ARE
THEY EXPECTING US?
(A secret tryst in a landscape)
The crest of
the Kambar hills overlooks flatlands framed by famous
white-capped mountains and the surly Atlantic Ocean, which
beats against the shore, night and day. The view is
magnificent, in spite of there being no verdant valleys
with large estates and rich green pastures; instead there
is tussocky ground, and swamps, and grazing enclosures for
horses. Down by the coastline we catch a glimpse of
Eyrarbakki and Stokkseyri; Ţorlákshöfn is there too,
somewhere and Hveragerđi is straight ahead.
Is someone
waiting to meet us here, in this flat landscape? Are they
expecting us?
This is a
national route, both ancient and new, and probably the
busiest one in the country, barring the road to Keflavík
airport that leads directly off the island. Many drive
through here without stopping. In May 1918, Bjarni
Bernharđsson and his wife Ragnhildur Höskuldsdóttir
travelled this route in a four-wheeled covered wagon drawn
by two horses. Their home in Hafnarfjörđur had been
dismantled and since Bjarni’s home district was
Gaulverjabćjarhreppur, they had no choice but to go there.
The home district of the husband was decisive in this
regard, not that of the wife. The family travelled to
Sléttaból in the Flói district and the following day people
arrived to take away the children. Óskar (6 years) went to
Efri-Gegnishólar, Bjarni (2) went to Austur-Međalholt and
Róbert (7 months) went to Hellar. Ragnar (5) stayed at
Sléttaból initially, then went to Skógsnes and later to
Fljótshólar, while Arndís (3) remained with her parents in
Eyrarbakki. Bjarni and Ragnhildur had two more sons after
moving to Eyrarbakki: Ólafur, who died at the age of 14,
and Bjarni, who died aged three. Bjarni and Ragnhildur had
also experienced having their childhood homes broken up,
and attempted to have their children returned to them. All
those farms are still inhabited today, save for Sléttaból.
A year after the relocation of the family, a hospital to
serve South Iceland was built near Eyrarbakki. It was
designed by architect Guđjón Samúelsson in typical
Icelandic style, with steep gabled roofs painted red. In
1929 it was turned into a labour camp, incorporating the
land Litla-Hraun and Stóra-Hraun. Ever since, the labour
camp has been referred to as Litla-Hraun, and is today
Iceland’s maximum-security prison. Additional
buildings have been built to the east and west of the
original building and the latest structure added to the
grounds, a building with a blue tower, was taken into use
in October 1995. Today the Litla-Hraun prison can
accommodate 87 inmates, out of a total of 134 prisoners in
Iceland. According to media reports, prisons are now so
full that inmates are forced to share cells. A new prison
near Reykjavík is currently on the drawing board, and if a
plan presented by authorities and which is accessible
online is anything to go by, construction is already
underway. The great majority of inmates are males between
the ages of 20 and 30 and judging by the news, many are
incarcerated for drug offences.
At first glance the works of Borghildur Óskarsdóttir and
Sigríđur Melrós Ólafsdóttir have little in common: the
artists are of different generations and have based their
work on different criteria, each not knowing much about the
other.
Borghildur was born in 1942 and has worked as a sculptor
for a long period. Writer and critic Ragna Sigurđardóttir
has said that Borghildur’s work reflects the past and
the present, the near and the far, the tiny and the huge.
In recent years, Borghildur has been working with her own
family history. Six years ago she exhibited the work
“Maternal Patterns” at the Reykjavík Art
Museum, arranging numerous portraits of members of her
maternal family into a large, circular form on a blue
background. Her paternal family was up next. Borghildur
interviewed the siblings that were distributed among the
farms in the Flói district in May 1918, also examining the
historical context and recollections. Those siblings are
now all deceased. The last to die was the oldest brother,
Óskar Bernhard Bjarnason, 95, who passed away in October
2007. He was Borghildur’s father, and had a vivid
recollection of the trip eastwards in the horse-drawn
carriage.
Borghildur’s multi-faceted work in the Arnesinga Art
Museum is a follow-up to an exhibition she held at the
Icelandic Federation of Labour’s Art Gallery in April
2007 and which she called “Spreads – stories
from the past in the light of pictures”. She has
created a work that suggests books – tablets with
photographs and text that she arranges on the floor so that
they are reminiscent of landscapes or gabled houses. The
photographs show buildings, landscapes and ruins of
buildings in the Flói district and elsewhere in South
Iceland. The sides of the tablets that contain text tell
the stories and memories of Óskar, his siblings and
relatives. Borghildur involves herself in the story by
exhibiting journal entries that she wrote while preparing
the exhibition. She records her day-to-day existence while
examining her family’s roots in the landscape. The
landscape connection is highlighted by allowing the journal
pages to form a sort of line in the landscape, on the wall.
She has also shaped a great number of clay bowls by hand,
and stacked them up. The effect is that they appear to have
grown that way, to be organic. They reveal a sort of
measurement of time, similar to the annual rings of a tree.
Sigríđur, a painter and printmaker, was born in 1965. In
the past she has primarily created group pictures of people
from her immediate environment. She has used her own
photographs as the foundation for those pictures, and
broken up her subject matter into colour surfaces using a
computer. The pictures have then been recreated on canvas
in the form of paintings, at which they are given a
two-dimensional feel slightly reminiscent of pop art.
According to Sigríđur the pictures are self-portraits to a
certain degree because she can mirror herself in them,
identify with her subjects. Her latest picture series is a
departure in the sense that the world it depicts is removed
– it is made up of pictures of inmates at the
Litla-Hraun prison. The origin of the series is an
exhibition dubbed “the golden brushes” which
was held at the Kópavogur Art Museum – Gerđarsafn in
January and February 2007. The exhibition was named after
the colour indigo. In an interview with Blađiđ on 17
January, Sigríđur said: “When a decision was made to
have indigo, the darkest colour in the spectrum, as the
theme of the exhibition, I bought every tube of indigo I
could find and asked myself what I should do. I felt no
connection to it, but gradually an idea began to take shape
about the inmate and his incarceration.” Shortly
afterwards Sigríđur met with the warden of Litla-Hraun, who
put her in touch with the inmates’ association. The
inmates agreed to have their portraits painted and Sigríđur
was assigned a classroom in the prison, in which she took
their photographs. They were given permission to pose
whichever way they pleased. In the interview she was quoted
as saying that she had taken a liking the inmates and had
been careful not to start “pondering why they were
there or what sort of baggage they were carrying”.
She continued: “One of the things I enjoyed about
meeting the Litla-Hraun inmates was that I got insight into
a completely different world. They have their own pecking
order and status and ambitions that are entirely different
from that of the artist.”
Sigríđur uses the photographs to create drawings, transfers
those onto linoleum, and cuts out lines. She then applies
print colour or printer’s ink to the linoleum and
presses it onto paper. On some of the paper sheets she
continues to work in India ink, ink, tempura, or whatever
she considers appropriate. Some of the pictures are blue
and reminiscent of night. For the Gerđarsafn exhibition she
titled the picture series God looks
after my friends, I look after my
enemies. This rather
curious title is drawn from the fact that many of the
inmates sport tattoos and Sigríđur soon noticed that they
enjoyed showing them to her. On the way home she thought
about how virtually a whole essay had been etched into the
back of one of the inmates, in French with Gothic
lettering. She later asked what the quote had been and was
told it was something like God looks
after my friends, I look after my
enemies. Sigríđur sent
the inmates an exhibition catalogue with this title, and
received a letter back informing her that the quotation was
incorrect. It should have read God protect
me from my friends, I’ll take care of my enemies,
myself.
This latter version of the quote is certainly harsher than
the former. In French, it reads Dieu
Protége moi. Des Mes Amis ... Mes Ennemis ... Je M´en
Charge. This was the
motto of one Jacques Mesrine, one of the most infamous bank
robbers and murderers in France. The world of the prisoners
is a world unto itself, with its own value system and
ambition. Mesrine was killed by French police in an ambush
in 1979 as he sat unarmed in his BMW automobile on the
outskirts of Paris. This year, two feature films about the
life of Jacques Mesrine will be released.
The works of Borghildur and Sigríđur are joined by their
social references. They both focus on people moved
somewhere by society against their will and placed in a
specific location, whether it is their home district or an
institution named “labour camp” or
“prison”. In both instances the state is
enforcing its ultimate power, in both cases people are
stripped of their autonomy and freedom. Children are taken
from their parents and sent to be with strangers; young men
are locked up, sometimes for years.
Economically and technically speaking, the difference is
that the inmates are provided for by the state while they
are in prison, and their names are kept on a criminal
record after their release, whereas local authorities
invited farmers to place tender bids for the care of the
children. That care was then assigned to farmers in the
district in return for payment. The farmer with the lowest
bid had the greatest possibility of securing the child.
Ragnar Bjarnason remained at Sléttaból when his brothers
were taken away. A year later the couple who owned the farm
moved to Stokkseyri. Ragnar, who then was six, expected to
accompany them, but this turned out to be impossible since
the district in which Stokkseyri was located had no legal
obligation to care for Bjarni and Ragnhildur’s
children. Ragnar was therefore left behind in
Gaulverjabćjarhreppur district, and was sent to Skógsnes,
remaining there for three years, or until the farmer moved.
The couple that took over the farm did not want to keep
Ragnar, so he was sent to his parents in Stokkseyri, who
had wanted to have him returned. Just short of a year later
his father died, so Ragnar was sent to relatives in
Fljótshólar, where he stayed for five years. The district
stopped child support payments when children were
confirmed, so Ragnar remained an extra year on the farm as
a labourer.
District relocation had deep roots in Icelandic society. It
was based on the Poor Law from 1834, a spin-off from the
1703 Census which had revealed the staggering fact that the
“needy” in Iceland amounted to just over 15% of
the population. The Poor Law had stipulations concerning
obligations by the districts to care for the poor, as well
as about home districts and district relocations. Certainly
those were conceived in response to a social problem, but
the legislation was political and revolved around what was
most appropriate in terms of the social status quo, not
necessarily what was right for individual families. The
Poor Law dissolved families and not only robbed people of
their autonomy but also their right to vote and eligibility
to run for office. The last district relocations are
believed to have taken place in 1927, when a family in the
Strandir area was moved from one district to another.
The same may be
said about prisons. Society responds to specific behaviour
that is in violation of the laws of any given period by
locking the perpetrators up for a longer or shorter term.
In the 1930s, Icelandic prisons were full of moonshine
sellers. Today they are full of drug dealers. The terms
“legal” and “illegal” drugs tell a
story. We are talking politics. Some people may recall the
effort by Icelandic authorities to make Iceland a drug-free
country by 2000. Setting heavier sentences for drugs
violations is a political decision. Yet experts like Helgi
Gunnlaugsson, professor at the University of Iceland, have
pointed out that very heavy sentences tend to drive street
prices for drugs up, which in turn means that those who do
manage to smuggle illegal drugs into a country make a huge
profit. There is a lot to be gained and obviously there are
many who are prepared to take the risk. A vicious circle
results, something that was clearly depicted in the
American film Traffic,
which received a great deal of attention a few years ago.
Those who are disturbed by the rise in inmate numbers in
Icelandic prisons can take comfort in the fact that Iceland
has the fewest number of inmates per capita in Western
Europe. An article by Helgi Gunnlaugsson published on the
Icelandic Science Web in 2003 revealed that there were 110
inmates in Iceland in 2002, or 38 inmates for every 100,000
residents. That same year there were 59 inmates per 100,000
residents in Denmark and Norway, and 96 in Germany. Great
Britain held the European record, with 139 inmates.
Meanwhile the United States held – and still holds
– the world record. In 2002 there were 686
incarcerated prisoners there per 100,000 residents. To
reach the same ratio in Iceland there would have had to
have been nearly 2,000 prisoners in this country.
It is indicative of the age that a recent article in
daily Fréttablađiđ
stressed the
importance of establishing rehabilitation wards in prisons,
to turn them into detox centres of sorts. One might say
that, with this, medicalisation has entered the prisons.
Inherent in that is the notion that prisoners are sick
people who are not accountable for their actions. On closer
examination this is a logical extension of a trend that has
long been ongoing. In his book Discipline
and Punish, French
philosopher Michel Foucault claims that in centuries past,
punishment was primarily aimed at the body. Those who
violated the law were whipped, branded, had body parts cut
off, and were sometimes executed. Being locked up in prison
for a lengthy period was rare. With the spread of
information, punishment began to be about the shaping of
the prisoner, just as the growth of a tree could be shaped.
In other words, the focus was no longer on the body but on
the soul. According to Foucault this had nothing to do with
humanity but was rather a calculated need to have
functional members of society who would disrupt
society’s mechanism as little as possible.
As stated above, Borghildur and Sigríđur differ as artists
and base their work on different criteria. Yet both of
their works are composed with a sense of serenity and
precision. Both manage to artistically explore images that
are charged with emotion, and stories that are free from
sentimentality. Their works do not create victims for us to
look at and pity from a safe distance. The inmates in
Sigríđur’s works look out at us without expression,
the lines on their faces carved in linoleum. Most of them
also have images carved into their own skin. According to
Sigríđur it was interesting to carve out the linoleum,
deciding on which lines to carve and which to omit. She
only met the inmates on one or two occasions, but having
recreated photographs of them as linoleum engravings and
then transferred those onto paper, she felt like she had
got to know them. Perhaps she found herself in them,
perhaps we find ourselves in them. Perhaps they were
waiting for us, perhaps they were expecting us.
We might have a similar sensation when we examine
Borghildur’s works. In his renowned contemplations on
the concept of the story, German philosopher Walter
Benjamin writes that the past carries secret signs that
lead to its redemption. “Are we not surrounded by the
same air that those generations breathed? Can we not hear
in those voices to which we listen an echo of voices that
are now silent?” Benjamin maintains that past
generations expect us on this earth, that they have a
secret tryst with us. He is not talking about the
supernatural but is rather primarily thinking of the past
– the anonymous, forgotten and impoverished past.
Borghildur takes the initiative in opening up that past and
simultaneously invites us to share in her own life. She
illuminates the past with pictures and narratives while at
the same time keeping a record of her own time, which
ultimately is the time that belongs to us all.
And Orion appears, the brightest constellation,
representing a hero in an ancient saga who was above all
others in terms of talent and splendour. There he is,
descended from the night sky, in all his glory. Borghildur
has drawn him on the wall. Opposite him Sigríđur pits a
wiry tattooed inmate who flexes his muscles, naked from the
waist up, distant as the night.
Hjálmar
Sveinsson