The Sweet and Sour Legacy of Munch’s Freia Frieze: A Tale of Art, Labor, and Hypocrisy
There’s something almost hypnotic about standing before Edvard Munch’s Freia frieze. At first glance, it feels like you’ve stumbled into a choreographed dream. Arms sway like dancers, water spills in rhythmic unison, and couples glide across beaches as if in a silent ballet. Munch’s brushstrokes, dominated by blues and greens, seem to pulse with life. But here’s the thing: this isn’t just art for art’s sake. It’s a commissioned piece for a chocolate factory’s canteen—and that detail changes everything.
The Illusion of Nobility in Public Art
We often romanticize public art as a gift to the people, a democratization of beauty. And sure, Munch, the man behind The Scream, creating art for factory workers sounds noble. But let’s pause for a second. What was the reality for the “chocolate girls” who worked at Freia in the 1920s? Were they truly the intended audience, or were they just a backdrop for Munch’s ambition and Freia’s PR campaign?
Personally, I think this is where the story gets fascinating. Curator Ana María Bresciani nails it when she uses the frieze to explore workers’ rights and gender inequality. These women were fighting for basic dignity—an eight-hour workday, summer holidays—while Munch painted scenes of leisure they could barely imagine. Summer cottages? Beach days? Art appreciation? Not their reality. Yet, Munch seemed oblivious, or worse, unconcerned. His own words reveal a paternalistic tone: “The little chocolate girls… understanding the pictures better and better.” Was this art meant to uplift them or to remind them of what they couldn’t have?
The Bitter Truth Behind the Chocolate
What many people don’t realize is that Freia’s chocolate empire was built on exploitation. The cacao came from South America, the Caribbean, and later Ghana—a British colony at the time. The same company that commissioned Munch’s frieze was complicit in a violent, racist supply chain. And yet, Freia marketed itself as a symbol of Norwegian pride, its chocolate bars promising “a little piece of Norway.” If you take a step back and think about it, this is the ultimate irony: a company profiting from global exploitation while posing as a progressive, nation-building force.
Munch’s Ambitions: Art or Ego?
Munch’s fascination with public art is often framed as altruistic, but I’m not so sure. Bresciani suggests he was more interested in fame than in connecting with the working class. His plans for a public work at Oslo’s city hall, his strategic exhibitions, and his high-profile connections all point to one thing: Munch wanted to be a household name. The Freia frieze wasn’t just a commission; it was a stepping stone.
One thing that immediately stands out is the absurdity of Munch’s demands. When workers complained about the lack of doors and chimneys in his paintings, he only agreed to fix them if a chauffeur waited for him. When that didn’t happen, he told the factory director to do it himself. This isn’t an artist serving the people—it’s an artist serving his ego.
The Cost of Art vs. the Cost of Labor
Here’s a detail that I find especially interesting: Munch was paid 80,000 Norwegian kroner for the frieze—equivalent to about £192,000 today. Meanwhile, the women who worked in the factory survived on starvation wages. The Oslo-based newspaper Arbeiderbladet called it out in 1923: “While the workers are kept on starvation wages, large capital is invested in costly paintings.” This wasn’t just art; it was a statement of power.
Freia tried to soften its image by offering perks like free baths, manicures, and low-cost meals. But let’s be real: these were bare minimums, not acts of generosity. The company wanted to be seen as progressive, but its actions were rooted in self-interest. After all, healthy workers are productive workers.
What This Really Suggests
If you ask me, the Freia frieze is a microcosm of a much larger issue: the way art and capitalism often collide. Munch’s work wasn’t just about beauty; it was about branding. Freia wasn’t just selling chocolate; it was selling an image. And the “chocolate girls”? They were caught in the middle, their struggles overshadowed by the spectacle.
This raises a deeper question: Who is public art really for? Is it for the people who see it every day, or is it for the artist and the institution that commissioned it? Munch’s frieze is a stunning piece, no doubt. But its beauty is tainted by the hypocrisy of its creation.
A Thoughtful Takeaway
As I reflect on the Freia frieze, I’m struck by how little has changed. Companies still use art and philanthropy to polish their image, while workers continue to fight for basic rights. Munch’s work is a reminder that art isn’t neutral—it’s always embedded in power structures. The next time you see a piece of public art, ask yourself: Who paid for it? And who is it really serving?
The exhibition Edvard Munch and the Chocolate Factory is more than a showcase of art; it’s a call to question the narratives we’re sold. And that, in my opinion, is what makes it truly worth seeing.
