It is not in the spirit of the Norwegian public to define eras by acts of terrorism, which is why the notion of a post-22/7 Norway is hopeless and, ultimately, like an unjust reflection of a small society's reaction to one man's insanity.

History books might reflect upon it, media be awash with it, and even Norway's Kings Harald might admit to a country before, and after, 22/7, but in the public eye, it would only serve the terrorist’s interest to define the country by this summer's incidents.

Of course, the reaction of the Norwegian public was, and remains, unprecedented. Norwegians abroad felt a strong need to return home to show their support for their own country; hundreds of thousands of roses spread across the capital's streets following the 25 July rally, the petals becoming forever lodged in the minds of those present; the Osl♥ badges can still be seen on jacket sleeves or shoulder bags, just as Oslo's government quarter is still cordoned off and bullet holes scar the buildings of Utøya. But for Norwegians, grief is ultimately a private manner. 

It is with that knowledge that photographer Aidan O'Neill's snapshots of Oslo in August 2011 are not immersed in grief, sorrow or sympathy. They are ephemeral – thus accurate - representations of genuine life in a city pushing through an obstacle in its own history.

When Oslo's biggest music festival Øya was held just two weeks after the attacks, O'Neill found deep admiration for the willpower of Norwegian youngsters to get on with their daily life, sharing their love for music, seemingly unfazed by what had happened.

This photographer’s direct and unassuming approach to his subjects offers a blunt and factual portrayal that fuses Parisian conceptualism with German aesthetics, capturing those fleeting moments that are so familiar to all.

These are the moments you never remember seeing, but distinctly remember experiencing…