Imagine stepping into the nose of a reindeer—not just any reindeer, but one that holds the secrets of survival in the harsh Arctic. This is the bold invitation from Indigenous Sámi artist Máret Ánne Sara, whose latest installation at Tate Modern’s Turbine Hall challenges us to rethink our place in nature. Visitors, accustomed to the hall’s jaw-dropping transformations—from artificial suns to robotic jellyfish—are now invited to wander through a labyrinth inspired by the intricate nasal passages of a reindeer. But here’s where it gets profound: this isn’t just a whimsical design. It’s a tribute to a remarkable natural phenomenon. In less than a second, a reindeer’s nose can heat inhaled air by 80 degrees Celsius, a survival mechanism in the Arctic’s unforgiving cold. By scaling this up to human size, Sara forces us to confront our own fragility. ‘It creates a sense of inferiority,’ she explains, ‘reminding us that humans are not dominant over nature.’ And this is the part most people miss: it’s not just about art; it’s about shifting perspectives and fostering humility.
But here’s where it gets controversial: Sara’s work doesn’t just celebrate the reindeer—a cornerstone of Sámi cosmology—it also confronts the struggles of Europe’s only Indigenous people. The Sámi, numbering around 100,000 across northern Norway, Finland, Sweden, and Russia’s Kola Peninsula, have faced persecution, forced assimilation, and the suppression of their language. The installation highlights their battles with climate change, land dispossession, and colonialism. Take the towering 26-metre structure of reindeer hides entangled in power cables at the entrance. It’s a metaphor for the political and economic systems suffocating the Sámi. Titled Goavve, it references a weather phenomenon where ice traps lichen, the reindeer’s winter food, due to global heating—which is accelerating four times faster in the Arctic. This isn’t just art; it’s a cry for ecological justice.
Three years ago, I witnessed the devastating impact of goavvi firsthand in Guovdageaidnu, Norway. Sámi herders braved biting cold to haul food pellets for their reindeer, whose natural food sources were locked away. The labor-intensive effort is unsustainable, and reindeer are dying—either from starvation or drowning in lakes with prematurely melted ice. Sara’s installation is a monument to these losses, bringing the Arctic’s crisis to London’s doorstep. ‘I’m layering materials to bring *goavvi here,’* she says, blending the stark realities of climate change with the spiritual interconnectedness of the Sámi worldview.
And this is where it gets even more thought-provoking: Sara’s work underscores the clash between Western notions of power as a resource to exploit and the Sámi understanding of energy as a life force in all living beings. Tate Modern’s history as a coal and oil power station adds another layer of irony, especially as Scandinavian states push ‘green’ initiatives like wind farms and mines on Sámi ancestral lands. ‘It’s hard to defend yourself as a small minority when the argument is about saving the world,’ Sara notes. But is ‘green colonialism’ truly sustainable, or just a repackaged form of extractivism? The question lingers, inviting us to reconsider our relationship with the planet.
Sara’s own family has battled the Norwegian government over herding policies. In 2016, her brother fought unsuccessful lawsuits against forced culling of his herd, prompting Sara to create Pile O’Sápmi, a series featuring 400 reindeer skulls—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, temporarily rebranding the Nordic Pavilion as the Sámi Pavilion. Her Turbine Hall commission isn’t just art; it’s a political statement with global resonance. ‘It brings the conversation about rising temperatures closer,’ says curator Katya García-Antón. ‘This isn’t just the Amazon or the Atlantic—it’s happening in Europe.’
But here’s the most intriguing part: Sara’s message isn’t about pitting Western science against Indigenous knowledge. Instead, she highlights how the Sámi have preserved life-sustaining wisdom through generations by living in harmony with nature. This interconnectedness is evident in her use of materials—animal pelts, bones, wood, and power cables—and a soundscape blending reindeer herds, mosquitoes, birds, and Sámi joiks with industrial hums. The nasal passage structure, Geabbil (meaning ‘smartly adaptable’), is crafted from wooden poles carved with reindeer earmarks, honoring her family’s herding legacy. Reindeer bones and skulls adorn the walls, not as macabre decorations but as symbols of duodji—a philosophy emphasizing the interdependence of humans, animals, and nature. To the Sámi, nothing is wasted, and animal wisdom is revered.
Sara’s childhood memory of her father’s fear-induced scent at a police station parallels the reindeer’s warning scent when stressed. ‘Smell is a language,’ she reflects, ‘linking us biologically and spiritually to animals.’ Collaborating with perfumer Nadjib Achaibou, she diffuses the reindeer’s fear scent around the goavvi 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, forcing us to confront our own vulnerabilities.
For Sara, this commission is more than art—it’s an invitation to embrace Indigenous philosophy in shaping a global future. ‘There’s hope in anyone sitting down to absorb this with openness,’ she says. But the question remains: Can we, as a global society, truly learn from Indigenous wisdom, or will we continue to prioritize exploitation over harmony? The Turbine Hall awaits your answer.
