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Growing up I had a good friend whose father worked in film. He was a prop master, and if my memory serves me correctly, he couldn’t get through a film without spotting the flaws, looking for continuity, or catching the odd moment of subtle brilliance. I was never sure if he even enjoyed movies, bonded as he was by his profession to always pay attention to the details.

 

Many years later, as a mid-career museum educator I sometimes think of him and this experience when I wander through museums on my own time, for pleasure. Without fail, I quickly start to notice the details — details related to accessibility, pedagogy, and inclusivity.

 

A satisfying visit to a museum can an affective, intellectual, social, or sensory experience. Comfortable places to sit can be as important as a legible wall panel, a new story, opportunities to touch an object, or challenges to think outside the box.

Having made some recent visits to local, regional, and national museums here in Iceland, I took note of what I consider to be some examples of good practice — examples of learning made easier, more interesting, experiential, or active.

 

I asked myself, what strategies is the museum using to engage its independent visitors in active learning? How are visitors made to feel welcome, seen, and heard in their exhibition spaces? By what means might their curiosity be piqued, their doubts raised, their patience tested, their spirit ignited?

 

 

Some of these examples are more novel than others, but demonstrate  that strategies with lasting power don’t always need to be new, complex, or high-tech in order to be effective in triggering new ideas or creating connections between people, objects, and narratives. I’ll continue to look for the details in order to find new ideas and validate or challenge existing ones — all part of an ongoing process of reflective museum education practice.

Prior to my arrival here, almost a month ago, I was preparing for this trip by reading extensively. During this this time I came upon an article by Árnason et al. (2015) which focuses primarily on driving and how this form of movement has played a part in the formation of Icelanders’ relationship to the Icelandic landscape. One interesting point that the article argues is that car travel in Iceland is embedded in a national narrative which is continuous with a past identity-relationship to the land as an harsh, rugged climate which formed the centre for a national narrative of communal survival; the completion of the ring road in 1974 was done to coincided with the 1100 year anniversary of settlement and there was a pervasive imperative to tour and experience this country with this new constructed accessibility. What has stuck with me in the last month is this idea that the way we move through a landscape—and the forms of mediation, access and activities which curate our experience of it—plays an important role in the types of subjectivities, privileges and relations we form to the land as something political and economic. In this blog post I hope to muse on a few of the ways in which I’ve engaged with, related to and experienced this new environment .   

I came to Iceland not knowing how to spin before, and relatively oblivious to this aspect of textile production. Since working with uncarded fleece and purchasing some carded wool about two weeks ago there has been very few days that have gone by without me spinning and working with this material; though I am not entirely sure where all this yarn will go, the activity compels me. Working from the bulk wool has also given me a bit more of a concrete sense of the material resources and labour that go into the production of wool products which is a symbolic industry in Iceland visible through the omnipresent lopapeysa, as well as the importance of sheep to this commodity. To give a sense of the pervasiveness of this woolly friend a small anecdotal remark might be helpful: a sheep farmer in the Westfjords told us that in that region there are roughly 7000 people and 20 000 sheep.

Alongside the meditative spinning, I’ve also found myself exploring and experimenting with natural dyes. This was prompted by a wonderful workshop which my peers have written about in their blog posts so I would like to highlight another aspect of it: walking and identifying. Part of the activity in experimenting with these dyes involved having to walk in and around Blönduόs in search for dye materials. In doing so I learned how to identify specific plants in the landscape, making me more aware of my surroundings. A good example of this involves a search for cow parsley which can provide a wonderful sea-green with copper. At first I thought it was omnipresent and was about to head out to collect some when I was informed that it is very similar in appearance to hemlock—which is extremely poisonous. After looking up the differences online I came to realise that the abundance of cow parsley which I thought surrounded us was in fact hemlock. It’s interesting to note that once I had a name for a particular plant I started to acknowledge and recognise it more in the landscape. Translating these raw plant materials into dye is also an enlightening experience as you often end up with colours you might not expect and various factors, such as heat and pH value, play a major role. While I came to acquire a palette which comes close to the Icelandic landscape, I acquired these colours in a way which was not immediately intuitive.

Another important activity during my stay has been walking, something which I think all of us have been doing a lot of during our time here. While this goes hand in hand with the dyeing bit, walking also has helped for me to understand my environment in different ways: everything here appears very close, as if I could reach it in an hour’s hike, but as I try I realise that the path is not as direct and flat as it appears. This is something I have also been musing about with the work I have been doing which aims, in part, to play with the flatness that both our own vision from afar and photography places on the landscape, a distortion of sorts which filters our experience of landscape and the complexity of actually being in a space versus being a spectator of the space.

This leads to another anecdote from the Westfjords: a few of us went to hike to the base of Drangajökull, Iceland’s most northern glacier. When we reached the beginning of the hike it looked so close and appeared as though it would be a relatively flat hike. But as we progressed we realised the ground was far from flat and there were hills and mounds which hid the directness of the hike. At one point we thought we were half an hour away, and after walking for an extra half hour, we realised we were still a quite a distance from the base and the road had many more up and downs than expected. All this to say that our sense of sight and the mediums through which these sites are presented can be exceedingly deceiving and there is more to the walk than meets the eye…

To return to the initial article in a way: driving is a popular way of experiencing Iceland as a tourist with many people renting a car and driving on the ring road. It was also a necessary part of many of my experiences here and I would not have made it to the glacier for instance if not for it. But, while driving reveals the landscape, and provides access to many of Iceland’s major tourist spots, other activities are also means of connecting and being in one’s environment. They have also come to reveal aspects I might have otherwise glossed over and have come to understand my surroundings in different ways. How we move through places, whether or not we are permitted movement, and our intentions, or directionality along this movement, plays a major role in the connection we form to places, how we come to understand our environment and the privileges/position we hold in these spaces. And, while I might be trying to balance too many things at the same time, this is a rough attempt at working through and with an entanglement in an unfamiliar place—co-ordinating my feet, hands and eyes to trace multiple strands into one of many threads.

Cited Article:

Arnar Árnason, Sigurjón Baldur Hafsteinsson, Tinna Grétarsdóttir,
Kristinn Schram & Katla Kjartansdóttir. (2015). Speeding Towards the Future through the Past: Landscape, Movement and National Identity. In Landscape Research, 40:1, 23-38.

During the open ceremony for the knitting festival in Blönduós (June 8th to 10th)  there was a demonstration of the traditional Icelandic costumes collectively known in Icelandic as Þjóðbúningurinn. Aspects of these costumes date as early as the 16th century, although they regained popularity in the 19th century as an essential symbol of Iceland’s independence from the Danish.

Although the opening ceremony demonstration was entirely in Icelandic, it showed the complexity of the various outfits as the women took of their jackets to show the detail on the backs and metal ornamentation. This complexity sparked my interest in doing more research on the national costume and its variety.

A trip to the library led to me a few books (mostly in Icelandic) on these various costumes, showing drawings from around 1680 that show a variant of the headdress faldur (Helgadottir 95). 

On June 17^th, the Icelandic National Day, we saw more examples of these costumes, such as the Peysuföt (pictured above).

The most informative outing in relation to the Icelandic costume occurred on June 22^nd on a fantastic tour of the Textile Museum in Blönduós by museum manager, Elin Sigurdardóttir. She explained in detail the differences between the costumes and the changes that occurred in the 19th century.

The Icelandic costumes can be divided into five different styles:

Falbúningur– dates from the early 18th century. It includes the headdress faldur, embroidered skirt, apron, shirt, bodice, jacket, decorative collar, handkerchief and neckerchief. The silver chains and embellishments were called kvensilfur, and the amount was often in relation to the woman’s wealth and status. The faldur later changed into two forms, the krókfaldur (the curved headdress with a smaller point at the top) and the spaðafaldur (with a splayed top and smaller bottom).

Upphlutur– (18^th and 19^th century) originally just the name of the bodice underneath the jacket as part of the falbúningur, this eventually evolved into its own popular variation. Elin told us that the upphlutur is the most common of the Icelandic costumes. It is characterized by the white sleeves and the collar. In 1907, the upphlutur became the independent festive costume, dating from a state visit with the Danish King. It is also usually worn with the knitted or velvet cap and tassel.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peysuföt– became an independent costume at the end of the 18th century. It features a similar skirt apron and cap as the upphlutur. Traditionally this skirt can be made from tog, the long-haired overcoat of Icelandic sheep. The most characteristic aspect of the peysuföt is the large single or double bow, decorated by a brooch. In later versions, the bow is replaced by a silk scarf.

In the 19^th century, Sigurður Guðmundsson designed two new costumes that became symbolic of Iceland’s independence, the skautbúningur and the kyrtill.

 Skautbúningur- designed in the 19th century as a variant to revive the earlier falbúningur, this costume uses mostly dark fabric, with bright floral embroidery. Elin went on to explain that the  lavish headdress, called skautfaldur, was meant to represent the Icelandic landscape; the mountains, glacier and sun.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kyrtill- designed in 1870, Guðmundsson made this costume much more light-weight using also lighter colours. Later it developed into other darker colours such as black, blue or green. The kyrtill and skautbúningur could also be worn with a möttull, a mantle made from black wool and trimmed with velvet or fur.

These costumes are extremely ornate and beautiful. The detailed embroidery and knitted accessories showed the extensive care to detail that is worthy of great admiration. Thank you, Elin and the textile museum, for your thorough explanation and tour!

Works Cited

Birgisdóttir, Ásdís. Íslenskir Þjóðbúningar Kvenna Og Telpna. Translated by Steinunn J. Ásgeirsdóttir, Icelandic Handicrafts Association, 2004.

Helgadottir, Sigrún. Faldar og Skart. Opna, 2013.

Íslenskir Þjóðbúningurinn, buningurinn.is/english/.

“like snow buntings
over a snowfield
on a snowbound winter
like snow buntings
over a snowbound winter
on a snowfield
like a snowfield
over snow buntings
on a snowbound winter
like a snowfield
over a snowbound winter
on snow buntings
like a snowbound winter
over snow buntings
on a snowfield
like a snowbound winter”

-Sjón, an icelandic economist in soho

At the beginning of the past week I made my way to Blönduόs’ library and archives, located just across the Blanda river which runs next to the textile centre into the Húnafjörður bay, to seek out translated contemporary Icelandic poetry. The building itself is concrete, grey, rectangular, a single-storey with notably Icelandic-yellow trim: unassuming and with a lot of space to breath. As I entered the almost empty building I was greeted by the head librarian in Icelandic, to which I responded with a timid English “hello” betraying my foreigness. Unfortunately the library did not carry any Icelandic poetry translated to English (their English section being quite small, right next to an equally small German section). Despite this she gave me a recommendation of an Icelandic poet to look up who she said “tends to be popular with artists,” Sjón (a portion of whose poem opens this post). Though they did not have any of his poetry in Icelandic she showed me some of his novels  and brought me to an occupied office which contained the library’s poetry selection. I was more than welcomed to browse—and so I did enjoying the books as visual and tactile objects.

The room was occupied by the library’s archivist who noticing my English told me I would have to learn Icelandic if I wanted to read any of the books I was looking at. He then proceeded to inform me that the library does not stock much in terms of recent contemporary poetry, even in Icelandic: as the library is funded municipally, and poetry readership is low, the incentive to keep the collection up to date is not high with respect to local demands. Switching conversation topics, I asked him how long the library had been around, and while the new building has only been there for about 18 years, the town has had a library for over 100 years. He then asked me where I am from. He asked if I was aware of the emigration of Icelanders to Manitoba which took place near the end of the 19^th century – something which I had partially awareness of. Coincidentally, or maybe not so much, there was a copy of a book which listed all the Icelanders who moved to the Americas from the mid-19^th century to the mid-20^th century next to him. Following this he mentioned how the Icelanders in Manitoba learned a lot about how to live in their settled environment from nearby First Nations Communities  and that these skills were also brought back to Iceland. (I will admit here that while I looked into this statement my research is very limited and that, while it seems as though there was exchange, the situation is more complicated than that, as is usually the case. As such I am including here some related links which by no means should be seen as authoritative or definitive but simply as potential preliminary paths through, or pointed towards, this history: CBC ‘It tears at the heart’ and  Icelandic Immigrants and First Nations People in Canada). He ended this line of conversation by showing me the emigration book I mentioned.

(Included in this post is a selection of verse from Sjón and Gerður Kristný, two contemporary Icelandic poets who have received acclaim. Sjón has collaborated with Björk on numerous occasions, his work being characterized at times as surreal or fantastic. Gerður Kristný has released two major books of poetry which draw heavily from Nordic mythology and poetic forms. Two other writers whose names I jotted down at the library solely on the basis of the look of the books were Gyrðir Elíasson and Ingibjörg Haraldsdóttir)

“In midsummer
the path gets blocked between our houses

the streets buried in drifts
and neither of us wants to be first
to clear the snow away

I remember you were
not fond of exerting yourself

and for my part

I have always been fond of
snow”

-Gerður Kristný, Summer Poem

Þetta Reddast – Everything will be okay, it will all work out. A common saying amongst Icelanders as their lives revolve around the very unpredictable weather and changes in environment. I can’t help but notice how carefree the Icelanders I’ve met are. They work around loose schedules, are extremely flexible and have this “no need to worry” attitude. I first heard the Icelandic motto Þetta Reddast at a knitting workshop. I was struggling with my first stitches and apparently came across as a little stressed. And trust me, I was. Jóhanna Erla Pálmadóttir — who lead the knitting workshop — assured me that there was no reason to fuss over my knitting project, and reminded that my brain and my hands were learning something new – and not to overthink it.

I didn’t consider myself a textile artist prior to arriving here in Blönduós. I have worked with many mediums — acrylics, watercolours, block printing, sculpture, mixed media. But never had textiles and I crossed paths. This would be a first. I took on this opportunity to work in the Icelandic Textile Centre as reason to explore a new medium – felting.

Flat needle felting is the process of pushing small fibres, such as wool, into fabric in order to create a new texture. I have learned that it is a wonderful technique to represent the Icelandic landscape that I am so grateful to be surrounded by. I have also discovered that felting, as well as all forms of textile art, take an incredible amount of time! After teaching myself how to felt from Youtube videos and taking advice from my textile artist friends, I produced my very first felted piece, 4×6 inches in an entire day. An ENTIRE day! Although I am incredibly pleased with the outcome of my piece, I couldn’t help but reflect on the amount of time it took me to create something so small.

We have been taking part in multiple textile workshops here in Blönduós: knitting, tapestry, spinning, and natural dyeing techniques. Like felting, all of these mediums have required an incredible amount of time. I began to reflect on my time spent them, the time it took for me to grasp the new techniques, and then of course the time to complete a piece. The process of creating something out of textiles was not what I expected it to be at all. Not only is it time consuming, but it is extremely manual, repetitive and addictive. I started my tapestry weaving piece and just had this feeling of “I need to finish this”. I began to knit, and again the same feeling, “I just want to finish this and make something useful”.  And so after every workshop, I found myself spending all my time concentrating on perfecting a new technique for two or three days, completely forgetting about my felting projects. Once I was satisfied, then I would move on to the felting, which again lead to the feeling of completing something. I don’t know why I feel this way with textiles, as I can leave a painting in progress for weeks, and a drawing unfinished for months. I know I can always come back to it. Perhaps because these techniques are so new, so fresh in my mind, I don’t want to forget them. Perhaps it’s because for the first time in a very long time I can focus solely on making art. I have no responsibilities here.

As the days quickly slip by me, I realize how little time I have left to enjoy this period of creating art with minimal distractions or daily responsibilities. My usual overthinking self is saying, what if I don’t have time to finish what I had planned?

And then it hits me. Þetta Reddast – Everything will be okay, it will all work out. I am in Iceland. I might as well embrace this notion of things just working out, letting things fall into place. Something I hope I can bring back to Canada with me, this sense of letting things just be.

The first game of Iceland’s World Cup is in the books, a 1-1 tie against Lionel Messi and Argentina. I’m not usually a football fan, but I found myself bouncing, leaning, clapping, and cheering with the locals at the Blönduós community center, as Iceland held its own against a dominant Argentinian offense. The Icelandic goaltender, a 34-year-old filmmaker named Hannes Þór Halldórsson, made a few showstopping saves, including a penalty shot from Messi to prevent Argentina from taking the lead. When the clock finally ran down, you would have assumed Iceland won by the reaction of the crowd. The nation of 325,000 people, smaller than .01% of Canada’s population and .001% of the United States (both of whom didn’t qualify for the tournament) is the smallest ever to qualify for the World Cup, and they were heavily favored to lose.

THAT

WAS

FUN

I have written extensively in the past about the troubling aspects of professional sport and their relationship to identity and nationalism, and one need only look at the fallout of the Vancouver Canucks Stanley cup loss in 2010 or the Montreal Canadiens early playoff exit in 2014 to know what I mean, but these examples can be elaborated on another day. Today we witnessed the unexpected from a nation and a team that continue to pull off the unexpected. The coach doubles as a dentist, and another player delivers salt. With many of the players having “day jobs”, Iceland was never supposed to qualify let alone tie the top-rated team in their division. But who doesn’t want to see the underdog win? Especially a country so saturated in football, where one can’t walk anywhere without seeing children kicking a ball or more than five minutes without walking past a fully equipped amateur field. It really is a once in a lifetime (or maybe a once ever) experience to be in Iceland during this historic run. But as I, the visitor, take in the passions Icelanders have for football, I’m reminded of the other cultural feats Iceland excels at.

(The Overflow Seating at the Blönduós Community Centre, where locals gathered to watch the game. Image by me)

During the big bang of the mind roughly 50,000 years ago, humans began living in cities and developed religion, technology, and craft. Religion and art come out of this era, with professional sports later depicted in cave paintings around 15,000 BCE. I would like to remark on each because they are supplemental to human survival and are perpetuated on belief and faith. Artists gather in strange places to participate in obscure projects on the faith that someone will either care or the project will in some way have transcended the moment. Work that gets deemed exceptional gains followers who gather in concert halls or in galleries to be admired by the public. Followers of sports teams show faith in front of TV’s and stadiums, rooting for their team through wins and losses. Religious institutions are built on faith in a higher power, and many people I’ve met who participate in faith-based activities believe that all things done through the institution are in divine hands. With this faith, followers often raise extraordinary sums of money to build churches and conduct community work, with religious institutions playing key roles in historical cultural movements. In each instance people gather and experience something that transcends our individual lives, and as some believe, our own humanity. Based on what we know scientifically, each are equally superfluous and irrational, but each are integral to our constructions of culture. (Sorry to the devout reading this. Much respect to all of you <3)

Icelanders excel in each of these fields far beyond their population of 325,000 would suggest. Iceland is a cultural powerhouse, producing world-renowned musicians such as Sigur Ros and Bjork and visual artists like Olufar Eliasson (among many, many others). One in ten have published a book, and they have a rich literary history dating back to Iceland’s settlement by the Vikings in the 9^th century. Their island attracts 4.4 million tourists a year, over ten times the total population. Icelanders have many iconic churches, including the Blönduóskirkja here in Blönduós, but also have rich folklore that tells stories of elves, dwarfs, and fairies. The unlikely World Cup appearance and incredible tie with Argentina, when considering the cultural context, is continuing a long tradition Icelanders have of excelling internationally in cultural endeavors.  

(www.worldarchitecturemap.org)

So what of Iceland’s larger-than-itself cultural impact? One thing to consider is Iceland’s accrued soft power, a term used to describe a nations international influence not through coercion or force through economics or military (Iceland doesn’t have a standing military), but through co-option (encouraging others to want to be like you). Take for instance Iceland’s handling of the 2008 financial crisis, where they bailed out the people rather than the banks and jailed many business leaders and bankers. This gets referenced when talking about alternatives to America’s response that saved the failing corporations while the people lost their savings and homes. Iceland has a long history of gender equality and is often rated among the most equal nations in the world. Most Icelandic energy needs are met through renewable sources, making Iceland a global leader in climate change. This is in addition to the envy by the many large nations on the outside of the world cup, the nations that have few notable artists, and have coopted spiritual practices. It remains to be seen how far Iceland will go in the World Cup tournament, but a 1-1 tie to Argentina is another in a long list of exceeded expectations.