Spontaneous Combustion

Words and Photos by Parker Yamasaki

for the Reykjavík Grapevine

 

"Flott fjörd!” announced our driver as we pull into Stöðvarfjörður. It was the first exchange of words we had the whole trip. He spoke no English, the only thread of communication tying us together was our own crinkled paper sign that read “Stöðvarfjörður,” and a matching label on a pack of newspapers sitting in his front seat.

To get there from the airport in Egilsstaðir one relies on a series of ad hoc busses and the generosity of strangers. Our route in particular was made possible by two boys on break from their rental car company, a small red bus shuttling long-haired sleepy men to a metal festival a couple fjörds away, and the local newspaper delivery man.

You don’t need to know where you’re going in Stöðvarfjörður to find the festival. Just follow the only road into town, and stop.  On the right side of the main drag there is a community centre covered in fresh stripes of teal and blue, a graffiti project taken up by the local kids for the festival. Just across the road a dim beige sign beckons passers-by with the promise of hot food, groceries, and souvenirs. And just beyond that rests the diamond-in-the-rough old fish factory. The highest wall reads “HERE” in neon orange letters, confirming your arrival.

When we arrive in the early evening of July 12, it is as if the festival has awoken sleepy Stöðvarfjörður from an eight-year long nap. She shakes the scruff out of her hair and jumps up, spry with potential. Before arriving I worried that importing the art and music scene from Reykjavík to a town of 190 would be invasive, and unwelcome. I could not have been more wrong. It was clear from the moment we pull back the creaky, sliding doors of the van that collaboration was central to this festival.

 

Nourishment for the collaborative spirit (aka horse meat sandwiches)
Two wooden tables and a grill were posted beside the community centre. On one sat a mixed arrangement of pots, each filled with a different soup.  In tiny glass jars we sampled a salty vegetable soup, fish soup, carrot soup, and something having to do with sweet potatoes. On the other table a tinfoil tray offered steaming horsemeat sandwiches, fresh off the grill and wrapped in triangular pita pockets. Topped with cocktail sauce.

Feeling full and warm from the inside out I started to work my way back to the campsite for some comfy layers. Meanwhile, down at the harbour, a performance art piece had begun and a flood of faces urged me to turn the other way. I obeyed and headed to the water just in time to catch two women in a rowboat covered in a mesh sheet float around the harbour for about ten minutes. No one seemed to know if this was the performance or not. The women docked and everybody turned toward each other, conversation continued casually. What we had just witnessed was still unclear, but no one minded as the weather was nice, beers were plentiful, and a DJ had started blasting some sounds in front of the old fish factory.

 

De/Construction
My first genuine introduction to the fish factory came from a graphic designer and graffiti artist named Narfi. Narfi was passing through Stöðvarfjörður with a group of friends under the collective name RWS. Aside from dousing the plain walls with vibrant designs and thoroughly enjoying themselves, the group was in charge of leading the local kids in visually renovating the community centre. Narfi was eager to show off the factory’s interior—thriving on creation as much as destruction. A 2,860 square-metre work in progress.

The entry room gives the impression of a young museum, complete with houseplants and a false snake. A “gift shop” welcomes visitors with fluttering price tags and a full-length mirror. Just around the corner, empty doorways reveal fluorescent rooms full of recycled and reclaimed supplies—dripping and crusty paint buckets, brushes and spray cans, tools and wooden cut outs. There is no distinction between the deliberate and the scrap in the fish factory. Everything has a purpose.

Upstairs, a lounge area has been carved into the room by the strategic placement of some couches and an ashtray. A kitchen welcomes visitors with a handcrafted jukebox and a coffee maker. A man they call Smári walks up to the jukebox contraption and throws on some tunes. Smári made the jukebox himself. He is the official un-official carpenter/handyman/jukebox constructer of the factory.


All hands on deck
On Sunday afternoon, nearly everybody in the town gathered on the front porch of the old church for brunch. A day prior Inga, a resident of Stöðvarfjörður for forty years, led a workshop gathering native herbs and moss. The group used these gathered goods to make a creamy soup and a variety of freshly baked breads. Inga’s all-natural delicacies were complemented by pancakes grilled on the spot and served up, one by one.

Food and feasts sewed a common thread between the festival and the town. Salvaged goods brought in from Reykjavík by Pólar were complemented, even outshined, by the contributions of the locals. Friday’s potluck was followed up on Saturday by a mid-day rhubarb feast in one local’s backyard. That evening a group of local fisherman cut and grilled 140 kilos of fresh fish that they had caught that morning, with the helping hands of about twelve festival attendees. The fish feast was accompanied by stuffed grilled peppers from Reykjavík and heaps of fresh salad prepared by Inga’s herb group. Creamy moss soup and sugar-filled pancakes sweetly capped the weekend.

As the sun comes out and the crowd scatters to the town below, Inga unfolds a patio chair and sits down next to me. She is very happy with the festival. “Reykjavík comes in with the music and the art and everything, and we come in with what we know; I collect herbs, the fisherman come in with the fish…” she trails off and closes her eyes in the beaming sun. “So good—the weather, the people, the food, so good,” she repeats in perfect content, and then dismisses herself to clean the dishes and join her sister inside the old church.

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Original Article: http://grapevine.is/culture/art/2013/08/02/spontaneous-combustion/