land

The weather has a mind of its own, and the perception of the land is always changing. Water takes the form of ice, loud and violent waterfalls, powerful rivers, heavy rain, trickling streams and still waters. Wind is always present, whether you like it or not, and it makes you feel all kinds of emotions. The land can be harsh and difficult, but its beauty and humility always wins you over, and the difficulties are forgotten the moment the sun comes out. The sun controls us. Once it breaks through the clouds, no second may be wasted. Each ray must be seized. It can disappear in an instant, and if you miss it, you are overridden with feelings of guilt. You don’t know when it will shine again, and the summers are short, while the winters are long and dark.

I started my research reading two books.

The first one is “Salka Valka” (Halldór Kiljan Laxness, 1931). It is set in the late 19th/early 20th century in Iceland, when the livelihood here was difficult because of the cold, the harshness of the land, the sea, and the poorly built houses. People always had cold feet and a runny nose, and fish was the one thing that kept people alive. The past can be nostalgic, but there is also the harsh reality of struggle and hardship.

The second book is “The mushroom at the end of the world - on the possibility of life in capitalist ruins” (Anna Lowenhaupt Tsing). It looks at the question of the planet’s habitability in the future with the help of the mushroom. It made me think of the ways in which we imagine a better future, sometimes a utopian future, solving problems and creating a better life. In contrast we look realistically, or pessimistically, at the fact that we will most likely leave the planet in ruins, and inhabitable for the countless species on it.

The contrasts of past and future, nostalgia and hardship, utopia and dystopia, made me think of an Icelandic poem I learned in my childhood.

Það er svo vont að liggja

Á köldum klaka.

Frosinn í gegn og skjálfa allur og braka.

Hugsa bara um þetta,

Svaka, svaka, svakalega er vont að liggja á klaka.

Það er svo gott að liggja

Í mjúkum mosa

Mæna upp í himininn og brosa.

Hugsa bara um þetta,

Rosa, rosa, rosalega er

Gott að liggja í mosa.

The first part is describes the harshness and discomfort of lying on ice, being frozen and shaking with the ice creaking, thinking only about how uncomfortable it feels to lie on ice.

The second part describes the softness and comfort of lying in a bed of moss, gazing up at the sky, smiling, thinking only about how nice it feels to lie in moss.

The poem brought me back to the present. Perhaps the best thing about lying in moss is the stillness. When you are grounded in the elements, in nature, in stillness, you can only be present. When you are experiencing cold or warmth, wind, water or sunlight, you are in the objective reality. The past and future are imagined realities that exist only in our minds. The interplay of the elements heightens our awareness of our environment, and connects us.

I am interested in capturing the essence of the land that I am lucky enough to call my home, through the elements and the moving materials. I want to explore ways in which the planet can be preserved and healed in the present moment, learning from the past, regenerating for the future. Leaving it in ruins is not an option. Everything is interconnected and nothing is separate. The planet is circular, it has no beginning and no end, no link is individual, ecosystems thrive in collaboration and every component must thrive for life to maintain its balance.

This is what I plan to explore throughout my summer in Iceland.