The Sweet Illusion: Munch’s Freia Frieze and the Bitter Reality of Labor
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. Twelve canvases burst with life: fruit pickers stretch in graceful unison, water arcs from watering cans like synchronized dancers, and couples stroll along beaches, arm in arm. Even Munch’s brushstrokes seem to sway, dominated by blues and greens that refuse to sit still. It’s art as movement, art as escape.
But here’s the thing: this isn’t just art. It’s a commissioned piece from 1922, meant to adorn the walls of a women’s canteen at Freia, Norway’s iconic chocolate factory. And that’s where the sweetness starts to sour.
The Noble Illusion of Public Art
We often romanticize public art as a gift to the people, a democratization of beauty. Munch, the man behind The Scream, creating art for factory workers? It sounds almost heroic. But let’s pause for a moment. Were the “chocolate girls”—the young women who toiled in the factory—really the intended audience? Or were they just the backdrop for a corporate PR stunt?
Personally, I think this is where the story gets fascinating. Curator Ana María Bresciani, who helms the exhibition Edvard Munch and the Chocolate Factory, argues that the frieze isn’t just about art—it’s a lens into the darker realities of workers’ rights and gender inequality. What many people don’t realize is that Freia’s cacao sourcing was deeply tied to colonial exploitation, first in South America and the Caribbean, then in Ghana, a British colony. The same chocolate that claimed to offer “a little piece of Norway” was built on a foundation of violence and racism.
A Dance of Disconnection
Here’s what strikes me most: the disconnect between Munch’s idyllic scenes and the lives of the women who saw them daily. These workers were fighting for basic rights—an eight-hour workday, summer holidays—yet Munch’s paintings depicted a world of leisure they could barely imagine. Summer cottages? Beachside strolls? These were luxuries, not realities.
In my opinion, Munch’s indifference to this gap is telling. He once wrote about the “little chocolate girls” understanding his paintings better over time, as if his art was a form of education. But was it? Or was it a way to distract, to gloss over the harsh conditions these women endured?
The Price of Art, the Cost of Labor
Then there’s the money. Johan Throne Holst, Freia’s chocolate mogul, paid Munch 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. Arbeiderbladet, an Oslo newspaper, called it out in 1923: “While workers are kept on starvation wages, large capital is invested in costly paintings.”
This raises a deeper question: Who was this art really for? Was it to uplift the workers, or to polish Freia’s image as a progressive employer? Freia did offer perks—free baths, manicures, and low-cost meals—but these were as much about hygiene and productivity as they were about care.
Munch’s Ambitions: Art or Fame?
Bresciani suggests that Munch’s interest in public art wasn’t purely altruistic. He saw it as a path to fame, a way to embed his work into the fabric of society. Personally, I think this is a crucial point. Munch wasn’t just an artist; he was a strategist. He charged for exhibitions, networked with the elite, and pursued commissions that would cement his legacy.
But here’s the irony: while Munch’s focus on workers might seem progressive, it was likely more about staying relevant in a changing Norway than advocating for their rights. He wanted his art to be “lived among the people,” but on his terms.
The Bitter Aftertaste
The Freia frieze is more than a series of paintings. It’s a snapshot of a moment in history, a collision of art, labor, and corporate ambition. What this really suggests is that public art isn’t always what it seems. It can be a tool for empowerment, but it can also be a veil, hiding the harsh realities of those it claims to serve.
If you take a step back and think about it, the story of Munch and Freia is a reminder that art is never neutral. It’s shaped by power, money, and the people who commission it. The next time you see a piece of public art, ask yourself: Who paid for this? And who is it really for?
Final Thoughts
As I reflect on the Freia frieze, I’m left with a bittersweet taste. Munch’s paintings are undeniably beautiful, but their beauty is complicated. It’s a beauty that ignores the struggles of the women who saw it daily, a beauty that serves the interests of the powerful.
In my opinion, this is what makes the frieze so compelling. It’s not just art—it’s a conversation starter, a challenge to look beyond the surface. And in a world where corporations still use art to polish their images, that conversation is more relevant than ever.
Edvard Munch and the Chocolate Factory is on display at the Munch Museum in Oslo until 11 October 2026. If you go, don’t just admire the brushstrokes. Think about the hands that made the chocolate, the lives behind the scenes, and the stories we choose to tell—and the ones we leave out.
