Pósturinn, Iceland
14th May 2014

 
AR_Posturinn
 
It’s 11:30am. And the waves are breaking. Right on the beach, right on the shoreline. Many people think there is a magic here. The mouth and the doorway to the centre of the Earth. It started with a small eruption. There’s breath, then a tinkling sound. Slower than a baby. The gods are still angry… so I have to fetch some more. I read about mythology then it’s very natural. I am standing on the boundary of continents. I could take a shovel and take a chunk out of the mountain. I could descend into a crater. A fall into the landscape. I can hear the river easily. It’s insect-like, so musical.
 

I know the sun is off to my right. There are slabs coated with a paint of snow. If there’s just snow it’s not safe. I’m very small, nobody feels me. The hidden people are my ancestors. You see it’s very bare, very desolate. It’s waiting for us to put something in it. It’s inviting for the imagination: the elves, the trolls, the giants, the water-beings. The mountains are not very high. Nature is not going up. It’s down there, it’s underneath me. Then all of a sudden something pops up. Like mental content from my psyche.
 

Straightaway there’s some respite from the wind. Then I hear what’s all around me. It’s absolutely not silence. I take my flute with me wherever I go. I found a ledge then everything sounded good. I have to climb up to it. I’m not afraid of falling. They speak of the spirits of the cliffs. There’s this pulling in. That’s what you feel. It’s invisible, it must be a spirit. And is it without or within? And it never ends.
 

Audrey Reynolds, Iceland.