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 the natural world. Visitors, accustomed to the hall’s jaw-dropping transformations—from artificial suns to robotic jellyfish—are now immersed in a labyrinth inspired by the intricate nasal passages of a reindeer. But why a nose? Here’s where it gets fascinating: reindeer possess a biological marvel that heats inhaled air by 80 degrees Celsius in under a second, a survival mechanism in Arctic extremes. By scaling this up, 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 art—it’s a call to humility.
But here’s where it gets controversial: Sara’s installation isn’t just about biology; it’s a political statement. The maze-like structure is part of a larger commission celebrating the Sámi people—Europe’s only Indigenous group—whose culture, science, and philosophy are under threat. From persecution to land dispossession, the Sámi have battled forced assimilation and the suppression of their language across Norway, Finland, Sweden, and Russia. By centering the reindeer, a sacred animal in Sámi cosmology, Sara highlights their struggles with climate change, colonialism, and economic exploitation. A towering 26-metre structure of reindeer hides entangled in power cables symbolizes the political and economic systems suffocating their way of life. Titled Goavve, it references a weather phenomenon where ice traps lichen, the reindeer’s winter food, a direct result of global heating—which is accelerating four times faster in the Arctic.
Three years ago, I witnessed this firsthand in Guovdageaidnu, Norway, during a goavvi winter. Sámi herders braved biting cold to feed their reindeer, a costly and labor-intensive process that’s pushing their traditions to the brink. Reindeer are dying—starving or drowning in lakes with prematurely melted ice. Sara’s work is a monument to their plight. ‘I’m bringing the goavvi to London,’ she says, layering materials to evoke the Arctic’s harsh realities.
Here’s the kicker: the installation also exposes a stark divide between Western and Sámi worldviews. While the West sees power as a resource to exploit, the Sámi view energy as an innate life force in all living beings. Tate Modern’s history as a coal and oil power station adds layers of irony, especially as Scandinavian states push ‘green’ energy projects—wind farms, dams, mines—on Sámi ancestral lands. ‘It’s hard to defend yourself as a minority when the argument is about saving the world,’ Sara notes. But is ‘green’ energy truly green if it displaces Indigenous communities? Extractivism, she argues, has merely rebranded itself with ecological language.
Sara’s own family has clashed with Norway’s government over herding policies. In 2016, her brother fought—and lost—lawsuits against forced culling of his herd. In solidarity, Sara created Pile O’Sápmi, a curtain of 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 the Sámi at the Venice Biennale, temporarily rebranding the Nordic Pavilion as the Sámi Pavilion. Her Turbine Hall commission is a political statement, resonating with Indigenous and non-Indigenous audiences alike. ‘It brings the climate conversation closer,’ says curator Katya García-Antón. ‘This isn’t just the Amazon or the Atlantic—it’s happening in Europe.’
But Sara’s message isn’t about pitting science against tradition. It’s about the interconnectedness of life, expressed through her materials: animal pelts, bones, wood, and power cables. A soundscape of reindeer herds, mosquitoes, birds, and Sámi joiks blends with industrial hums, reminding us of our shared fate. The nasal structure, called Geabbil (‘smartly adaptable’), is crafted from wooden poles carved with reindeer earmarks, honoring her family’s herding legacy. Reindeer bones and skulls adorn the walls, embodying the Sámi philosophy of duodji—a holistic worldview where nothing is wasted. To Western eyes, this might seem harsh, but it’s a testament to interdependence, not cruelty.
Here’s where it gets personal: Sara recalls a childhood memory of her father, usually strong, becoming ‘uncomfortable’—emitting a fear-scent—when confronted by a police officer over reindeer grazing. Later, she realized reindeer do the same when stressed. ‘Smell is a language,’ she says, ‘linking us biologically and spiritually to animals.’ Working with perfumer Nadjib Achaibou, Sara diffused 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 provoke visceral reactions, forcing us to confront our own fears and hopes.
So, what’s the takeaway? Sara’s Tate commission isn’t just art—it’s an invitation to embrace Indigenous wisdom in shaping a global future. ‘There’s hope in sitting with this,’ she says. But here’s the question: Can we, as a global society, learn from the Sámi’s humility and interconnectedness before it’s too late? Let’s discuss—do you think Western societies are ready to incorporate Indigenous philosophies into our future? Or is this just another form of cultural appropriation? The comments are open.
