Stillness and Storytelling: A Danish Illustrator’s Search for Mood

There’s a particular kind of silence I remember from my childhood in Denmark — the quiet hum of a summer evening, the ticking of a wall clock, the way light touches old furniture. That kind of stillness lingers in the bones. It’s not dramatic. It’s not lonely. It’s just there — part of the rhythm of being. And without realizing it, it’s often what I’m trying to draw.

As a Danish illustrator, I don’t chase spectacle. What often draws me in are the quiet moments — a kitchen table with mismatched chairs, a man standing by his farmhouse in autumn under a dark blue sky, the way a woman might pause in a hallway before saying something that will change everything. Something cinematic, perhaps.
My work sits somewhere between nostalgia and documentation. It isn’t realism, but it often feels like memory. I think that’s what I love about illustration — the way it gives form to something nearly lost, but not quite.

Mood as Narrative

I sometimes think of each piece as a film still. There’s no dialogue, but the story is there — in posture, in placement, in atmosphere. I learned this instinct from acting: that what’s unsaid is often the most alive.
When I illustrate, I lean into that same tension. I don’t always know what the character is thinking, but I know they’re on the edge of something. It’s that moment before the event — or just after — that interests me most.
And maybe that’s a Nordic thing. There’s a restraint in Scandinavian culture that often hides deep emotional undercurrents. You see it in our film, in our design, in the way we talk (or don’t). As a visual storyteller, I think I’m just trying to trace those undercurrents back to the surface.

The Danish Landscape of Memory

Much of my inspiration comes from the 1930s to 1960s — the visual texture of those decades. Brown linoleum. Patterned curtains. A single pot of geraniums on a windowsill. These are the kinds of details I grew up surrounded by, even if I wasn’t fully aware of them at the time.

There’s also something inherited, I think — a quiet current of imagery passed down. Ib Antoni was a friend of my grandmother’s, and they studied drawing together in Copenhagen. Her uncle, Aage Rasmussen, was an illustrator well known for his posters and travel illustrations in the mid-20th century. I never knew him, but I’ve always loved the way his work captured movement and stillness at the same time — a train rushing past a Danish field, and yet the whole thing feels frozen in memory. Maybe that’s what illustration does at its best. It lets us hold on to something fleeting.

A Portfolio of Quiet

If you’re curious, you can find more of my work here. It’s a small archive of the scenes and people that live in my head — visual notes from a life shaped by Nordic stillness, cinema, and the act of watching.

Liv Hansen is a Danish actress and illustrator based in Copenhagen. Her work explores memory, mood, and character-driven storytelling across film and visual art.
www.livhansen.net