Iceland has some incredible scenery, remote spaces where access is difficult. Birta Mirkur homes in on one of the country’s surprising geographic locations. Nature’s evocational potential manifests itself in the Bláalonid lagoon near Reykjavík, which rises up as the main feature of Iñigo Salaberria’s film work. Clouds hazily merging with the steam coming up from the lagoon. The white water could also be the sky. The speed of the wavy lines of steam and the shadows it projects give us an unreal sensation, as if the image had been touched up.
Images that function as reflections of themselves. A reflection appears on the surface of water, but also, on the smooth surfaces of rocks. The quarry, the salt mines, will one day loose their physical status, their materiality, and will end up dissolved. Human labour modifies the natural space until it offers us the possibility of looking with new eyes, appreciating the labour and time involved. In Muñoz Molina’s words, we find in Disdirak plenitude engrossed in her mirrored reflection.
Tokyo’s Yamanote line is the overhead circular line of the metro around the city. Travellers using it at night, or even by day, will find many passengers slumped in deep lethargy, as if the shards of light flitting over their faces were nothing more than a projection of their fleeting dreams. In Japan, the shadows and silhouettes moving through the streets ramble half asleep, never lifting up their gaze. Sleepwalking is a disorder in which people develop motor activities, but are unaware of what is going on, and do not have the wherewithal for communication.
Iceland lives in darkness for much of the year. The good thing about night is that it’s like a backdrop which erases the set and leaves you looking at the bare essentials, like looking at sheet of paper you have to draw on.
