A Reflection on Susanne Ussing’s I Drivhuset and the Struggle of Becoming

 To grow is to risk discomfort. It is to stand at the edges of what is known and press forward into the unknown. It is to trust that even when we feel trapped, the act of being fully present in our own vastness is, itself, an act of quiet revolution.

Image: Wikipedia

There is something deeply unsettling and profoundly beautiful about the silent struggle embodied in Susanne Ussing’s I Drivhuset. A woman, vast and uncontainable, has outgrown the space meant to shelter her. The greenhouse, a place of careful cultivation, of warmth and controlled growth, now becomes her confinement. She has expanded beyond its fragile architecture, and yet, rather than breaking free, she remains—trapped, entangled, her form pressing against the structure’s limits. Her feet push downward, through the brick floor, as though seeking roots even as the glass walls enclose her.

How many of us have felt this way—held in a space that was once nurturing but has become too small? There is a quiet terror in recognizing that the very places designed to protect and foster us may, in time, become prisons. It is the dilemma of transformation: to grow is to risk breaking the boundaries that once made us feel safe. And yet, to remain within those confines is to diminish the fullness of our becoming.

Ussing’s vision speaks to the deepest chambers of the soul, where we hold our dreams and longings, our silent revolutions and unspoken refusals. The material of the sculpture—newspaper clippings, wood, metal vents—whispers of a world that shapes and constrains. These elements suggest history, narrative, structure. Words, printed and set in ink, often define the parameters of our existence. They tell us who we are, who we should be, what is possible. The vents, perhaps, offer breath, a way for air to circulate through the closed space, but they are not enough to open it. The wood and the brick, solid and unyielding, ground the piece in weight and permanence. The glass, so often a symbol of clarity and transparency, here becomes an unbreakable barrier.

But what of the woman herself? She is immense, formidable, more powerful than the structure that contains her. There is no sign of collapse, no surrender. She is simply there, undeniably present, refusing to be diminished. Her feet penetrate the floor—an act of defiance and belonging at once. She does not flee, nor does she shrink. Instead, she integrates. She becomes both trapped and transcendent, bound yet vast.

In her work, Susanne Ussing seemed deeply attuned to the relationship between body and space, self and environment. Her sculptures, drawings, and architectural visions often explored the porous boundaries between the human form and the structures that seek to contain or support it. She understood that spaces shape us, but also that we have the power to reshape them, even if the process is slow, painful, and incomplete.

There is something deeply human in this tension. We build walls—out of necessity, out of fear, out of love. We step inside homes, institutions, relationships, beliefs—places meant to hold and nurture us. And then, if we are true to our own unfolding, we begin to grow. Sometimes that growth is welcomed, but often it is not. Those around us may expect us to remain as we were. The spaces we inhabit may resist our expansion. We may resist it ourselves. Because growth, though natural, is rarely easy.

Yet the sculpture does not depict destruction. The glass does not shatter, the walls do not break. There is a stillness, a quiet insistence. The woman remains. She neither accepts her entrapment nor violently escapes it. She simply takes up the space she needs, pressing into the limits imposed upon her. And perhaps, in time, the glass will crack—not through force, but through the sheer inevitability of growth.

There is wisdom here for all of us. We, too, live within greenhouses of our own making, or of others’ making. We, too, find ourselves outgrowing the roles, relationships, and identities we once inhabited. The choice before us is not whether we will grow—because growth is inescapable—but how we will respond to it. Will we contort ourselves to fit within the space we have outgrown? Will we diminish ourselves for the comfort of familiarity? Or will we, like the figure in Ussing’s work, simply remain—expanding, pressing against the walls, trusting that the structure around us must eventually give way to our becoming?

To grow is to risk discomfort. It is to stand at the edges of what is known and press forward into the unknown. It is to trust that even when we feel trapped, the act of being fully present in our own vastness is, itself, an act of quiet revolution.

Perhaps this is the gift of I Drivhuset—a reminder that we are always in the process of becoming, always pressing against old limitations. And in that tension, in that quiet refusal to shrink, there is both struggle and grace.

All my Love and Light,

An