I have six dice in my hand. I roll them onto a grid paper lying on the table in front of me. The sound of the dice is muffled against the softer paper.
I then look for the small mark I have made with a permanent pen on each of the dice.
One die has the marker on the side with one dot.
Another has the mark on the side with two dots.
A third has it on the side with three dots.
A fourth on the side with four dots.
The fifth one on the side with five dots.
And the sixth one has the marker on the side with six dots.
I call them die one, die two, and so on up to die six.
I arrange them: die one, die two, and so on, in ascending order from left to right.
Then I look at how many dots each one has on its top side. These dots represent the number that each die showed after being rolled. I then write down this combination of six numbers on the grid paper. There I have previously written today’s date, the place where I am rolling the dice that day, and a consecutive day number. I pick up the dice and put them in a small cylindrical plastic box that once held an analog film roll,
and which I now use to store them when not in use.
Later in the day, when it suits me best, I take the dice out of the small box. I roll them again and write down the combination of numbers. I do the same again – and again, and again, and again … keep repeating until I have one hundred dice rolls in addition to the first, written down as rows of numbers on the grid paper. The rows are arranged in four columns, with 25 rolls in each, and fill the grid A4 sheet nicely.
It was September 1, 1994. I was halfway through my academy education when it all started. At first, my plan was to keep going for one month, but it went by so quickly that I had not even begun to think about what this could really become. I realized I had to continue for a year. That year also went by fairly quickly, but at least I had started to get a sense of what this project was about. It was, among other things, about time, presence, and a commitment to myself in knowing that I wanted to, and would, work with art for the rest of my life. It gradually became clear to me that this dice roll project simply had to continue – every day, for all time to come – it was, for many reasons, inherent in the nature of the project.
The project came to be called
«one and one hundred dice rolls a day»
and the recipe to follow is as follows:
- every day a set of six dice are rolled
- once each morning, followed by one hundred times later the same day
- for every dice roll the combination of numbers are written down
- each die is marked and has its fixed place in the order
The process is further ...
daily (most often) typing in the numbers from the grid paper, printing out, putting in a binder
– and monthly (always) putting the binder on the shelf.
The realization that I would continue this project – daily for a long time
to come – brought with it an aspect that I had not considered when I started. One thing is the daily action: rolling dice, collecting the numerical combinations and thinking that I will use this as base material for further processing. But the numerical material is also something in itself. Should I just keep the collection of the numerical combinations somewhat invisible in digital form on the computer, or should I find a way to make it visible to others as well? As the project began to grow, I realized that I wanted to make the collection visible – and thought a lot about how. I decided to do it in the form of an installation.
As a result of the line of thought that I am a visual artist, I work with the visual domain and use visual means of expression, I wanted to give the installation visually readable signals that point back to where they come from – from the dice roll project. The collection, or the archive as I also call it, has therefore taken the form of a visual calendar as an installation: one shelf unit is one year, one binder is one month, one spread is one day.
Each shelf unit has twelve compartments that are adapted
to the binders, one for each month. The binders have a spine label that shows the month and year – such as 0504 for May 2004 – and some numbers in rows that indicate what is inside the binders. The label is a physical cutout from the corresponding sheet with the one hundred rolls on the first day of that month. Inside the binders there is a first page with information about, among other things, the title,
a second page with a consecutive month number, month and year, and a last page with copyright. In the spreads,
on the left side one will find information about the date,
the first roll, the place and a consecutive day number, and on the right side the date and the next one hundred dice rolls.
Statistical facts as of October 20, 2025:
number of years = 31
number of months = 374
number of days = 11,373
number of noted rows of numbers = 1,148,673
When I spin the die around and cannot find the marked dot, it is on the underside. Even though I cannot see it,
I know which dice it is. If there is one pip on top of the die, it is die six. If there are two on top, it is die five.
If there are three on top, it is die four. And vice versa.
The sum of two opposite sides is always seven.
In the beginning, when I was planning this project and trying to figure out how
to carry it out practically, a lot of questions arose that I had to think through
– questions that others have also asked me afterwards – with answers that are still correct and relevant:
- Why dice?
I chose the die for several reasons. In its form, it is constructed. In its nature,
it is random. It is linked to both seriousness and play – and it is something that almost everyone can relate to. It represents a number-based world and thus also the language of science. In this way, the dice encompasses many topics
I am interested in. I also want to work with a material that has something of its own, something that I cannot control, but rather explore and engage in a kind
of dialogue with.
- Why six dice?
The die is a small object with six sides. When it is rolled, only one of these sides will eventually 'show' – meaning, it will end up on top of the object. The decision to use six dice came as a result of a kind of democratic thinking – that all sides should have an equal opportunity to show in a single roll.
- Why marked dice?
This point in the project's recipe is important. How do you preserve the randomness that the dice generate – preserve it as far as possible? When
a set of dice is rolled simultaneously, they fall in a haphazard manner on the table. How do you write it down as a row of numbers – without starting to create order, group them, form symmetries, ascending, or descending orders and so on, as humans tend to do? The solution is a simple small marker dot on each die, to give them a fixed place in the order that the numbers are written down
– then it is not me, but the dice that determine the order.
- Why manual dice rolls?
I want to be in a close relationship with this random numerical material.
By rolling manually and with physical dice, I achieve presence in the process.
I experience the material in a unique and profound way – through the body.
I would not have had that kind of experience if the random material had been created mechanically by algorithms, or taken from, for example, weather data, or other existing information sources.
- Why one and one hundred times?
I did not know in advance exactly how I would use the material further. I had thoughts of transforming a large amount of number combinations, and one hundred seemed like a nice and round, large number to me. But what if
I wanted to use only one row of number combination for something? How could I preserve the randomness if I had to choose just one from the large quantity? The solution was to have one roll that could stand on its own – a first roll.
I also like the idea of the one versus the large quantity – the contrast, which
this aspect of the project makes visible.
- Why every day?
I am interested in concepts like time and presence, and wanted to bring this interest into an artistic creative process. I wanted to create a situation where
I can be in this process every day. Committing to a life as an artist can be a wobbly balancing act. I imagined that tasks or situations might occur that could distract me over time, causing me to lose touch with what I had decided would be important in my life – working with art. Starting a project that would remind me of this choice every day, while also generating a base material to continue working with, was therefore attractive.
- Why once in the morning and the rest later?
I want this project to be something I can live with – regardless of other things that come up during a day and a life. Since the first roll is meant to stand alone, and the others are to be grouped together as a large block, it is a natural thought to start the day with the first roll, as an early reminder of the life choice, and then do the others when it suits best. This provides continuity in the project itself and at the same time flexibility in everyday life.
At one point after I understood that the project simply had to continue – and continued rolling the dice – I was also asked why: Surely, I had enough numerical material to work with now?
The answer to that is twofold.
One part is related to the numerical material itself.
The combination possibilities that the six dice can potentially create, with the fixed order and the number of rolls each day, are enormous. If just one number changes in the large block of one hundred rolls, which consists of six hundred numbers, then one has, by definition, a new combination. It is exciting to relate my work to this enormously large material – and to continue to collect these combinations.
The second is my relationship to the action itself and the collection. What do I experience along the way? What kind of thoughts emerge as the collection grows – as it becomes physically larger and larger as the years go by? How do I develop sub-projects that have the potential to absorb these experiences, thoughts, questions, and ideas – which I cannot predict until they appear? I could have stopped and just used the existing numerical material in future sub-projects, but I am afraid that would have led to a different kind of relationship to the base material. Perhaps
I would have experienced it as more distant from me – since,
as long as I throw dice every day, it is also a part of me.
This connection is something I want to hold on to in the project
– to maintain this closeness and explore what can arise in it.
The numerical material from the dice rolls, which I collect in this constantly growing installation, is for me a base material that I use further in an artistic creative process. Through various forms of transformations, it has so far taken the form of drawing/print, sound work, text work, animation and sculpture/installation.
What I call a ‘dialogue’ occurs in the transformation process as I try a sign-form[*] and a set of rules on the numerical material, to see how it ‘responds.’ If it does not tell me anything, or not enough,
I try again with an adjustment of the sign-form, or the set of rules, or both, until something exciting and interesting emerges
– something that, in some way, surprises and fascinates me.
The experience happens through the body.
The body has close contact with the base material.
The hand holds the dice.
The eyes observe the dice rolls and register the numbers.
The hand writes down the number combination (pen on paper).
The numbers are simultaneously ‘heard’ through the eyes.
The hand writes down the number combination once more (fingers on the keyboard).
The numbers are heard again through the eyes, and the rhythm is felt through the fingers.