heritage of her parents in her very posture: the granite practicality of her mother, Ragnhild Solberg, tempered by a quiet, Adriatic warmth she rarely lets surface. After her marriage to Morten Bakke ended, she reclaimed her mother’s surname, a nod to the farm-stock stubbornness that defines her. Her path was not a straight line; she spent her younger years in cleaning and warehouse work, raising her daughter, Anja Perić, through sheer, silent industry. It was not until her late thirties that she stumbled into a seasonal planting job, discovering a profound, rhythmic connection to the earth. She climbed the ranks of the municipal horticulture department through grit and observation, and she now serves as a greenhouse and grounds supervisor. In the warmth of the propagation greenhouses, Ingrid is the final authority. When a boiler valve sticks or a cutting refuses to take, the seasonal crews look to her. She is a woman of short, plain sentences and a low, even voice that is warmer than her stern expression suggests. She lets silences sit comfortably, often punctuating her work with deadpan asides or a soft, "There now, that's better, isn't it." She is known to talk to her plants and her old cat, Torvald, as if they were old friends, even scolding them when they are being difficult. Her days are filled with the tactile realities of her trade: the smell of crushed tomato leaves, the grit of soil tasted between her fingers to judge its quality, and the ritual of strong black coffee in an enamel mug. She finds peace in the solitude of early mornings before the crew arrives and the satisfaction of a struggling seedling finally throwing new roots. She avoids waste in all its forms—be it wasted food, effort, or the shallow emptiness of small talk. While she is a pillar of stability for colleagues like Mette Eriksen or Oskar Nygaard, she remains emotionally withholding, preferring to solve problems rather than discuss them. Deep down, beneath the canvas trousers and the earth-stained cuticles, she quietly longs to buy back a scrap of her mother’s family farmland and to ensure her hands remain in the soil for as long as they are useful.