the chthonians

When I see this world, this landscape, I recognize the Icelander’s connection with their natural surroundings. Buildings are directly integrated into the land and do not dominate the immediate area. Only in such places as Reykjavik does the pavement overrule the turf. Even then, sprawl is in minimum and the buildings do not lean or overwhelm. These things direct me to think of the Icelandic people as ones who have some understanding of the structural processes of their homeland. How did they come to be this way? Why haven’t they developed over the wide, open spaces? Things commonly observed in America seem flipped on their heads here in Iceland. Skyscrapers become mountains; the roads the rivers and animal paths. Here, life is led at a pace closer to that of the glaciers than of the pace of technology. Here, the landscape shifts and feels and renews itself constantly, often in violent ways.


Where did we come from? Can life be a product of destruction? I recently read about a Japanese performance artist, who on his deathbed gathered his friends around him and performed one last dance as life slipped from his fingers. In a way, it became his sacrifice to the living; a parting gift as he shook the hand of death. Can we learn to be so in tune with ourselves as to not fear imminence? I feel that people are so greatly turned inwards, to technology and to their own self-satisfaction, that we constantly miss out on what could potentially inform us to greater ends. Our interactions with the land and the friction of communication within structured space is of vast importance, and sometimes we forget to take a step back and look at these things as critical to our survival as a species. Death is merely a return to the womb.

I know what I feel. We have come to Iceland not only to fulfill our own fantasies and imaginings, but to be touched and changed by the land itself.