The Sweet Illusion: Munch’s Freia Frieze and the Bitter Aftertaste of Progress
There’s something almost hypnotic about standing before Edvard Munch’s Freia frieze. At first glance, it’s a symphony of movement—arms reaching, water flowing, couples strolling in unison. The blues and greens swirl like a dance, pulling you into a world that feels both serene and alive. But as you linger, a dissonance creeps in. This isn’t just art; it’s a mirror reflecting the complexities of its time. And what a time it was.
The Art of Distraction: Munch’s Vision vs. Reality
Let’s be clear: Munch’s frieze is stunning. Commissioned in 1922 for the women’s canteen of Norway’s Freia chocolate factory, it’s a testament to his ability to capture motion and emotion. But here’s where it gets interesting. These paintings, now on display at Oslo’s Munch Museum, were meant to adorn the walls where young women—often referred to as “chocolate girls”—ate their meals. What many people don’t realize is that these women, though granted some progressive benefits like weekly baths and factory doctors, were still trapped in a system of exploitation.
Personally, I think this is where the real story lies. Munch’s idyllic scenes of summer cottages and beachside strolls were worlds away from the lived experiences of these workers. As curator Ana María Bresciani points out, these women likely didn’t have access to such luxuries. So, what was the point of this art? Was it to inspire, to educate, or simply to distract?
The Price of Progress: A Tale of Two Realities
One thing that immediately stands out is the stark contrast between the cost of the frieze and the wages of the workers. Johan Throne Holst, Freia’s chocolate mogul, paid Munch the equivalent of £192,000 in today’s money. Meanwhile, the women who toiled in the factory survived on starvation wages. This raises a deeper question: Was Freia’s investment in art a genuine attempt to uplift its workers, or was it a calculated move to polish its image as a progressive employer?
From my perspective, it’s the latter. Freia wanted to be seen as a pioneer in workers’ rights, but its actions were more symbolic than substantive. Yes, they provided baths and manicures, but these perks were as much about hygiene and control as they were about care. And let’s not forget the darker side of Freia’s operations: its reliance on cacao sourced from colonies in South America, the Caribbean, and Ghana, where exploitation and racism were rampant.
Munch’s Ambitions: Fame Over Empathy?
What makes this particularly fascinating is Munch’s role in all of this. He wasn’t just an artist; he was a strategist. Bresciani suggests that Munch saw public commissions as a pathway to fame, and the Freia frieze was no exception. But did he truly care about the workers? His own words—“The little chocolate girls, sat there eating, understanding the pictures better and better”—suggest a paternalistic attitude. It’s as if he believed his art could elevate their lives, even if their material conditions remained unchanged.
A detail that I find especially interesting is Munch’s reluctance to add doors and chimneys to the houses in his paintings. When asked to make these changes, he demanded a chauffeur to wait for him outside the factory. When this didn’t happen, he refused. It’s a small moment, but it speaks volumes about his priorities.
The Legacy of the Frieze: A Bitter-Sweet Reflection
If you take a step back and think about it, the Freia frieze is a microcosm of early 20th-century capitalism. It’s a story of exploitation masked by progress, of art used as a tool for social control. Freia’s workers may have gained some rights—like the eight-hour workday and summer holidays—but these victories were hard-won and unevenly distributed.
What this really suggests is that progress is often a double-edged sword. On one hand, Freia’s efforts to improve working conditions were ahead of their time. On the other, they were built on a foundation of inequality and colonialism. This tension is what makes the frieze so compelling. It’s not just art; it’s a historical document, a reminder of how far we’ve come—and how far we still have to go.
Final Thoughts: The Art of Questioning
In my opinion, the true value of the Freia frieze lies in its ability to provoke questions. What does it mean for art to be “public”? Who benefits from progressive policies, and who is left behind? And most importantly, how do we reconcile the beauty of creation with the ugliness of its context?
As I reflect on Munch’s work, I’m reminded that art is never neutral. It’s shaped by the hands that create it and the systems that commission it. The Freia frieze may be a masterpiece, but it’s also a cautionary tale. It challenges us to look beyond the surface, to see not just the dance of colors but the lives it was meant to obscure.
And that, I think, is its greatest legacy.
Edvard Munch and the Chocolate Factory is on at the Munch Museum, Oslo, until 11 October 2026. If you have the chance, go see it. But don’t just admire the art—question it.
