Rotum

Rotum – Kali is walking barefoot between the tents.

Rotum is not a project, not a retreat center, and not a course. As they say themselves, “a response to the deep human longing to be in the body, in truth, and in the present moment.” Here, nakedness is not explained or justified — it simply is. “A room for nakedness without explanation.”

I’m here, Avesta Sweden, visiting friends — partly to hang out, and partly in my role as a photographer with Beyond Nudity, a separate but related project that Mathias Risberg and I have been working on for eight years. The lines between projects blur. What connects them is the same desire for honesty, for presence, for being seen without costumes — in body, in eye contact, in silence.

Mathias puts it like this:
“Rotum isn’t a place where you come to learn something new. You come here to get real. And real isn’t always pretty. But it is true.”

Tommie, the owner is always moving between clarity and humor, put it more bluntly:
“This isn’t some damn retreat. It’s a lot of work to get the place in harmony with nature. Nakedness is only part of it. Development is probably the strongest keyword”

And then there’s Henrik — who sees dragons in everything from rusty pipes to old tree stumps. Almost anything can become a creature in his world. A bent rod turns into an eye, an old plow part becomes a leg. One moment he’s welding the party tent frame together, the next he’s cutting a piece off because “the dragon needs knees.” With Henrik, nothing is just junk — it’s potential.

There’s something alchemical about Rotum. The everyday blends with the sacred: sweat, laughter, silence, fire. You don’t attend a course — you are distilled. Through nakedness, honesty, and heat, something old falls away. Maybe that’s why the conversations burn. It’s lead turning into gold — and we’re not sure how.

And sometimes it feels like Kali is walking barefoot between the tents. The wild one. The truth-teller. The goddess who destroys illusions so we can finally stand as ourselves. It’s no coincidence that people here often laugh and cry in the same breath. Boundaries blur. Control slips. That’s her energy — and we let her in.

Fire is an important part of our survival and a central place in the ceremonies I hold and want to hold – in front of a sacred fire place.
Tommie Gyllin

Rotum doesn’t offer a program. It offers a state of being — a space of presence, nakedness, and deep connection. There are rituals, talking circles, art and fire ceremonies, where the body remembers itself and the soul finds peace in stillness and flame.
“It’s a space to land in. To feel that you are fully you, just as you are.”

And of course — there are the conversations. Around the fire, in the sauna, while washing dishes. Talks swing from the completely immature — farts, horniness, laughter — to deep reflections on love, boundaries, and longing. Who’s cooking tonight? Who eats vegan, and who’s still dreaming of grilled meat? Who has money to go shopping? And what do you do when there’s none left?

People talk about jobs, the unemployment office, making art — and when Tim speaks, we listen. He’s our in-house expert on Hilma af Klint, and the way he talks about her opens new doors. He shows us how her spiritual, bodily, and artistic worlds were always woven together.

“It’s a response to the human longing for real presence.”
A place where you don’t need to try to be anything other than what you are. A room for vulnerability without explanation. A fire altar where body and soul burn together in what’s true and real.