Imagine stepping into the nose of a reindeer, not just as a whimsical fantasy, but as a profound statement about humanity’s place in the natural world. This is the bold invitation extended by Indigenous Sámi artist Máret Ánne Sara in her latest installation at Tate Modern’s Turbine Hall. But here’s where it gets controversial: what if this immersive experience isn’t just art, but a mirror reflecting our arrogance toward nature? Sara’s labyrinthine structure, modeled after the scaled-up nasal passages of a reindeer, challenges visitors to confront their perceived dominance over the environment. Inside, you can wander, relax on reindeer hides, and listen to Sámi elders share stories—a sensory journey that’s as thought-provoking as it is unique.
The reindeer’s nose isn’t just an arbitrary choice. And this is the part most people miss: it’s a marvel of nature. In less than a second, a reindeer’s nose can heat inhaled air by 80 degrees Celsius, a survival mechanism in the harsh Arctic. By enlarging this structure, Sara forces us to feel small, to question our superiority. ‘It creates a sense of inferiority,’ she explains, ‘a reminder that humans are not masters of nature.’ This perspective shift is personal for Sara, a former journalist, children’s author, and land defender from a reindeer-herding family in northern Norway. Her work isn’t just art—it’s a call to humility.
Sara’s installation is part of a larger commission celebrating the Sámi people, Europe’s only Indigenous group. Numbering around 100,000, the semi-nomadic Sámi span northern Norway, Finland, Sweden, and Russia’s Kola Peninsula (Sápmi). Despite their rich culture, science, and philosophy, they’ve faced persecution, forced assimilation, and language suppression. The reindeer, central to Sámi cosmology, also symbolizes their struggles with climate change, land dispossession, and colonialism. Is it possible that our ‘green’ solutions are just another form of colonialism? Sara’s work subtly invites this debate.
At the entrance, a towering 26-metre structure of reindeer hides entangled in power and light cables stands as a metaphor for the political and economic systems suffocating the Sámi. Titled Goavve, it references a weather phenomenon where ice layers trap lichen, the reindeer’s winter food. Goavvi, exacerbated by global heating (which is accelerating four times faster in the Arctic), is a stark reminder of the climate crisis. Three years ago, I witnessed its impact firsthand in Guovdageaidnu, Norway, where herders battled to feed their reindeer in biting cold. The labor-intensive effort is unsustainable, yet the alternative is starvation. Sara’s installation is both a monument to these struggles and a critique of extractivism disguised as ecological progress.
Here’s a question to ponder: Can we reconcile Western notions of power with the Sámi worldview, where energy is an innate life force in all living beings? Tate Modern’s history as a coal and oil power station adds layers to this tension, as does the ‘green colonialism’ of Scandinavian states. Wind farms, hydroelectric dams, and mines on Sámi land threaten their livelihoods and human rights. ‘It’s hard to defend yourself when the argument is about saving the world,’ Sara notes, highlighting the irony of extractivism cloaked in ecological language.
Sara’s own family has clashed with Norwegian authorities over herding policies. In 2016, her brother fought unsuccessful lawsuits against forced herd culling, prompting Sara to create Pile O’Sápmi, a series featuring 400 reindeer skulls—a powerful symbol now hanging in Oslo’s National Museum. For many Sámi, art is their only platform to be heard globally. In 2022, Sara represented Norway at the Venice Biennale, where the Nordic Pavilion became the Sámi Pavilion. Her Turbine Hall commission isn’t just art—it’s a political statement with global resonance.
But here’s the real question: Can Indigenous knowledge and Western science coexist? Sara’s work doesn’t pit them against each other. Instead, it celebrates how the Sámi have gathered life-sustaining wisdom through their deep connection to nature. This interconnectedness is evident in her materials—animal pelts, bones, wood, and power cables—and the soundscape blending reindeer calls, mosquitoes, birds, and industrial hums. The nasal structure, called Geabbil (‘smartly adaptable’), honors Sámi traditions of makeshift home-building, with wooden poles carved with reindeer earmarks from her family’s herds.
The use of reindeer parts might seem cruel to Western eyes, but it embodies the Sámi concept of duodji—a philosophy of interdependence where nothing is wasted. Animal wisdom, Sara argues, challenges human supremacy. She recalls a childhood memory of her father’s fear-induced scent at a police station, linking it to reindeer’s warning scents. ‘Smell is a language,’ she says, ‘a reminder of our biological and spiritual connection to animals.’
Working with perfumer Nadjib Achaibou, Sara diffused the reindeer’s fear scent around the Goavve installation, contrasting it with a hopeful aroma of reindeer milk, her own breast milk, and sweetgrass at the Geabbil entrance. These scents evoke visceral reactions, prompting reflection on extractivism and hope. ‘This is a futuristic project,’ Sara says, ‘an invitation to embrace Indigenous philosophy for a global future.’
What do you think? Is Sara’s vision a radical call to humility, or a necessary reminder of our place in the natural order? Leave your thoughts in the comments—let’s spark a conversation that bridges cultures and challenges assumptions.
