Sten Ojavee is the acting director of the Estonian Centre for Contemporary Art, an art curator, and a serious hiker. Here, he talks about the virtue of being uncomfortable, which (dead) artist he wishes could join him on a hike, and how it feels to be under attack by 2 billion mosquitoes.
“I take my profession seriously, but I also take hiking and being in nature seriously—as a completely separate activity."
On hiking and art
When I’m hiking, I don’t really think about art, meaning work. Even my friends who I go hiking with come from different fields than mine. They do other things, and I like that variety, the chance not to think about my own specialty while out there.
But yes, I have thought about how easy it would be to start exploiting hiking, in the context of critical thinking (while, at the same time, exploiting the methods of critical thinking): the Anthropocene, the relationship between humans and nature, posthumanism, and so on. But I think that’s too easy an approach—and it’s already being done quite a lot. That said, I have to admit I do have some plans to connect these two fields—art and hiking—in the future.”
“Hiking has definitely influenced how I relate to certain artists and their work, helping me to find common ground.
For example, Alexei Gordin, whose practice involves exploring abandoned places, wandering through deserted buildings, and rediscovering them. Or artists like Hanna Samoson or Mathias Väärsi, whose practices also in some ways dwell around physical endurance and capabilities, be it on foot or on bicycle.”
“If I had to go on a hike with some great artist of the past, I’d choose Gustave Courbet. Through him, I’ve come to appreciate landscape painting—he challanged the logic of it. For him, a landscape didn’t need to be “beautiful” or exotic; it no longer had to be a dreamlike illusion. Together with his contemporaries, he dismantled the European Romantic understanding of nature. I’d ask Courbet to take me somewhere around his home village in eastern France.”
On preparing
“Hiking in general is expensive—if you're doing longer hikes regularly, it's better to invest in high-quality gear that lasts and doesn't weigh too much. A huge part of hiking is actually preparing for the hike, planning the route. Three things you really can’t do without in our region are a tent, a sleeping bag, and a sleeping pad. And, of course, a backpack to carry them in. In general, when I’m hiking, I’m interested in minimizing things, optimizing the contents of my pack. There are way too many things in our lives, and quite often, people bring that same attitude to the trail. But in reality, when you do it over and over again, you start to realize you actually need very little—and your joints and body will thank you for it. One thing I sometimes bring along is a small moka pot. It’s completely unnecessary, but so enjoyable—and it can give you a real mood boost.“
“I have one very specific dream that I’ve been working on and trying to make happen for a long time. Next year, I’m planning to hike the Pacific Crest Trail in the U.S. on my own. It’s 4,200 km long, starting at the Mexican border and ending at the Canadian one.
On the next hike
With a hike like that, you can’t just decide on your own, “I’ll go tomorrow.” You need to talk it through with your loved ones and your workplace. The undertaking is so intense and demanding that my friends, who normally join me on hikes, can’t currently make space in their lives for it—and maybe also don’t have the motivation. On average, the trail takes 4–6 months to complete. Every single day you walk and sleep in a tent, in nature, completely cut off from civilization. Only a few Estonians have ever done it before, and while preparing, I’ve talked with a few of them about their experiences. You could call it the total hike, the absolute of hiking. To do it, I have to pause my life, save up money, figure out visas, gather information, study, pore over maps, and choose the right gear. You also have to be prepared for your body to give out. The biggest obstacle people face on these longer, more demanding trails is injury – not bears and snakes, even though there are plenty of those too – simply because the distances are so vast, and then there are all the ascents and descents on top of that.”
On being uncomfortable
“The last place where we felt truly, magnificently uncomfortable while hiking was Muraka bog near Lake Peipus. In that area, there are no RMK trails or other infrastructure. We only knew that at the end of the route there was an old forest warden’s house, but we had no idea of its condition: whether it even had windows and doors, whether we could make a fire there. We had walked nearly 27 kilometers, the last two of them through forest mud up to our knees, where on top of everything, there were about 2 billion mosquitoes (and our repellent was empty). We were covered head to toe in bites and mud. I fell on my ass four times, almost lost my water bladder twice. It was hot, and we were utterly exhausted. In our minds, we were already preparing for a horrible night ahead. Luckily, the house was in perfect shape. Imagine the feeling when finally arriving there!”
“When you’re hiking, in a way, you often take an excuse to feel truly uncomfortable—and you begin to enjoy that discomfort. Or let’s put it differently: you can’t hike if you’re not able, at certain moments, to enjoy being uncomfortable.”
INTERVIEW: Anne VetikPHOTOGRAPHY: Silver Mikiver