When I entered the dark Iceland winter, I did not expect to find exceptional beauty—physical beauty, as well as the lovely feeling of turning in and experiencing darkness through my entire being. I did not expect the colors to seep inside me, and I was surprised to be delighted by subdued hues of blue and gray and the blankness of white.
I never wanted to intellectualize the experience, to analyze or dramatize the delicious moods that the shadows and the cold and snow provoked. While I was in it, I just wanted to know it, to live it, to let it do what it would to me.
For my final day at Kaffi Klara, I share this impression of the dark winter/short days.
Ólafsfjörður, 20 February 2016
(Text is below the pictures.)
This Is Skammdegi
This is the winter: the new winter, the uncharted winter; the blunted light, the short days carved from a torpor that seeps into everything.
This is the dark: the still dark, the enveloping dark; the eternal shade, the constant dusk that holds the day in a continual turning in.
This is the night: the real night, the frigid night; the flicker of stars, the black of space behind ripples and plumes that wave and dissolve.
This is the blue: the marine blue, the liquid blue; the languid cloak, the fallen sky that encompasses all.
This is the violet: the cool violet, the misty violet; the inky air, the damp bruise that ends the day.
This is the gray: the easy gray, the dull gray; the low gloom, the dim phantom that haunts with a murmur.
This is the white: the stark white, the blinding white; the slow flash, the sudden blanch that erases the dark for a time.
This is the snow: the gentle snow, the furious snow; the fresh powder, the icy drift that devours leg to knee.
This is the sun: the thin sun, the cold sun; the lost disk, the muffled glow that hovers just beyond sight.
This is the day: the awaited day, the golden day; the cerulean sky, the streaming rays that nudge the will awake.