Nothing stops Iceland's art scene

Interior of Harpa concert and conference hall, Reykjavik, Iceland.

If you fly Icelandair, you will notice little things throughout the plane that show just how proud Icelanders are of their country. There are little things, like headrests that say "Hi in Icelandic is simply 'hæ' and it is pronounced the same way." Or you may also see little cups printed with the 14 different ways of saying the word 'cup' in Icelandic.

If you scroll through the entertainment media system (the first time I've seen an entertainment system on a plane after ages of having flown budget airlines!) there is a documentary on the building of Harpa, which is Iceland's only concert hall.

You read that right. Harpa is Iceland's only concert hall.

For a musician, I find that baffling - that an entire country can have only one dedicated concert hall, and that concert hall took until 2011 to build. I'm used to the availability of multiple performance venues, and especially for a country as full of musicians as Iceland, I'm amazed that their first dedicated concert hall took this long to build.

The documentary does explain that there was a fair amount of opposition for a dedicated concert hall in a country of merely 320,000 people. But that doesn't stop my jaw from dropping. I can't imagine a city without arts facilities.

I have to say though, I guess after having waited until 2011 for their concert hall, the Icelanders really got it right.

Kaldalón, the smallest of Harpa's four halls.

Harpa doesn't blend in very well with the rest of Reykjavík's comparatively subdued architecture. Scratch that - Harpa doesn't blend in at all.

While the rest of Reykjavík is small, low to the ground and unimposing, Harpa is a huge massive steel and glass structure built right on the water and with an amazing view of the volcanic mountain range Esjan in the background.

Ongoing preparations for Design March.

Today, Harpa is well-received by Iceland's arts community, and sort of presents itself the same way that the Esplanade is to Singapore. Arts events of all kinds are common here, and the conference halls of Harpa double up as smaller arts venues when the 1800-seater Eldborg concert hall isn't required.

While I was there, the design festival Design March (aptly held in March! Ha ha!) was to be held. Unfortunately it was difficult for me to truly understand the ideas behind the design because, apart from my not having actually had any training in design, all the cards explaining them were in Icelandic! D'oh.

Designs on display at Design March.

A magnetic, blackboard-painted clock face. I'd sure like to have one of those!

Design March displayed the newest trends in all things Icelandic design, mostly instantly recognisable Scandinavian home styles and furniture, as well as fashion. Like most of Scandinavia, Iceland has a waste-not attitude in design, keeping things stylish and minimalist. Living in a landscape as harsh as that of the arctic north really forces you to be conscious of things like this!

A Steinway Model D being tuned in Norðurljós, the recital hall.

On the daily guided tour of Harpa, a guide explains the ideas and concepts for each aspect of Harpa's structure. The bricks that make up the multifaceted exterior and interior are shaped to resemble basalt columns, which are common in the Icelandic landscape.

Each of Harpa's four halls, Eldbord, Norðurljós, Silfurberg and Kaldalón, have derived some aspect of their design from some aspect of Icelandic nature; the purple and pink lighting in Norðurljós for example has been designed to resemble purple and pink aurora.

Multifaceted interior of Harpa.

When Iceland's economy went bust in 2008, the then-half completed construction in Harpa nearly stopped altogether; it was only after long discussion that the government decided to allow construction on Harpa to continue, even though it was to continue to be a tremendous financial strain on Iceland's economy.

I'm always glad when the arts are supported, and triple that if people are willing to do whatever it takes to keep them going even when the outlook looks bleak.

The stage of Eldbord, Harpa's biggest hall.

At 1800 seats, Eldbord is a respectably sized full concert hall. It also doubles as a theatre, which surprised me when I heard it because I am used to full theatres with a proper backstage, fly bars, orchestra pit and the works. To have a concert hall double as a theatre is very unconventional.

Iceland still does not have a full dedicated theatre, and when the Icelandic Opera was invited to move into Harpa, it took a great deal of negotiation and adjustments before they agreed to the move. Even today, theatrical productions here are designed and staged very differently from most theatre companies;  there is a sound reflector on the ceiling where the fly bars should be, and I can imagine building any sort of background would be a challenge.

Seats in Eldborg concert hall.

Interior of Harpa.

With so many buildings these days being steel-and-glass monstrosities, it's easy to dismiss Harpa from the outside as being just another one of those buildings. But as the country's first ever dedicated concert hall, there is definitely a reason for Iceland to be proud.

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You don't know this about me

If I were to talk to people on the street and if the subject of family comes up (which it does considerably often), a natural question most people would ask is if I have any siblings. The answer to that is that yes, I do have one sibling - a little sister, four years younger than me.

The second part of that which I don't usually go around publicising unless there's an awkward question like "How old is she" or "Is she in university" is that my little sister, four years younger than me, died when she was 14. This year will be four years since she died of viral myocarditis on the 4th of July 2009.

In many ways, Grace's death is the single most important event of my life. And why shouldn't it be? I was 18 when it happened, in the midst of becoming a developed, full-fledged adult, but at the same time still impressionable enough that it became a profoundly important part of shaping my character as an adult.

When you see your sister dying so young - just old enough to have dreams and ambitions (she wanted to be a teacher) and just old enough to see the wonderful woman she would have developed into (she was great in tennis and a killer debater) - it's very different from seeing, let's say, a child die.

When children die, kids below the age of 10 for example, we feel sad because we think about all the things they could have been, all the things they could have wanted to be. We see in them hope, and potential, and we see this taken away from a child so young.

Seeing a 14-year-old die, on the other hand, is very different. You see a 14-year-old die, you know they have begun developing those dreams and they have started working toward fulfilling that potential. It's no longer "She could have been all these things" but "She will never be that one thing she wanted to be." It's that point when someone is close, so close, but not quite enough.

Grace's death was the single most important event in my life because it was The Event that made me realise how short life is. It's easy to say that life is short - but when you realise that a person who has been around for very nearly your entire life goes away, that's when it hits you.

You don't really have that much time here on Earth.

Grace's death was also important because since she died it has been truly hard for me to care about anything. Let me be a little bit more specific: it has been truly hard for me to care about anything that isn't directly concerned with my own selfish well-being.

The crowd is up in arms by now. Your sister died and all you can think about is yourself? Shouldn't that make you want to make everything in the world a better place for everything that she could have experienced? On her behalf? No, it doesn't, and anyone who thinks that has read far too many Jodi Picoult and Nicholas Sparks novels.

I find it hard to connect with other people or to care too much about anyone or anything because I am intimately familiar with the fact that no one ever stays, and that people will always come and go, and if you try to become too attached to them you are setting yourself up for inevitable heartbreak when they leave. For this reason I never let myself become close to anyone.

I try to be friendly, of course. I meet new people and I'm nice to them, but I always make it a point never to expect too much in return.

I don't have close friends. I have friends I know well, I have friends who are great, I have friends I talk to more than others, I have friends I connect to on a better level than others. But I find it hard to talk at any great length to specific 'best' friends or close friends, because I talk to everyone equally about everything that I want to talk about, and what I don't want to talk about I don't say to anyone.

My safety mechanism is, quite simply, never becoming attached to any one particular person, because I hate the process of getting over that attachment when the time comes to go.

My experience with attachment is that they will always leave you.

And they always go, at some point, whether by choice or not - but the result is the same, that you will mourn people and life will momentarily seem to be suspended as you try to get over the pain of their leaving. And I know that I can't possibly be alone in being the only one who recognises this and who has had enough of all that and wants out.

A while ago, I wrote this article talking about how desperately I want to care about activism and causes and campaigns and ideas. This post talks about how desperately I also want to care about people and know more about them and how I want to become everyone's best friend, or to have a best friend at all.

But I can't do that, because every time I see a new person, all I can see in them is that we have this amount of time together, and how long it is until they will go away and disappear from my life. I can't befriend people in the same way because all I can think about is how long we have together before we aren't anymore.

And just like how desperately I want to learn to care again about causes and activism, I desperately want to learn how to care about people.

The things I care about are the things that don't leave - nature, music, the things that endure, the things that will always return, the things that seem to me to be true and real. Those are the only things that I feel I can have lasting relationships with, because those things are permanent and they can't, don't, won't ever abandon people even in our darkest hours.

I know music and nature have been there for me in my darkest hours.

It's often that I find myself wondering what life would have been like if Grace hadn't died. I probably would have had a very different view of the world. I probably wouldn't be so hesitant to jump into relationships with people. But things are as they have happened, and I am today the way that I was moulded, through my experiences with life.

But lately, I've been wondering if that really is my reason for being this way towards people or if it's simply an excuse for misanthropy. I would like very much to be the sort of person who can become everyone's best friend, who is able to develop a strong social support and network of people who I can rely on.

Put quite simply, I'd like to learn how to trust people again.

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Seeing Iceland from horseback

My horse for the morning, Fálki.

I love animals. You know, your usual cats and dogs, with cheetahs being my favourite. I like zoos, but what I love is interacting with animals - having them come up to you instead of being hidden behind a glass panel.

That makes horse riding one of my favourite things to do when I travel. Everywhere I go, I try to ride horses - I love seeing the world from horseback, and I like the feeling that when you're on horseback there's always company instead of being alone when you drive in a car.

Since I was little, I've always wanted to learn how to ride horses properly. I'm still not very good, but I'm a fair amount better than I was a while ago - riding with lots of different horses and different people when I go travelling has taught me a fair bit about how to control horses, although I've never taken riding lessons and I'd still love to learn.

Icelandic horses are one of the gentlest breeds of horse that you will ever ride.

Except, of course, that they're sized more like a pony than a horse.

See how little Icelandic horses are?

Just don't tell this to an Icelander - ever - if you don't want them to flare up in your face and become adamant that of course Icelandic horses are real horses, not ponies.

Despite their pony size, Icelandic horses are an extremely sturdy breed - they have an incredibly thick and dense coat to protect them against the harsh Icelandic cold and wind. They live up to 45 years, and they are the only breed of horse allowed in Iceland.

Of course, humans don't have incredibly thick and dense coats to protect us from the harsh Icelandic cold and wind, so we get overalls to protect us instead. It's a very grey day when I go riding, so I don't think I've ever been so glad for such a nice warm outer layer!

Everyone suits up with overalls and a riding helmet.

Once the warm overalls are on, we are led to our horses and introduced to them. I get paired with a white male, Fálki, which means falcon in Icelandic.

After taking a couple of rounds around the paddock and having our guides show us how to mount and control a horse (holding the reins, pull left to make the horse go left, right to go right, and pull both back to stop; kick lightly in the stomach to make the horse move forward) we finally get to leave the farm and follow a beautiful route below the mountains.



We also get to ride our horses across a small river, which is exciting - although they prove a little bit temperamental and spooked about having to step on snow and some ice. It takes a little bit of coaxing for them to finally cross, but when they do it reminds me of Arwen riding her horse across the river in Lord of the Rings.

I can't help but feel that riding a white horse through Iceland's stunning landscape makes me feel like if only I had a staff, I'd be Gandalf incarnate.

Fálki and me.

Most horses have four gaits, the walk, trot, canter and gallop - and this makes the Icelandic horse unique in that it has a fifth, called the tölt. It's supposed to be a light and comfortable gait, and the test of a horse's proficiency in the tölt is that you can hold a champagne glass in one hand while riding.

You heard it here first - don't believe a word they say!

When Fálki starts his tölt, it's like being in a car driving on a very very potholed road - except that there's no cushion and every time you sit back down, you don't really sit at all but fall, and your tailbone feels like it's being bruised with every step.

It takes a while, but eventually I learn how to move with the horse so that as he steps it doesn't feel quite so bumpy. My tailbone still feels a little bit sore, but I've come to expect that from riding, so it doesn't bother me quite as much.

I love horses, but I think the next time I go riding on Icelandics I'll skip out on the tölt.



We lead our horses across the road, dismounting and walking them across when the road is clear. I think it's hilarious that there's a group of horses and riders crossing a road supposedly made for cars - only in Iceland!

For lunch, there's cauliflower soup and DIY burgers laid on a small buffet table in the restaurant of the hotel next to the horse farm. The cauliflower soup is good though, and I'm back for seconds.



After lunch, I'm back for riding - this time on a horse named Skúfar. My guide for this part of the tour is a Swedish girl named Anna, and we have a really good time chatting while riding. For some reason it seems that there weren't many Icelandic people who worked here - everyone I met seemed to be Swedish, French, or Belgian!

I feel slightly embarrassed by the fact that there are 19 year olds who work here and who ride so well, while this 21 year old still occasionally has trouble trying to make horses go forward.

Anna, who is not Icelandic.

We head towards the water and near the river Ölfusá, and it doesn't take long for me to realise that Skúfar is no horse for a beginner rider. Within minutes, he realises that he's out of the stable and into the free wild, and he makes the most of it while I hang on for dear life!

I have to admit - going off into a gallop when you've really never properly ridden anything faster than a walk is quite terrifying. Thankfully I figure out how to hang on pretty quickly (you've gotta stand up a wee bit in the stirrups) and after the initial shock it becomes exhilarating and fun.

Never mind that all this while I'm pulling back on the reins trying to get Skúfar to slow down - he's far too excited to be out and free to even care. Talk about a hell of a riding lesson!
 

Skúfar's a stubborn horse, and more than once he tries to go off into a different trekking route than the one we're supposed to be taking. Anna tells me to lead him off into a circle to break the stubborn streak, but even then it takes a while for him to realise that we're supposed to be following Anna instead of going off into our own route!

"Eld hestar" means volcano horse or fire horse in Icelandic, and I think I can testify that Skúfar's a fiery one alright!

We ride through snow from the snowstorm that had hit this area the week before. The horses leave their hoof prints in half a metre of snow, and although it takes a while for them to figure out where to best place their step it's a lot of fun.

Skúfar, the crazy gallop horse.

The day comes to an end all too soon, although after 9 hours of riding throughout the day I can't say I'm not glad for rest. I've grown fond of Skúfar and his temperament, and I'm just a little bit sad when I have to take his saddle off and put him back into the stable.



After everything, I'm given refreshments - tea, coffee, and the most delicious blueberry pineapple crunch cake. Seriously, who would have thought blueberry and pineapple would go so well together?

As I board the complimentary bus back into Reykjavik, I can't help but feel that riding for the whole day has only made me eager for more. I haven't quite yet had enough, and I know I'll be back at some point.

Eldhestar, www.eldhestar.is
Below the Mountains
E-mail: info@eldhestar.is
Phone: +354 480 4800

Disclaimer: This tour was provided by Eldhestar. All thoughts are my own and I received no compensation for this review. Eldhestar did not ask that Skúfar go off into a gallop or that I bruise my butt riding the tölt.

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Photo Friday: Lost in Reykjavik

Iceland is a country of artists.

In the land of fire and ice, people are resilient, and it's hard to find anything that could cripple a country this strong. Although it has a tiny population of only 320,000 people, it seems that not even the financial collapse of 2008 could send this country to its knees.

Hell, even in the middle of that financial mess, they somehow managed to gather the resources to build this massive thing. I call that pretty impressive.

Harpa concert hall and conference centre, Reykjavik

The first thing I notice about Reykjavik is that it is very new-looking. The buildings can't be older than 50, 60 years old, and everything is fresh. There is no peeling paint, no old worn-down stone, and the place looks immaculately clean.

The second thing I notice about Reykjavik is that everything is built down low to the ground; in a country of 320,000 people, I don't suppose you really need high-rise buildings.

Laugavegur, downtown Reykjavik.

The third thing I notice about Reykjavik is that this is probably the city with the best freakin' view in the whole world.

Just a mountain across the lake at the end of the road, you guys.

I am armed with an arsenal of maps and city guides, impressing even myself, and I get ready to take on Reykjavik and get lost in all her winding streets.

Lots of brochures from the tourist information centre.

Laugavegur runs right through downtown Reykjavik, and it is here and on Skólavörðustígur (try saying that out loud!) that you will find the mainstay of Icelandic craft and shopping - small little quirky shops with handcrafted Icelandic wool sweaters, elf socks, and Icelandic volcanic ash pottery.

It becomes a little bit of a game to see if I can pronounce any of these tongue-twisting Icelandic street names. I quickly found that it was much easier to remember the look of the word rather than actually remember what the word was. Can anyone actually remember "Skólavörðustígur"?!

Say it with me: sko-la-vu-or-thu-sti-goo-r.

Somehow, alongside the souvenir shops selling jars of canned Icelandic mountain air (I'm not kidding) and bits of a real Icelandic glacier (put in the freezer to preserve), Reykjavik also manages to maintain some wicked street art. Hjartagardurinn, or the Heart Garden, is a bursting technicolor of graffitied walls and spray can art.









I soon find that I adore the Icelandic sense of humour. They are proud of being small, and they are proud of all the quirks of their city, and I find that beautiful. I see little bits of Iceland Wants To Be Your Friend everywhere I go - in the funny postcards, in the phrases printed on Iceland magnets (one of them says I Survived Iceland) and on their tee-shirts.

What part of Eyjafjallajökull don't you understand?

I put this picture here just in case you didn't believe what the postcard in the previous picture said.

There is an abundance of music - Iceland is the country with the world's highest ratio of artists to population, and Icelanders support their music. I walk into several record shops and talk to the people who work there, and it is clear that they are proud of their artistes.

"The good thing about music here is that people still buy music from shops," one person tells me when I ask about how music stores are staying afloat here even while shops elsewhere are closing. "Icelanders don't want to steal from their own people."

Skífan, Laugavegur.

I love Icelandic music - there's something enchanting and ethereal about the music that these people make. It sounds like it's from another world. I decide to walk into 12 Tónar, a store on Skólavörðustígur that has been the meeting point for many Icelandic artists including Björk and Sigur Rós, and spend a good few hours doing nothing but listening to Icelandic music.







I love that Iceland knows the rest of the world finds Icelandic a strange, unpronounceable, and old language, and that they find the rest of the world funny for thinking them strange. Iceland is old, and comfortable with being old, and that is probably what I love the most.

In some ways, Iceland reminds me of an old, elderly grandparent, warm (even though it's Ice-land) and comforting. So in a very unusual way, Iceland is almost like coming home.

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