Nature at its most seductive by David Rosen

The stunning beauty of Iceland’s landscapes continues to inspire landscape photographers around the world. Two years ago, I planned a single visit to try and capture, in monochrome, some of its most dramatic waterfalls and seascapes. Three trips later and caught up within the ever-changing restrictions of Covid-19, I find myself obsessively longing to return yet again.

Single Sea Stack

It was 1982. I was 15 years old and had owned my Praktica SLR camera for a little over two years. I had just watched Blade Runner, directed by Ridley Scott, in my local cinema and my head was in turmoil. I had never seen such dramatic, intoxicating images. The power of black, the contre jour lighting, the visual tension. I became obsessed with trying to recreate what I had seen on the screen. Lacking both the technical skill and creative talent at that stage, I remained disappointed but undeterred. 45 years later, with my love for photography undimmed, I had developed an intimate relationship with Photoshop and was probably deserving of shares in Canon, due to my lifelong expenditure record in camera gear. However, encouragingly, I felt I was getting gradually closer to fulfilling my ambition of capturing and creating images that mirrored the drama and tension I had witnessed in Ridley Scott’s films.

Fast forward to 2018 and I am stepping off the plane at Keflavik airport for the first time. I had spent the past two months devouring almost every book on Amazon that described the landscape and locations of Iceland. I displayed a level of excitement and anticipation that I was told by friends was verging on the manic.

Within minutes of leaving the airport, I realised that my overzealous excitement was well founded. It sounds clichéd but there is something about the quality of light in Iceland that imbues almost every half decent landscape scene with a sense of drama and mystery.

Gullfoss

Gullfoss is just over two hours out of Keflavik airport and forms part of Iceland’s golden circle. I arrived at Gullfoss just before sunset and found myself in the company of an American photographer and with some gorgeous late evening light. If you look carefully you can just make him out at the water’s edge in the photograph.

It is hard to describe the exhilaration of standing on the edge of Gullfoss. The spray of water was persistent and dense, high winds constantly threatened the equipment and a perilous, slippery plateau required continuous vigilance. Juggling my camera, tripod, filter systems and a makeshift waterproof covering felt like a Bear Grylls TV challenge. None of this mattered of course.

At the same time, a major shortfall in my trip planning became immediately apparent. Despite endless planning and my generous quantities of spare batteries and memory cards etc., I had not appreciated the scale of the challenge presented by the constant spray.

Imagine my predicament. A one to three-minute exposure time, with two 3ND filters needing a total re-wipe every 10-15 seconds. That’s a lot of lens wipes. I calculated that I had approximately three days’ supply. As darkness fell and I headed back to the car, I turned around to see my fellow photographer still shooting at the edge of the waterfall. It is this image that stays with me of Gullfoss, rather than perhaps the more dramatic ones taken at the waterfall’s edge.

As I lay in bed that night in my hotel, I pondered over my shots. The ones I had taken and those that I had missed. Late at night one can be one’s own worst critic. I realised that I had not considered the speed of the water or the dynamic range carefully enough, nor had I experimented sufficiently with my exposure times.

Had I allowed my overelaborate, long-exposure kit to dominate my thinking, rather than focusing on the various creative opportunities?

When faced with such overwhelming physical sensations as a waterfall capture, it is easy to lose sight of your goals as you struggle with the technical challenges of achieving the shots.

Tomorrow I would be at Skogafoss, one of the most beautiful waterfalls in Iceland. I was determined not to repeat my mistakes.

Returning to the southern ring road after leaving Gullfoss and after one hour driving eastwards towards Vik, I arrived at Skogafoss. Its impact was both visceral and immediate. The sheer power of the falls, the incalculable volume of water and the deafening roar of the falls were intoxicating.

During my research, I had seen countless identikit images of Skogafoss. Some were powerful, others less so. Legions of photographers had tried to capture Skogafoss, using both short and long exposures. However, intriguingly, most of the shots were taken from a reasonable distance. It was obvious. The closer you approached the falls, the greater the quantities of mist and spray. Skogafoss Long exposure shots from closeup looked nigh on impossible.

I had one idea I felt worth trying. I must have looked pretty ridiculous to any onlookers. My plan was this. Place my camera with all of its filters still attached to the tripod bundled under my coat. I would run towards the centre of Skogafoss, pull out the camera and tripod, try as fast as I could to focus and set up a 10 second exposure. Meanwhile, I would hold my coat over the whole setup, while getting soaked to the skin by the spray and mist.

The first three times were a disaster. Incorrect focus, camera shake and droplets on the filters were making the shot unachievable. I then had the idea of asking an amused onlooker to run into the falls with me to hold my coat as a makeshift umbrella. Meanwhile, I looked after setting up the equipment, composing the shot and giving the filters one final wipe dry.

I got lucky. On my second attempt I managed to steal a 10 second shot that was in focus, not blurred and by a miracle had three ND filters, all of which had somehow escaped the mist and spray.

Skogafoss

Vik Church

It is not just its waterfalls and landscapes that make Iceland an iconic destination. Its architecture, in particular its churches, offer themselves up as unique architectural subjects. One in particular had been on my mind for some time. Vik Church stands on the hillside behind the small town of Vik, close to the spectacular black sand beaches of southern Iceland.

In various cities, I had shot skyscrapers, derelict buildings, unusual courtyards and some famous landmarks. With the exception of St Paul’s, I had not spent a great deal of time and energy seeking out religious architecture.

The architecture of Iceland’s churches however, holds a unique mystical quality. No two churches in Iceland are similar. They are sometimes covered in black wooden cladding, such as the church at Budir. Other times, they are brightly coloured and quirky.

As I stood at the base of the hill staring up at the church, the uncharacteristically bright blue sky and sunshine stared down at me mockingly. I had wanted to capture Vik church surrounded in mist, as I had seen it captured several times during my location research.

I guess that, with perseverance, one has to eventually be lucky. I had prowled around the church for almost four hours, shooting it from every angle possible. Vik church, in the bright sunlight, did not cut it. I was running out of time and needed to get to my next destination before sundown. However, just as the temperature started to drop in the late afternoon, the mist made its appearance. It lasted for only 30 minutes. However, that was long enough for me to find the right position and fire off enough shots to be sure I had captured the ambiance I was looking for.

Sitting here in my study, pondering the upcoming winter and imagining what seems like another series of potential lockdowns, I sometimes stare at Vik Church framed on the wall in my study. I smile and count myself lucky. I have been fortunate enough to visit one of the most beautiful and striking places in the world.

Who knows? With the wonders of medical research, I may be there next year.

Black sand, surf and sunlight: Dyrholaey & Reynisfjara beaches

The next day, I took a 20-minute drive back along the coastal ring road, reaching the iconic black sands of Dyrholaey Beach.

This image was shot from above, during a sudden and unexpected change in the weather system. The light changed in minutes, revealing Dyrholaey’s long expanse of surf, highlighted against its inky black, sandy beach.

Whilst capturing this image was not particularly challenging, processing it to enable each of the various tones their own compositional role in the image was more difficult. When lighting conditions change almost by the minute, it is sometimes hard to envision a shot that you had been planning weeks before. This was definitely the case here. I had resigned myself to a bright, evenly-lit landscape scene. Yet, within minutes, shafts of sunlight were hitting the surf to create this almost abstract coastline image.

Dyrholaey Beach

Later that morning, I visited a second black sand location, Reynisfjara Beach, which is also an iconic, regularly photographed location. In this shot, I silhouetted the sea stacks and cliffs, using the light on the wet sand as patterned highlights. However many times I visit Iceland, and this was my third time, I never tire of this beach and its mystical fables.

I left Vik feeling that I would have to return again sometime in the near future.

Reynisfjar Beach

Vestrahorn mountain: Capturing Iceland’s mountainous jewel

Travelling up Iceland’s eastern coastline is a non-stop smorgasbord of visual stimulation. After leaving the relatively lush landscapes around Vik, you become aware of the increasingly desolate landscape shaped by thousands of years of volcanic activity.

Vestrahorn

Although on each of my three visits I left increasing amounts of time for this part of my journey, I always left feeling that I wished I could have stayed longer. I cannot recall how many hours I spent crouching under rickety bridges to capture yet another perspective of a river running through the black volcanic plateaus.

Vestrahorn is located at the end of a relatively minor road and, at first sight, appears somewhat underwhelming. After 20 minutes, you are treated to a small, but welcoming, café and the offer to explore remnants of Viking history.

By the time I reached Stokksnes, I had experienced the thrill of the glaciers, almost fallen overboard with excitement in Jokulsralon Lagoon and had to be rescued on Diamond Beach. I thought the highlights of the trip were drawing to a close. Then I reached Vestrahorn.

However, the real treat lies in the journey back when Vestrahorn comes fully into view, standing proudly in the black sand and surrounded by water pools. If you don’t own a seriously wideangle lens, you will find it hard to capture the majesty of Vestrahorn. Using a tilt and shift lens, I had to position myself at the far end of the beach, shoot multiple frames and stitch them together in postprocessing.

After many hours of experimenting with different viewpoints, I returned to the ring road, my memory cards full, batteries dead and the widest smile imaginable.

Sitting here at my desk in London I feel homesick. Not for my real home, the home of my family, friends and everything that feels familiar. But what I now feel has become my spiritual photographic home – Iceland. Having spent 35 years in healthcare and recently completed a PhD in health psychology, I have had to constantly put my photography life on hold. At last I can open my wings and embrace it with the passion that has always been there but so often had to take second place.

I am lucky enough to be able to share some of my love for photography, running workshops and giving lectures for the RPS Landscape SIG. This enables me to share some of my philosophies and techniques, my love of monochrome and my long exposure techniques.

I hope to meet more of you in the future and, in the meantime, you can find me at www.davidrosenphotography. com or on Instagram @ davidrosenphotography.