The Perfect Landscape

by Ragna Sigurðardóttir

  “The painting was attributed to the Icelandic painter Gudrun Johannsdottir,” she repeats in English, but the man at the auction house is not really listening. Hanna tries her best to pronounce the name in some sort of international way that could be understood anywhere. “Gudrun Johannsdottir.” She pronounces the j as dj as she would in English. “Djo-hanns-dot-tir,” she repeats, trying to remain as friendly and polite as she can. She feels that a member of staff at the auction house should recognize the name. Gudrun was very much a key player among Icelandic painters and exhibited a lot abroad. Mostly in Paris but also in Scandinavia. Evidently before this man’s time, because he now asks her to spell the name. In her head Hanna quickly tries to find words to match the letters in Gudrun’s name while spelling it correctly. “G as in George. U as in...” She falls silent for a moment. U as in what, an English or a Danish word? “U as in under,” she says hesitantly, but the message seems to transmit across the sea. “D as in David.” She continues to spell Gudrun’s name out in full. “And dottir like the Danish word datter,” she says finally, but the man on the other end doesn’t understand what she means and so she has to spell dottir, daughter, as well.

  “And when was the painting purchased?” The man on the other end is clearly jotting down her inquiry about the painting’s ownership history. He is probably just someone who answers the phone; at least that’s how he comes across. Judging by the range of items on offer on their website, it is a big auction house that operates on a considerable scale—it is hardly likely the staff are all specialist art historians. The auction house has much more than paintings on offer, and Hanna looks through the selection of goods for sale while she is talking. The collectors’ pages remind her of the Duke of Berry’s treasures. She is attracted by a Russian damask doll, embroidered with a crown and a monogram. It costs around one hundred thousand Icelandic kronur. Someone has bid nearly fifty thousand. While she is answering the man’s questions, Hanna tries to imagine what sort of person buys these things.

  “I think it was purchased just before New Year’s, but I don’t have an exact date,” she says. She can hear the keyboard tapping. He is searching. Hanna clicks on a picture of a decorative Chinese tree with flowers and leaves made of valuable stones. The tree is set to go for around forty thousand Icelandic kronur. However, a monk’s figurine carved from wood from the seventeenth century is valued at well over a hundred thousand. Would she give Frederico something like that for Christmas if they were rich? She smiles to herself until she remembers. Depending on whether they have another Christmas together.

  “I need to look into this more,” says the voice on the phone. “If you give me your number I’ll call you later in the week.”

  Hanging up, Hanna senses nothing will come of it. She has to admit that Steinn is right; information of this sort is not handed out on a plate. But now she must get her brain in gear for the next project. She has invited four artists to take part in her landscape exhibition in the spring and has asked them to meet here in the Annexe. She is curious to see how they get along.

  Creating works of art is addictive, something well known to artists who have not had the opportunity to produce any art for some time. They see their creative urge, find some other outlet, in the kitchen, the garden, in DIY around the house, having another baby, or in being generally surly. This urge is like a disability, Hanna thinks to herself as she stands welcoming the artists in the Annexe’s exhibition room. They all have it, no matter what their age or what form it takes. They all simply want to see their art come into being. To feel an idea taking shape, see it develop and then emerge into the world. There is fulfillment in seeing your ideas coming to fruition. Luxury. Maybe this is why artists repeatedly reconcile themselves to working unpaid, working on their art in their spare time and all for this: to see their art come alive.

  The painter, Haraldur, keeps some distance from the others, his expression at once proud and embittered. He stands erect, still in his overcoat and woolen hat, shuffling his feet as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Jon Egilsson is relaxed, his soft features have success written all over them, and he has the good-natured appearance of a man who lives a comfortable life. His overcoat is casually draped over his arm, and something about his manner says that he has lived abroad for many years.

  They were born the same year but belong to different generations of artists. Both were fascinated by schools of art around the middle of the previous century, and both attracted attention early on. Haraldur for his huge abstract paintings, which are on show in banks, public buildings, and companies around the country. Jon for his sculptures, performances, and conceptual art. He has never painted a picture. He has lived in Belgium for almost his entire career. Haraldur stuck with abstract art right up to the seventies and then began to lean toward landscape painting. Now he paints lyrical landscapes almost exclusively. As an artist he portrays tenderness and gentleness, those sides of Icelandic nature that are often overshadowed by the magnificent and awe-inspiringly beautiful, and yet are so important to us. Beneath his gruff exterior lies a genuine artist, a passionate painter who has fallen foul of the present day, and that’s a shame, Hanna thinks to herself. But she is fed up with his continual mistrust. The hardest part will be getting Haraldur to work with the others; Jon will not be a problem.

  Leifur Finnson is from the youngest generation of artists, consumed with burning ambition, passion, and joy at creating his art. He only recently graduated from the Icelandic Academy of Arts and so is rather excited to be asked to take part in an exhibition at the municipal gallery. Anselma is a young German artist whose career she has followed over recent years, and Hanna is pleased to be able to give her this opportunity here. Anselma is calm, experienced, and does not have the expectations that Leifur has. She has seen competition on the international stage and produces her own brand of art and takes the consequences with equanimity.

  Agusta told Hanna about Leifur’s background and his battle to become an artist; it sounded like a tale from the old days, of an unworldly romantic who walks alone, without a care for wealth or security. “He’s the son of a master carpenter and a primary school teacher, and his parents are very ordinary middle-class people,” said Agusta. “But they were totally against him going to the Arts Academy. His father wanted him to take over the family business because Leifur is a talented carpenter. And that’s proved very useful to him and to many others at the Academy. His parents don’t see any future in studying art. So in order to instill a bit of discipline, even though he’s no longer a child, they decided that if he studied at the Academy he would have to fend for himself entirely. So he left home the minute he got a place there. Everyone was against him apart from his girlfriend, who has stood by him like a rock,” said Agusta. “Even his friends didn’t understand him—rather than go out partying he wanted to stay at home and create his sculptures.”

  Hanna looks at Leifur’s hands fiddling with a pencil, dirt under his nails, strong supple hands, with a carved silver ring on his wedding finger.

  “Lilja told me,” said Agusta. “She was his lecturer. There was a risk of him giving up in the first semester because he didn’t fit in with the group. He hadn’t ever gone to an exhibition, you see, didn’t know any artists, and had a different taste in music. He dressed differently. He didn’t believe in himself and didn’t think he would make it, but Lilja managed to get him to change his mind. Nevertheless, it wasn’t until the final semester that he blossomed, when he created that installation from wood, the one that I was telling you about.”

  Hanna was thrilled by Leifur’s artworks the minute she saw pictures of them. She doesn’t have a clue what he intends to do in this exhibit, but in her eyes all his works are modern-day landscapes that blend with the city and create a background for its life. He makes sculptures that flow through the exhibition space. Using discarded building materials, roofing felt, rusty corrugated iron, wooden offcuts, glass, anything that happens to be available when a house is demoli
shed, or discarded materials from a newly built house, he creates a richly nuanced composition of colors and textures.

  “He barely speaks to his parents even now,” said Agusta, and Hanna lets out a sigh at the thought, wishing that she had the money to pay Leifur a decent sum for his work, rather than just cover the cost of the raw materials. And how is he going to sell such large installations that you cannot store or build over again? Fortunately, he is still too young to worry about whether his work will sell; he is unrealistic and optimistic and this allows him to think big. Maybe he’s one of those who won’t give up, she thinks. One of those who keeps going until he’s able to live from his art.

  Hanna’d had to coax Haraldur to take part. It was not until they had been talking for some time about various Icelandic and foreign painters that he reluctantly agreed to join in. He would have agreed immediately to an exhibition in the main gallery, but the Annexe is another matter altogether. The Annexe is an avant-garde exhibition space that does not give paintings precedence over other media. Haraldur harbors a deep mistrust for such movements. He has very little confidence in Hanna, but the fact that his paintings have not been seen on the gallery’s walls for decades overcame his artistic reservations about the validity of this exhibition.

  This is like religion, Hanna thinks to herself. Doesn’t narrow-mindedness contradict the very spirit of art? Haraldur doesn’t believe that any of the younger generation have a genuine interest in his art. Let alone these youngsters, she thinks, looking at Leifur and Anselma. Haraldur would be surprised if he knew how open these two actually were to his art. He projects his own narrow-mindedness onto others.

  The two older men take a sideways glance at the young ones, Jon out of curiosity, Haraldur with a distinct look of disdain. Collaboration is not in his nature, not because he is stubborn or myopic—working with others, which is common among contemporary artists, is simply alien to him.

  “Well now,” Hanna begins. “Welcome.”

  Mentally she slips into fencing mode, into the starting position. She feels the heaviness in her feet, the balance in her core, her body full of energy in readiness; the others are looking at her, waiting.

  “Nice to see you all,” she says calmly, ready to go into defense or attack mode. “We’re here today to have a chat. Sort of, informally, to get to know one another. Well, maybe you’ve not met, so let me introduce you,” she says, and from the introductions it turns out that they know one another, apart from Anselma and Haraldur. Jon taught Leifur at the Academy of Arts, and Leifur did some carpentry for the gallery that occasionally exhibits Haraldur’s work. Jon is the friendliest of them all. He has the most experience, not only in art, but also in the interpersonal relations that this entails.

  “How is the gallery going to go about this?” asks Leifur. “You see, I was thinking of a booklet and pictures and so on. And the exhibition space? I think you were talking about some artwork in public spaces, weren’t you?”

  Hanna has already visited them individually and explained that they are free to do as they please, either in the Annexe or in a public space, which they could discuss with the local authorities.

  “I know for sure that we’ll have Haraldur’s paintings in this room here,” says Hanna, hoping Haraldur will say something. But Haraldur merely stands there silently, his arms folded across his chest—he has no intention of speaking to these youngsters or to Hanna. “In other respects we don’t know what the exhibit will be like,” she adds. “I think it will be exciting to have new pieces, but that isn’t by any means a stipulation. Not at all,” she adds, looking toward Haraldur. “What I have in mind is to display a variety of ideas about landscape in contemporary arts, on a small scale, a variety where every voice can be heard. Obviously, landscape is a very broad concept.”

  Leifur nods his head. His eyes are a beautiful green-brown with golden flecks. His dark unruly hair tumbles over his forehead.

  “You can link the concept of landscape with almost anything at all,” says Hanna. “You interpret it as you wish, naturally. Landscape is the underlying theme of the exhibition and I’ll write about it in the program, but you are free to do what you want. You don’t need to take the concept literally,” she says more to herself than to the others.

  Not necessarily, she thinks, and yet in her mind’s eye she pictures a mountain. The light falling on it. The colors. The proportions of the mountain, the sky, and the sea. Somewhere these elements come together perfectly. Maybe in one of Ruisdael’s paintings. If Vermeer had painted a landscape with mountains, it would have been the consummate landscape painting. Cezanne got close to it. The tenderness of Haraldur’s paintings. The mountains back home in Leirhofn. The Birches springs to mind, and yet again she wonders who did this beautiful painting, if it wasn’t Gudrun.

  “It’s been said that in every age societies look within and reveal how they view the world through the landscape paintings of their artists,” says Hanna. “I think that from our own countryside we should be able to come up with something about ourselves, our worldview, and our society, and express that through images of the Icelandic landscape. What I’m saying is just an attempt to see things in a larger context. Like Petrarch.” Hanna looks at Jon and Haraldur. Haraldur is nodding, while Jon looks blank.

  “Francesco Petrarch was born in Italy in the fourteenth century, but as the fates would have it he grew up and studied in France. He became famous for his writings and traveled widely in Europe. Among other things he collected old manuscripts and he is seen as one of the initiators of the Renaissance in Italy. Petrarch is also remembered in history for his remarkable accounts of landscapes and has been called Petrarca Alpinista, the first mountaineer. It was not common in his day to go hiking for pleasure, but he climbed Mont Ventoux in southern France with the sole aim of admiring the view. When he had reached the summit, he looked all around in awe and wonder, and the story goes that he opened one of Saint Augustine’s sacred writings from the fourth century, which he was particularly fond of. And it so happened that he opened it at the page that says man should look within rather than wonder at the glory of nature. And naturally Petrarch was filled with remorse,” Hanna explains. “As if he’d made a major mistake. I wanted to tell you this tale because Petrarch finds himself in such an exciting position in this story. Should he look out or in, forward or to the past? He is at a turning point. Which way are we going to look?”

  Hanna stops talking. Outside the window the bluish hues of the morning give way to white daylight. The sidewalk is dark gray where the underground hot water pipes have thawed the snow; the square is white. It’s snowing heavily, large wet flakes. Hanna sees that she is losing Haraldur to the snowfall.

  “I don’t quite get these landscape ideas of yours,” says Leifur, suddenly irritated by the account of a long-dead Italian poet to whom he cannot relate. “I’m no landscape painter. Nor am I keen on exhibitions where the curator has the main say.”

  “You have a completely free hand in this,” Hanna repeats, sensing how her story has backfired, as if the thought she was trying to get across has turned against her and instead of being liberating has come over as reactionary. “What I really want to hear from you as soon as possible are your ideas. Maybe you don’t have any ideas right now, but we can speak again later.”

  Leifur moves off a few paces, trying to keep himself in check. Hanna decides to give him time to calm down and says nothing. Walking toward the window, he takes his hands out of his pockets; his fists are no longer clenched. He turns his back to them as he talks.

  “Yeah, well, of course I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t think that far ahead. Still, I’d be up for doing something that kind of evolves. I’ve got loads of junk in a friend’s garage he wants to get rid of.”

  Hanna nods. She doesn’t know whether Leifur has staged this little scene to get attention, and she isn’t bothered either way, just mumbles something encouraging and avoids meeting Haraldur’s eye. Haraldur walked off toward the gallery
the minute Leifur mentioned the junk in the garage, but now he turns around and looks accusingly at Hanna. That’s where he wants to be, Hanna thinks to herself. Inside the gallery. Not here in this experimental space.

  “An exhibition like this is an interactive process,” she says, immediately seeing from Haraldur’s expression that her choice of words goes right against the grain. In his opinion terms like “interactive process” have nothing in common with art. She could kick herself.

  “We’ll find a way that’s acceptable to all,” she says at last, looking straight at Haraldur, who looks back at her angrily. In the end, he cannot keep silent.

  “Junk in the garage!” He looks at Jon and Hanna as if these words say it all, turns on his heel, and storms out. Agusta looks at Hanna.

  “Should I go after him?” she asks with a worried look, but Hanna shakes her head.

  “He’ll come around,” she says and smiles at Leifur. “He’ll see the light yet.”

  Leifur does not smile back. They are not on the same side. But Hanna sees the oppositions the exhibition will revolve around, and that pleases her. This incident confirms where these two are coming from, and that is no surprise to Hanna. It will be difficult to bridge the gap between these artists, but she is convinced that it will work, from the point of view of their artwork at least, although it is unlikely that it will spark a friendship between Leifur and Haraldur.

  Closing the computer that has been sitting open on the floor all the while, Anselma finally begins speaking in a nasal voice. From her experience with Dutch and German artists Hanna knows that the time has come to discuss the practicalities.

  “How is it with the town council?” asks Anselma in her slightly broken Icelandic. “Isn’t there yet another new committee for culture?”

  In the past year or so the civic authorities have repeatedly changed and so has the personnel on the various municipal bodies as a result. Hanna hears the familiar tone of resignation in Anselma’s voice, the weariness of someone who constantly sees problems instead of possibilities, but she doesn’t let it get to her. Anselma doesn’t know it yet, but thanks to her job in Amsterdam, Hanna is a past master at sitting on committees and fighting her corner. Anselma will soon come to realize this. Mentally moving into the resting position, Hanna smiles at her; she will take this parry lightly. There’s an almost tangible release of tension from the room following Haraldur’s exit, and she becomes even more determined to have him involved, come what may.