GeorgGudni.sml by Erika Lind Isaksen

GEORG GUDNI

THE MOUNTAIN 1

GEORG GUDNI

THE MOUNTAIN The Akureyri Art Museum’s retrospective on Georg Gudni, one of Iceland’s most important visual artists today, considers in depth the impressive oeuvre of an artist who almost single-handedly reinvented the genre of Icelandic landscape painting. While a growing number of artists in Iceland have embraced the school of painting that Gudni essentially created, the repercussions of his work are increasingly international, as it has captivated the attention of audiences and critics far and wide.

Whereas the exhibition treats Gudni’s paintings thematically, highlighting his approach to mountains, valleys, and horizons, this catalogue is essentially constructed in a chronological order with the aim of providing an accessible overview of Gudni’s evolution as an artist. In addition to reproductions of his work and installation photographs representing Gudni’s exhibitions over the past two decades, the catalogue includes an introduction and detailed analysis of Gudni’s early career written by Hannes Sigurdsson, Director of the Akureyri Art Museum, and a discussion of Gudni’s paintings in relation

to the Icelandic landscape tradition written

by art historian Adalsteinn Ingólfsson.

Cover: Untitled, 1999. Oil on canvas, 208 x 224 cm Back: Untitled,22002. Oil on canvas, 244 x 205 cm

GEORG GUDNI

THE MOUNTAIN

Pl. 1: Untitled, 1989, 23,5 x 121 cm

MIRRORING MIRRORS

HANNES SIGURDSSON

WHERE THE EARTH MEETS THE SKY

HANNES SIGURDSSON

109

EARTH, AIR AND WATER

139

ADALSTEINN INGÓLFSSON

ÁGRIP Á ÍSLENSKU SYNOPSIS IN ICELANDIC

162

LIST OF PLATES

166

EXHIBITION HISTORY & BIBLIOGRAPHY

174 ABOUT THE AUTHORS

GEORG GUDNI

THE MOUNTAIN EDITED BY HANNES SIGURDSSON

PREFACE

MIRRORING MIRRORS The Akureyri Art Museum’s summer 2007 retrospective on contemporary Icelandic landscape painter Georg Gudni offers a rare approach to the oeuvre and development of one of the most outstanding artists of his generation. Rather than presenting Gudni’s work chronologically, three galleries in the museum are devoted thematically to the artist’s main subjects: mountains, valleys, and horizons. This approach by theme rather than chronology can afford audiences — and artists themselves — the opportunity to see one painter’s maturation, so often considered as a linear development, through a new critical and aesthetic lens. In hindsight, Gudni did not spontaneously become a landscape painter as much as he consciously chose to become one, very much against the prevailing fashion of the time. The decision was made almost overnight, and as it happens I was an eyewitness to this decisive and lasting shift of interest. Since the early 60s, the avant-garde SÚM-movement had effectively banished painting and formalism, and especially landscape representation, as a subject for serious contemplation. As a movement, SÚM cultivated adherents and missionaries of minimalism, Fluxus and the conceptual — all artistic fashions which, in his early development, Gudni explored in his approach to the canvas. Gudni and I commenced our studies together in 1980 at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts, where we studied in the Department of Painting from 1981 to 1984. We were part of a new trend in art studies that saw a sharp rise in enrollment in the painting department and marked a veritable renaissance in Iceland of paint on canvas as a viable medium for novel and progressive artistic expression. Painting had just come back into vogue with drips, drizzles and splatters of the kind that once launched Abstract Expressionism into orbit with its peculiar resistance to form and pictorial narrative. Gudni began as a dripper, covering his art school canvases with splattered paint, but he did not take his cue from Jackson Pollock; rather his style derived from the so-called Neo-Expressionism of the early 1980s laced with

Pl. 9 2: Mt.Búrfell, 1986, diameter 36,5 cm

the transcultural and transhistorical currents that formally put an end to the era of Modernism. And whereas Pollock found his voice in the inchoate void, Gudni’s initially fumbling random droplets gradually took shape as a colossal, reflective lagoon, a curious mirror that at times appears as hard as glass and yet so fluid that we could walk right through it. To our astonishment, in 1983 an unassuming landscape appeared abruptly out of the chaos of primary forms and experimental dabbles. The landscapes emerged on the artist’s canvases, and then the artist himself emerged: Georg Gudni, landscape painter. Gudni was suddenly an old-fashioned painter in a land of conceptual abstraction, when artists and their public had become blasé about visual representation of nature and painting landscapes was regarded as altogether an obsolete idiom. But when Gudni unveiled his canvases, he was met with a spellbound audience, an art world struck not only by the artist’s skill and the visual and emotive power of his work but also ready to reconsider, with critical appreciation, the genre of Icelandic landscape painting — a genre Gudni would quickly resurrect and reinvent. Gudni’s 1985 solo exhibition at The Living Art Museum in Reykjavik marked a breakthrough and brought him instant recognition. Gudni was not only confronted with the promising beginnings of his personal success, but with the opportunity to use this recognition to usher in a whole new school of Icelandic landscape painting. Gudni had broken the ice and cleared the way into the painted landscape that had for over two decades been virtually sealed off as an intellectual no-man’s land by the SÚM-movement. During our time together as students at the Icelandic College of Art and Crafts, Gudni and I became close friends. Looking back, the unwavering strength of Gudni’s vision as an artist was probably one of the main reasons why I decided in 1985 to abandon the idea of becoming a painter for other pursuits. Our ways parted; I left for London, he went to Holland for further studies at the Jan van Eyck Akademie in Maastricht, and for the next decade we met only during brief vacations. Gudni’s farewell gift to me, so that I might always keep an eye on Iceland, was a small painting, 34 x 28 cm, executed on an old weather-beaten, heavyhanded window frame he had salvaged from the renovations of his father-in-law’s house. On the glass he painted in grey washes the lone promontory of Mt. Ingólfshöfdi (1984), seen from a distance through rain and an overcast, murky sky. (Pl.3) For a whole winter this was the only personal item to adorn my flat in Notting Hill, providing a soothing outlet when I was deluged with homesickness and nostalgia in the big city. As contradictory as it might appear, this is a reminder that such yearnings need not be attached to sun-drenched, opu-

lent memories — Baudelaire’s longing for luxe, calme et volupté that inspired the Matisse painting of that name — in order to be profoundly (and even universally) effective. I moved from London to San Francisco for my post-graduate studies and then in 1990 to New York, where I began independently curating exhibitions at Reykjavik’s Café Mokka, as zealously as if I had been given the task of directing a major art institute. Founded in 1958, Café Mokka has a venerable and unbroken tradition of showing art, and Gudni had become a volunteer in mounting many of the exhibitions. He participated in the Mokka Tapestry in 1992, a live performance by 35 contemporary Icelandic artists working sequentially on a 50 cm x 37 m canvas, one artist each day. And in April 1993, prior to Sally Mann’s unnerving show Immediate Family, he presented a solo exhibition of drawings. Two years later, in July 1995, Gudni again exhibited a selection of sketches under the title Terra Virgo. For this occasion, a pamphlet was issued containing original reflections on Gudni’s work by some of the most important poets in Iceland of several generations, including Sigurdur Pálsson, Matthías Johannessen and Elísabet Jökulsdóttir. The association of Gudni with such literary figures testifies to the status he had already reached as a cultural icon. In the late 1980s Gudni had been taken on by the Lars Bohman Gallery in Sweden and Bohman planned a solo exhibition of Gudni’s work in 1991. Gudni approached me to write an essay for the catalogue. This task was all the more daunting because at that time, international phone calls were a rare luxury, the latest technology was the fax machine and air mail was the primary means of long-distance communication. Gudni recently found a US-sized envelope containing faded sketches on fax paper and memos along with snapshots of works in progress and suggestions for reference material, testimony to the countless hours Gudni and I spent discussing his art. However, due to the economic recession of the early 1990s and numerous other reasons, the catalogue of Gudni’s paintings (along with my essay) was never published. An abbreviated version appeared in the Icelandic literary magazine Skírnir in 1994 — but the essay for the catalogue drifted into oblivion. In anticipation of this summer’s retrospective on Gudni at the Akureyri Art Museum, my original hope was that the eminent historian, critic, curator and expert on Northern Romanticism — Professor Robert Rosenblum of New York University — would write an introduction to the catalogue. Rosenblum had previously written an essay for the museum on my request about Peter McGough and David McDermott when they exhibited Hitler and the Homosexuals in January 2003. I thought Rosenblum’s examination through a wider

contextual lens of the Northern tradition would provide the proper artistic genealogy for Gudni’s painting. He agreed, and I mailed him the latest published monograph on Gudni. But I was never to hear from him again. Rosenblum had been battling cancer and died in December 2006, a great loss to the world of art and academia. At this point I accidentally stumbled on a copy of my old and quite forgotten essay, which I had entitled “Where the Earth Meets the Sky” more than fifteen years earlier. No digital copy, not even the outdated floppy disk on which it had once been saved, existed, only one paper copy that had to be scanned and manually corrected. But what of this essay — was it, like the lost floppy disk, obsolete? Rereading the text, I concluded that it still had its merits and decided to publish it verbatim. How to justify using this old essay remained nevertheless a bit of a quandary: while Gudni’s work has many of the qualities of timeless art, a text about art can only aspire to be a convincing interpretation that carries the date stamp of its authorship. It struck me that, unlike living oraganisms whose molecular structures are said to renew themselves every seven years, both art and text remain locked as fixed constellations. Rereading my essay so many years after it was written, I felt that however completely I had changed physically, the text — like the works of art it spoke of — remained the same. From that perspective, my own text reads — to cite the title of Viggo Mortensen’s 2005 monograph on Gudni — as “Strange Familiar.” Apart from serving the remnants of my vanity, publishing the essay now can be regarded as unveiling a time piece borne of historical circumstances. As such it says perhaps even more about the Zeitgeist than about the artist, or about this particular author. The essay is not so much defined by a nationalistic tenor as it is indicative of a need to carve out a territory of understanding for the reception of this type of art. In the early 1990s, Icelandic art was beginning to break out of its isolation, increasingly accessible to audiences on both sides of the Atlantic, and escalating as aesthetically competitive within the international art scene. Because “Icelandic art” was a relatively new commodity and concept to the world beyond the island, this approach was in a way unavoidable: while it is possible to take for granted a certain degree of historical, political and cultural knowledge of, for instance, France, Germany, or the United States, this is not the case for Iceland, a nation still penciled into the margins of our cultural textbooks. Background information on Iceland was — and still is — necessary in my essay because Gudni’s art, like that of many artists from this country, is very much rooted in the specific evolution of Icelandic landscape painting, as well as in the land itself.

Georg Gudni on the isle of Flatey in Breidafjördur, July 2005. Photo by Hannes Sigurdsson

The “time capsule effect” of the essay is therefore valuable in its own right, since to many non-Icelanders this is new information, critical to an understanding of Iceland at the start of the 21st century. And though “Where the Earth Meets the Sky” does not address Gudni’s career after 1992, it does trace his development from the earliest beginnings in some detail, contextualizing the artist and his work within the young history of Icelandic art (which, in terms of art as a profession, only dates back to 1900), as well as within the contemporary international art scene and the artist’s biography. Adalsteinn Ingólfsson, in his essay “Earth, Air and Water: Georg Gudni and the Icelandic Landscape Tradition,” carries the discussion of Gudni’s art forward from where my essay leaves off in 1992. Ingólfsson, undoubtedly the most prolific writer on Icelandic art and the editor of more collections than any other Icelandic art historian, has written on Gudni on a number of previous occasions. Focusing here on a select group of Gudni’s works, he explores their relation to the Icelandic landscape tradition that informs much of Gudni’s art, and about which Gudni is also very well informed. The interesting point to note here is the fact that Iceland, within a mere century, has established its own art historical tradition to

the extent that it can be quoted by subsequent generations of artists. Among the best known Icelandic landscape painters working today are Húbert Nói, Eggert Pétursson, Arngunnur Ýr, Gudrún Kristjánsdóttir, Gudbjörg Lind, Tolli and Jónas Vidar, though many others follow in Gudni’s aesthetic footsteps. Photographer Páll Stefánsson, whose images of Iceland’s diverse landscape are now reaching audiences worldwide, began his career around the same time as Gudni when he started working for Atlantica and Iceland Review in 1982. The explication of Gudni’s technique and the formal analysis of his work in “Where the Earth Meets the Sky” strike a balance between a discussion of the landscape subjects on his canvases and an inquiry into the nature of perception that those subjects raise — in other words, how Gudni imbues his paintings with a subtle optical power of illusion that has made him the admired artist he is today. And the essay also speaks to the political role of landscape painting, so often passed over as devoid of any such content. Thus the catalogue, unlike the exhibition, is essentially constructed in a traditional chronological order with the aim of providing an accessible overview of Gudni’s evolution as an artist. The book focuses on his works on canvas, leaving out the plethora of watercolors, pencil drawings, charcoal sketches and photographs he has done over the years, which number in the thousands. Between the various chapters of the catalogue are also installation photos from Gudni’s many exhibitions that now span over two decades. What has changed in these fifteen years since the essay was originally written? Perhaps most importantly for our discussion of landscape, we should note that environmental concerns hardly existed in Iceland in the early 1990s. The economy, formerly almost exclusively reliant on the fishing industry to keep afloat, has become much more diversified today, and Iceland’s fishing quotas have been sold to private enterprise. A massive harnessing of energy and exhaustible natural resources has been taking place. There were no factories to speak of fifteen years ago, but now the countryside has been encroached upon by industry, with drastic changes to the landscape and the environment brought about by the construction of aluminum plants and the dams that provide them with hydroelectric energy. Tourism was also just taking off fifteen years ago, and with it grew internal, more self-conscious nationalistic sentiments then projected to the outside world to attract visitors to what is “special” and “unique” about Iceland. Those sentiments became, and are still to some extent, grounded in Iceland’s language but increasingly more so in its landscape. Though the country is far from being a provincial, pollution-free Edenic state, the fast-growing tourist industry has a vested interest in keeping this image intact as emblematic of the nation.

Pl. 153: Mt. Ingólfshöfdi, 1984, 34 x 28 cm

From abroad the country may seem a virgin territory of pure, unspoiled and sublime nature. In reality, large chunks of land have been sold to proponents of free enterprise since “Where the Earth Meets the Sky” was written. Not only the fishing grounds and vast tracts of land but also the banks, the national phone company and national television are now privately owned; public service, too, is commonly outsourced to various corporations. Besides attesting to the general influence of globalization, this widespread privatization has mentally programmed the way Icelanders view their landscape. The Icelandic landscape tradition is rooted in the early 20th century, spurred on by the struggle for political and economic independence. The main repositories for the sense of national unity and shared values and heritage were, on the one hand, the Icelandic language and on the other, the landscape. The land was the Icelanders’ common ground, both literally and figuratively. Most importantly, the land was the property of the people, and as such, an ideal visual symbol of nationalistic sentiments. Although Gudni’s art can be interpreted in more universal terms, these feelings still inform much of his output, as well as how his work is received and understood in Iceland. The discrepancy between these traditional values and the recent changes to how the land is owned, exploited and transformed do not seem to have dawned on the population at large, which has become more receptive to a supra-national interpretation of the land as a well-spring of economic prosperity for some and spiritual reunion with Mother Earth for others. This illustrates the artificiality of the notions we devise for our understanding of nature that fluctuate with the political and social climate of each epoch. In addition, the concept of Icelandic nationalism based on the long-cultivated mystique of an island inhabited by a united tribal family has become obsolete. Today, the nation’s demographics have been transformed by immigration, which was negligible two decades ago. The once strictly homogenous culture has become a full-blown heterogeneous society. Immigrants are indispensable in many sectors of the labor force and have contributed in positive ways to the social and cultural milieu of present day Iceland as well. But while so much national pride is intertwined with the Icelandic language, it is a very difficult language for new immigrants to master; on any given day in Reykjavik, native Icelanders dining at restaurants or buying a cup of coffee will be obliged to order in English. Thus it is the landscape that has remained the most resilient vestige of national identity and unity, a double mirror we hold both to ourselves and to the outside world, notwithstanding the irony that today, most Icelanders view the landscape through television and computer screens or car windows more than through direct immersion in nature.

Iceland has taken in much from abroad, but so too, Icelandic culture is being disseminated internationally, with the success of Icelandic musicians and artists, aspiring filmmakers, novelists, playwrights, and designers. Because Iceland has remained on the margins of the map for so long — and has been, in a sense, an Other — the country now must speak up for itself in the name of “Icelandic art” and “Icelandic artists.” But underlying this is a palpable current of self-awareness that does not necessarily want to be seen as nationalism. It is rather an introspective self-definition that is challenging what it means to be Icelandic, and whether “Icelandicness” has any intrinsic sociological or even Darwinian value to begin with. These questions have been underscored again and again during the past two decades. In the last fifteen years there have been more books and articles published in English on Icelandic artists than in all the time before. Those artists are exhibiting more frequently while receiving greater international acceptance, holding their ground as they paint, sculpt, direct, film, compose — and they have been increasingly gaining ground in the art market. The country is geographically isolated and still emerging from its resultant cultural isolation; in fact, the population of the entire country is small enough to hold in a few skyscrapers. Yet everything that is happening in Iceland — politically, socially, artistically, and otherwise — is relevant to and intertwined with the rest of the world. Big countries and established, ruling cultures can appreciate and evaluate themselves on their own terms. But a minority misguidedly feels it must continue to seek acceptance. Having been subjected as a colony to foreign rule and marginalized for centuries, Iceland cannot help but have retained such a minority complex, though the nation has now come into its own politically, economically, socially, and culturally — precisely when old values have rapidly begun to disintegrate into the new world order. Keeping this in mind, we are invited on a journey through each of Gudni’s landscapes, our own mental landscapes, and with him we see our reflections reflected time and again.

Beijing in April 2007 Hannes Sigurdsson, Director Akureyri Art Museum

Georg Gudni at his first one-person exhibition at The Living Art Museum in Reykjavik 1985 Previous spread: Georg Gudniâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work photographed at the Jan van Eyck Akademie in Maastricht 1987

Right: A “hologramatic” poem by artist Haraldur Jónsson, dedicated to Georg Gudni in 1991 and published by Bjartur in Haraldur’s book stundum alltaf (sometimes always), 1995. All the poems are presented in a rectangular format, as three-dimensional images. Translation: Hannes Sigurdsson.

The brightness comes from within he pastes it with a brush onto the canvas it takes the shape of air

with time in a light that

is neither vertical nor horizontal but multidirectional 23

WHERE THE EARTH MEETS THE SKY For me, photographs of landscape (urban or country) must be habitable, not visitable. This longing to inhabit... is fantasmatic, deriving from a kind of second sight which seems to bear me forward to a utopian time, or to carry me back to somewhere in myself... Looking at these landscapes of predilection, it is as if I were certain of having been there or of going there. Now Freud says of the maternal body that “there is no other place of which one can say with so much certainty that one has already been there.” Such then would be the essence of the landscape (chosen by desire): heimlich, awakening in me the Mother (and never the disturbing Mother). Roland Barthes. Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography, trans. R. Howard (New York: Hill & Wang, 1981)

I’m outside, standing or sitting on a stone. I look around, toward the horizon, at the amplitudes and the mountains. Some stand close by, others further away. Automatically, the mind starts roaming or perhaps gliding around. I go into the distance, into eternity, where the mountains have impenetrable tranquillity, where they cease being mountains and become aeriform. I enter and pass through them. What exists in the mountain exists also outside of it, and in the surrounding quietude both dread and gloom reside. And in the air all the thoughts of the world can be accommodated. Georg Gudni: from his sketchbook, dated January 8, 1989

As we face impending ecological collapse — the wholesale destruction of rainforests, accelerated depletion of the ozone layer, proliferation of nuclear waste sites, explosive increase in the amount of daily refuse from our throwaway society, and a general toxic erosion of the environment — artists on both sides of the Atlantic have come to embrace nature once again. And despite the great variety of work produced under this rubric, the way in which those issues have generally been tackled seems to indicate a common ground. Starting around the mid-80s and spurred on by the battle slogans of the “Save the Earth” movement, a large group of artists have taken to the so-called “green” approach, as demonstrated by such shows as “A Natural Order,” “About Nature,” and “The (Un)Making

Page 20: Pl. 4: Untitled, 1995, 185 x 200 cm Pl. 255: Untitled, 2002, 244 x 205 cm

Fig. 1: Thingvellir (1900) by Thórarinn B. Thorláksson. Oil on canvas, 57 x 81 cm Courtesy of The National Gallery of Iceland

of Nature.” More recent is “Allocations,” a Dutch exhibition of commissioned site works from Canadian, American and European artists questioning the relationship between nature and culture in a manner that underscores the international currency of this new revisionist outlook. As artists insist on directly confronting social and ecological problems, their work is clearly meant to alert us to the looming disaster — the prospect has unmistakably come to replace the dread of the A-bomb that defined the Cold War era. It is characterized by a strong sense of mission; a didactic stance apparently aimed at shocking the world to its senses through the use of images suggesting imminent future destruction.2 Whatever the means, these graphic sermons on the industrial abuse of nature, which run the gamut from the hysterical and nostalgic to the factually impassive, tend to flatten out the content into a single ethical punch line. The cause is just, no doubt. But by radically deflating the possibilities of meaning for the sake of explicitness, the artists rob the spectator of the democratic privilege of interpretation, and risk reducing the work to the level of propaganda. It is ironic, given the fight for animal rights and the crusade against pollution that has gone hand in hand with this defence, that “environmentally correct” art should have its roots in the early 60s — namely the Earthworks of artists like Walter De Maria, Michael Heizer and Robert Smithson. Sharing a similar attitude toward the landscape as Picasso, who declared that “nature

Pl. 6: Leira, 1983, 35 x 50 cm

Fig. 2: Georg Gudni holds one of his “triangle paintings” which he exhibited at The Living Art Museum in 1983

[existed] to be raped,”3 these artists invaded the fragile ecosystem of the American wasteland with bulldozers, explosives and pneumatic drills in an effort to broaden the canon of Minimalism and sap the myth of Nature. Smithson’s Spiral Jetty (1970), composed of more than 6000 tons of limestone and black basalt, gives an indication of the scale of some of these assaults. They reach a climax in the work of Heizer, who aggressively inquired: “Where the hell are all the artists? I mean we live in an age of obligation. We live in an age of 747 aircraft [and] the moon rocket.”4 In keeping with this proclamation, he repeatedly displaced thousands of tons of earth, of which the most notorious example is his Double Negative (1969-71), a work so vast that it can only properly be appreciated in its entirety from the vantage point of a helicopter. There were, of course, some notable exceptions to those monumental works, exemplified in the more humble and poetic environmental sculptures of Michael Singer and Alan Sonfist. But by and large, American artists in the late 60s and early 70s showed little reverence for the ecological sanctuaries of the rural landscape when it came to making their sweeping, attentiongrabbing statements.5 By contrast, it was sufficient for their European counterparts, such as David Nash, Hamish Fulton and Richard Long, to merely “touch the earth lightly”6 and make photo-graphic records of it.7 The striking difference between European and American Land Art, before it gave birth to a more unanimous concern, has usually been ascribed to geographical circumstances, since such massive undertakings would have been almost impossible on

Pl. 297: Mt. Orrustuhóll, 1983, 36 x 43 cm

Fig. 3: Mt. Keilir and the Sun, 1984. Pencil on paper, 10 x 10 cm

the far more densely populated Continent. Despite its rather obscure relationship with the commodity market, American Earthworks were clearly connected to the gallery system by an umbilical cord of gold, prompting Long later to remark that it was a “true capitalist art.”8 This unduly condensed (and overtly truncated) overview of the history of environmental art should prove helpful as we turn our attention to the works of Georg Gudni. As it happens, Gudni’s interest in the Icelandic wilderness coincides with a renewed enthusiasm on the part of artists from the other Nordic countries for their own respective landscapes — a view of nature that diverges significantly from environmentally-informed art elsewhere in Europe and America.9 The way in which the Scandinavians have generally chosen to approach the matter is not through installations, sculptures, or conceptual works of art, but through that most resilient of mediums, which has been so repeatedly declared dead: painting. This holds true, for example, for Silja Rantanen and Marika Mäkelä of Finland; Jon Arne Mogstad, Björn Sigurd Tufta and Olav Christopher Jenssen of Norway; Berit Jensen of Denmark; and Martin Engström, Rolf Hanson, Max M. Book, Hakan Rehnberg and Björn Wessmans of Sweden. It is to this generation that Georg Gudni belongs.10

Pl. 318: Ferningsskjaldbreidur, 1987, 80 x 80 cm

Fig. 4: Georg Gudni standing by Mt. Vestrahorn, 1984 Acrylic on paper, 190 x 200 cm

A couple of other things set it apart as well. Not having the requisite financial resources, or the desire to punch gigantic holes into their landscape, the Scandinavians never properly joined the Land Art movement of the 60s and 70s. Moreover, because Scandinavia — and Iceland in particular — is sparsely populated, with large tracts of uninhabitable land, the “dark Satanic mills” (to borrow a phrase from William Blake’s poem “Jerusalem”) have not yet managed to stain the rural areas to any significant extent. The ascent of landscape painting in Scandinavia does not therefore seem a response to the threatening contamination of the environment — as it is for artists whose environment is actually threatened — but is more probably a reaction against the hasty lifestyle of the urban milieu and the alienating effects of the mass media. Responding to the problem in the only way they can relate to, the Scandinavian landscapists share a Romantic vision and a sense of yearning after a kind of fusion of self and nature. 11 Because of this somewhat mystical longing to be united with nature, this aspiration to transcend the physical limitations of the canvas to become one with the landscape, much of contemporary Scandinavian painting comes across as apolitical. Or to put it differently: having sustained heavy blows from the conceptual art of the 60s and 70s — as well as from

Pl. 9: Mt. Háganga, 1985, 50 x 60 cm

the popular Marxist school of thought, which tends to regard all abstraction with suspicion — Nordic painters appear to have taken the position that the only true politics available today are “self-politics”; i.e. the best one can do is to stake out one’s own personal viewpoint and try to avoid joining the moralizing chorus. This admittedly may sound self-serving, a poor justification for disregarding social responsibility and indulging hedonistically in the enterprise of painting, until we consider how this may have come about. For both cultural and political reasons, it is rare to find nature and humanity treated as opposite terms in the history of Nordic art, contrary to examples from many other traditions. It could be argued that contemporary painting in Scandinavia thus looks nostalgically back to its own peculiar tradition in a fin-de-siècle spirit, as many of the artists seem preoccupied with the theme of synthesization. (American Earthworks and ecosystem-art has at least this in common: they construe Man and Nature as antitheses, forces that threaten one another. And much the same could be maintained about the rural promenades of Long and Fulton: the very act alludes strongly to the concept of the picturesque that has its origin in a period when gentry and peasantry, or culture and land were viewed as rigidly separate categories.)12 But there is more to it. While Nordic artists are generally well-versed in the latest international styles and currents (not the least Icelanders, who usually have studies from both home and abroad to their credit), there is a sense in which their stylistic patriotism can also be seen as a response to a disillusionment with the cultural and intellectual hegemony of America, France, Italy, Germany and England. As they become more steeped in the conventional wisdom of Postmodernism, these artists have seen less and less reason to follow the self-appointed leadership of those nations, which in any case has always excluded the Scandinavian’s “provincial” point of view. This is not a naive protest against the high priests of criticism and the policies of foreign museums, where Nordic art is usually badly presented,13 but a realisation that (art) history has always been contrived to suit certain interests, and that one’s own home turf may after all be just as fertile. It is also worth noting in this connection that in comparison to, say, Germany, France and America, the Scandinavian art market is rudimentary, and in Iceland virtually nonexistent, making the artists all the more insulated from the temptations of moral and political compromise. With this in mind, we may openly ask what it means to question the structural and functional aspects of industrial society in a work of art, and then to display it in a commercial gallery. (At least we should try to distinguish between artists who actually pose a serious challenge

3510: Glacier Snaefellsjökull, 1985-86, 140 x 200 cm Pl.

Pl. 11: Mt. Hestfjall, 1984, 30 x 150 cm

to accepted norms and those who profess to be dealing with corruption and depravity, whose work looks like social critique, when for all intents and purposes they are taking a luxurious ride along with and at the expense of the very consumer culture supposedly under attack.) Immersed in the fund-raising ideologies of the environmental protection business, one may moreover ask whether ecosystem-art is not riding on the coat-tails of capitalism.14 Without wanting to debunk the complex and important issues that have been raised by Marxist theory, feminism and the advocates of various advocacy groups (like the “Save the Earth” movement), we must question the utility of voicing opinions and preaching salvation in the name of some “invisible other”? Completely divested of the utopian values to which they have sworn allegiance, the political theories concocted by the intelligentsia have repeatedly failed to come up with workable solutions to the social and ecological dilemmas confronting us today, and are likely doomed to fail yet again. Apprehending that at the rock bottom of all politics lies selfhood (i.e. the biological individual or unity), Nordic painters appear to be begging that painting be left free from obligation to illustrate theories of deconstruction, structuralism and semiotics, and have refused to speak on behalf of others. Instead, they wish only to speak for themselves. Since Gudni’s landscape paintings follow an unusually tight and logical development, the genesis of which can be traced back to the time when he was a student at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts, it is probably best to approach his work in a fairly chronological manner. Art school is where one is initiated into the tricks of the trade, so to speak, and is encour-

aged to experiment with various idioms and techniques. And so it was with Gudni. Yet many of his earliest experiments appear in retrospect to tie almost uncannily into his mature work. Organized along the lines of the German Bauhaus, the curriculum of the College of Arts and Crafts is divided into one year of preparatory classes, including traditional instruction in drawing and perspective, and three years of specialized studies. Among the classes on offer when Gudni entered the school in 1980 was a seminar in morphology, entitled “Elementary Forms and Design,” taught by painter and scholar Hördur Ágústsson (b. 1922), a powerful spokesman for Concrete Art. At the time, the subject matter did not hold a particular attraction for Gudni, seeming to him yet another compulsory course where one was obliged to arrange squares, triangles and circles in an endless variety of configurations. But Hördur15 was not the sort to give up too easily on recalcitrant students. For him, art was not a matter of wanton pattern-making or doodling; it was a very serious business. Hördur encouraged his pupils to rid their works of the “dust of historiography,” as he called it, and focus on the act of looking. He also insisted that they restrict their palette exclusively to the use of black-white and the various tonal permutations thereof. Searching for that “minimum which expresses everything,”16 Hördur maintained that it is possible to imagine the world without colour, but not without some sort of form. These lessons, even if they did not make a great impression on Gudni at first, would soon find their place in his work. As elsewhere in Europe and the United States, painting was decidedly not a fashionable pursuit in Iceland during the 70s. The enrolment figures in the Department of Fine Art

Pl. 12: Mt. Ingólfshöfdi, 1985-86, 23 x 120 cm

bore testimony to this state of affairs. At the beginning of the 80s, however, the practice of applying pigment to a piece of canvas suddenly came back into vogue, due to the international promotion of Neo-Expressionism. In fact, Gudni belonged to the largest group that the department had seen for more than a decade. The atmosphere was laissez faire, and the students were permitted to experiment freely with different materials and methods, and encouraged to be uninhibited. Boldness of design and execution was the order of the day. The younger generation of teachers, who had taken the “New Wave” to heart — most notably Sigurdur Örlygsson, Helgi Thorgils Fridjónsson, Árni Páll Jóhannsson and Kjartan Magnússon — were instrumental in introducing the latest trends. Through art magazines, the class became acquainted with a whole constellation of painters, from the art icons of the 60s (Rauschenberg, Johns, Close et al.) to the new superstars of the 80s (Baselitz, Immendorf, Salle, Kirkeby and Kiefer, the latter of whom Gudni held in high esteem), as well as the Italian Transavantgardia, particularly Sandro Chia and Mimmo Palladino. The students’ work reflected this multitude of influences, revealed in a chaotic but very stylish blend of

dripping, splashing, spattering, smearing and other species of expressionist mark-making. A photograph taken of Gudni at work in the department in December 1982 shows him jokingly applying a very fine line to a huge piece of coarse sack-cloth that contains a veritable lexicon of expressionist brush strokes. (Fig. 14) As it turned out, this frolicsome gesture hints forebodingly at things to come. In 1983, Gudni participated in his first group exhibitions, entitled “Ungir myndlistarmenn” (Young Artists), and “Gullströndin Andar” (Breaths of the Golden Coast ), held at the Reykjavik Art Museum, Kjarvalsstadir. Organized by a loose association of artists, these exhibitions mark the formal comeback of painting in Iceland. The works Gudni displayed were all more or less done in the let-it-all-fly mode that characterized the department as a group. What this new breed of painters had in common was a certain swiftness of execution (a kind of Postmodern sprezzatura), agitated brush work, brilliant colour, frequent use of commercial lacquers and an avoidance of anything that smacked even vaguely of “the beautiful.” Although Gudni was no exception, he was quickly growing dissatisfied with the trend, finding it “superficial,” “insincere” and “empty.” It was in reaction to his own action-painting, to the arty-smarty repertoire of painterly tricks, which he was beginning to feel amounted to little more than nifty dabbling, that Gudni furtively executed his first landscape in February, 1983: a small conventional oil painting depicting a calm stream at the bottom of a fjord in the north-western part of Iceland called Vestfirdir. (Pl. 6) Compared to his previous drip work, this painting marks a quantum leap from contemporary baroque to mid-19th century academic painting, a move that prompted Gudni’s wife to think he had taken leave of his senses! The difference could hardly have been greater: the softly undulating forms of the landscape are rendered in finely Pl. 13: The Eminence of Öskjuhlid, 1986, 24 x 120 cm

Fig. 5: Glacier Eiríksjökull (1920) by Jón Stefánsson. Oil on canvas, 94 x 114 cm Courtesy of The National Gallery of Iceland

subdued colours, while the brook, smooth as a mirror, frictionlessly reflects the sky and the adjacent environment, thus integrating sky and earth into its watery surface. The whole scene, almost otherworldly in its eerie solitude (perhaps this could be dubbed “landscape solipsism”), bespeaks a profound tranquillity and an intense, disconcerting quietude. Despite being spellbound and strangely satisfied by the humble act of “copying” the landscape, Gudni immediately recoiled from it, humorously alluding to Robert Hughes’ popular TV series and explaining away his aversion as “The Shock of the New.” In the months that ensued, he continued along the same path, with the exception of a few paintings he executed during the summer, of Mt. Keilir (it literally means “cone”), Mt. Skjaldbreidur, Mt. Orrustuhóll (Pl. 7), and Glacier Snæfellsjökull (Pl. 10) — mountains which are all roughly triangular in form. By the autumn, he had returned to his previous occupation, adding circles and triangles to the mixture. Having thus retreated from the landscape for the second time, Gudni went on to show his new paintings together with the works of five other class-mates at the Living Art Museum. (Fig. 2) Shortly after the exhibition, while taking a seminar in watercolour, he started to paint a huge triangle that he intended to inscribe with

Pl. 14: Glacier Eiríksjökull, 1986, 140 x 150 cm

Fig. 6: Mt. Vestrahorn. Photo by Georg Gudni 1984

hundreds of smaller ones. But he lost heart and proceeded to rework the picture, planning to weld it together with Mt. Esja, which he could see from his studio window across the bay of Faxaflói. The project was a flop and Gudni abandoned it, but henceforward the mountain would predominate. This may all appear unnecessarily detailed. Yet as we are perhaps beginning to realize, Gudni was grappling with two seemingly contradictory artistic ethics — the geometrical (intellectual, rational, cognitive, relational, structural), which he adopted under the influence of Hördur, and the painterly (emotional, dreamy, organic, nonrelational, unstable), which can be traced to the impact of his younger teachers. What he did next was to subdue his brushwork and superimpose the primary geometrical forms he picked up from Hördur’s morphological seminar onto the underlying structure of the landscape; that is, he mapped a geometrical form onto the mountain and pruned it, as it were, to a correspondingly primary form). This is the constant, albeit elusive theme in his work, the structural threads of which — as we shall see — become gradually identified with the material fibre of the canvas itself. A pencil drawing from 1984, titled Mt. Keilir and the Sun, graphically brings home the point; a circle for the sun, a triangle presenting the mountain and a square betokening the frame of the picture. (Fig. 3) This kind of simplification, whereby the landscape is reduced to its “essential” geometry, typifies Gudni’s approach to the mountain and locates the for-

Pl. 4315: Mt. Thrihyrningur, 1986, 330 x 290 cm

Fig. 7: Mt. Hafursey, 1983, 80 x 60 cm. No longer extant

mal origins of his paintings not in Minimalism (as has sometimes been suggested in spite of the painterly figuration of his work18) but in the synthetic spatiality of Concretism.19 Nevertheless, circles, curves and triangles — isosceles, equilateral, obtuse — proliferate almost to the point of obsession. In the beginning, however, the mountains were less sharply delineated and the brush texture was more open, as can be seen in his ominous Kiefer-like rendering of Mt. Vestrahorn (1984). (Fig. 4) Compared to a photograph he took of it, Gudni has smoothed out the contours of this sinister-looking mountain and eliminated the details, thereby transforming it into a soft vibrating mass. (Fig. 6) The Swiss painter Helmut Federle, who was a guest lecturer in the department late in 1983, had a formative influence on Gudni in this regard by advocating a more systematic approach to subject matter, to compositional balance and to nuances of colour. Although it took Gudni some time to heed the advice, Federle’s distaste for everything he felt to be spurious, including accidental dripping and artfully discordant colour, left a lasting impression on the younger painter. Art should be a clear alternative to “the velocity of modern life,” Federle expounded to the class, insisting that it not focus ex-

Fig. 8: Upptyppingar. Photo by Georg Gudni, 1982

clusively on the transient qualities of stylistic appearances, but rather that it emphasize what he called the “spirituality” of the work.15 Impressed by what he saw as an uncompromising standard of integrity, Gudni also learned from Federle to observe carefully the way in which two forms or colours come together in the plane — a problem that has preoccupied him ever since. However, it would be misleading to imply that Gudni’s landscape paintings were limited to or derived from formalistic concerns alone. As a matter of fact, it is the other way around. Based on a close scrutiny of natural phenomena, his art springs from an intimate experience of the wilderness and as such is fundamentally empirical. In other words, the formal appearance of his paintings only function to the degree that it helps him address certain aspects of the actual landscape, such that the dichotomy between the geometrical and the painterly gradually becomes identified with the “line” separating the sky from the earth. That line can never be ruled out, nor is it ever there merely for its own sake. II Since his early youth, Gudni has travelled extensively in his truck around the Icelandic countryside and climbed numerous glaciers with teams of scientists. This wanderlust is hardly surprising, as his father, a geologist, was in the habit of taking his family with him on his explorations to remote places in the wilderness from the time Gudni was about two years of age. Those journeys linger strongly in his childhood memories, always sunny and enveloped in calm and tranquillity. Gudni spent most of his adolescence, by contrast, in the city of Reykjavik. But the year before he was accepted into the College of Arts and Crafts, he held a parttime job doing river-flow measurements, usually in inaccessible regions, and regularly made short excursions to the countryside throughout his college years. In contrast to the sunny memories of his childhood, Gudni remembers the weather as almost invariably rainy whenever he was summoned to duty — pouring, drizzling or just foggy. This is hardly a romantic figment of his imagination. Iceland, like Ireland, is known for its percolating climate, and around glaciers like Vatnajökull and Mýrdalsjökull, where the artist made many of his flow measurements, annual rainfall can exceed over 4000 mm.21 His father had taken the family along on his expeditions only in the summer. Now Gudni got the opportunity to experience the country in all seasons and in nearly all conceivable weather conditions. This gave him a strong feeling for its true character and an opportunity to directly confront the elements. Standing up to his waist in a roaring river, in Wellington boots and a rain coat, Gudni was captivated by the strange sensation of being isolated, swallowed up by the tremendous din of

Pl.47 16: Dalur in Kjós, 1985, 110 x 200 cm

the powerful currents, a complex sound that would modulate between a soothing roar and then, like a stereo switched off at full blast, a deafening silence. Equally fascinating to him was the way the ubiquitous fog, which has an isolating effect similar to that of the ear-splitting torrents, integrates various features of the environment under its grey veil and makes it difficult to determine where the contour of a mountain ends and the sky takes over. Concurrent with those circumstances is a loss of feeling for depth, such that one perceives the landscape as building up rather than receding into space. An early landscape painting depicting Mt. Hafursey (1983; no longer extant) reflects his preoccupation with this state of weather and hints at what he has primarily been trying to accomplish in his work from the outset: the marriage of mind and matter. (Fig. 7) The picture, constructed of the trapezoid-like mountain and a semi-circular cloud overlapping it, describes a heavy rainfall. The shower, indicated by long vertical strips of colour, creates a perfunctory grid that serves to cement the fore-, middle-, and backgrounds together. What Gudni seems to have had in mind can better be understood by examining a photograph he took in the Upptyppingar mountain district, wherein a dark nimbus creates a translucent grey band of rain across the entire vista. (Fig. 8) The drizzle diminishes the tonal contrasts between the formal components of the scene and, consequently, one’s feeling for conventional depth. It has the effect of minimizing the particulars of the landscape by combining the different ruptures and layers into a single unity. Although Gudni has taken a plethora of slides and b/w prints of the Icelandic landscape since the early 80s, he does not use them as mimetic models for his paintings, but applies the camera instead to survey his surroundings and commits the image to memory. The many pencil and watercolour sketches he has made on his journeys also serve him toward similar ends. Swiftly executed to capture the ambience of a scene or to jot down a visual idea, the sketches function first and foremost as reminders — which is not to rob them of their status as independent works of art.22 A haunting apothegm, written by Gudni in 1987 for the Borealis 3 catalogue, casts his approach to nature into relief: “I paint the mountain with myself. I paint myself into the mountain. I paint the mountain from my mind.”23 The statement requires further elucidation. Among the intriguing perceptual consequences of rain and fog (the blurring of contours and the obliteration of details), is the way in which they de-territorialize the object — in our case a mountain — and render it insubstantial. Thus dematerialized, a mountain appears to abandon its own corporeal existence and, seemingly no longer subject to the laws

Pl. 17: Mt. Ernir, 1987, 220 x 240 cm

Pl. 18: Untitled, 1999, 135 x 165 cm

Pl. 19: Mt. Akrafjall and Skardsheidi, 1987, 10 x 50 cm

of gravity, metamorphoses into a kind of hovering phantom. Since those conditions also influence one’s ability to measure depth, it is almost impossible to judge the distance of an object, whether it is ten miles or several yards away; just in front of one’s nose or — not an uncommon hallucinatory experience — inside one’s head. By the same token, rain and fog constitute a tangible material bridge between oneself and the object, the mind and what it beholds; whereas in clear weather an intermediary space, a kind of vacuum or rift, is formed between the mental process of looking and the physically unknowable physicality of the object seen. In broad daylight and high visibility, one’s contemplation of an external body could thus be said to evaporate into air too thin. Nebulous ambiguity, on the other hand, allows the physical object and the mind — or rather, the thought that has been triggered by the vision thrust upon it — to meet on equal footing. For Gudni, it follows that the difference between thought and matter is one of degree rather than kind, that mental activity is

Pl. 20: Mt. Hestfjall, 1987-88, 53 x 371 cm

not a hollow, insubstantial sort of thing, a spirit or a ghost, but a transformative power, and therefore potentially concrete. We need only to contemplate our man-made environment to get the gist of what he is driving at, since it is easy to argue that a building is essentially an urge or desire that has been translated into thought, which in return, via an architectural design, has been translated again into solid matter. Seen in this light, fog is a mediatory substance that links brute matter to mind, into which the mountain has entered and become intermixed with thought in an instantaneous merger of perception, reflection, emotion, and memory.24 Because Iceland is extremely barren, devoid of large forests, and with wide stretches of black desert sands, it is well suited for this kind of meditation. Mt. Ingólfshöfdi (1984), executed on an old bedroom window, reveals Gudni’s desire to “paint himself into” a distant mountain through an ocean of fog. (Pl. 3) The promontory, which lies on the sandy coast of southern Iceland, is not easily accessible, and it was not until 1989 that Gudni managed to make the ascent. Less rain-soaked and more in line with the series of paintings he did during the next couple of years are Mt. Háganga (1985) and the slope Öskjuhlíd (1986), which are rendered in subtle tints of blue, green and yellow that glow softly behind a sombre veil of greys and blacks. (Pls. 9,13) These colours may hint at the sunny moments of his childhood memories, a rapturous echo from the past surreptitiously “awakening in [him] the Mother and never the disturbing Mother,” as Barthes puts it in his “Reflections on Photography” quoted at the beginning of the essay. Significantly, Gudni invariably focuses on a solitary mountain, cliff, or hill, surrounded by a desolate tract of land.25 In this way the painting, a pigmented membrane testifying to the reciprocal interchangeability of thought and substance, is transformed into a reflective mirror onto which the artist projects

Pl. 21: Untitled,1989, No I, 3 x 170 x 170 cm

his awareness. Given the deeply personal nature of Gudni’s art, one sometimes has the feeling when confronting his paintings of being stared at, calmly and contemplatively, as if one were looking at a conventional self-portrait; the mountain — the site of Gudni’s alter ego — “looks” at the viewer and into itself simultaneously. Another natural phenomenon to which Gudni became increasingly attracted is the blueness of the distant mountain (referred to in Icelandic as “blámóda” or blue-haze), as can be seen, for instance, in Mt. Hestfjall (1984) and Glacier Snæfellsjökull (1985-86). (Pls. 20,10) This phenomenon is distinctive to the northern hemisphere, becoming more pronounced the closer one gets to the Arctic Circle, a result of the angle at which sunlight enters the atmosphere. During mid-winter, when the phenomenon is most noticeable, the sun barely rises above the horizon around eleven, where it remains suspended for as few

as three hours before slowly descending in the early afternoon, leaving one with the peculiar sensation of having woken up to a prolonged period of dusk. In the absence of bright daylight, everything seems wrapped in an icy, transparent blanket of azure, as if an infinite number of ultra-fine blue glazes, ranging from pale to deep cobalt, had been applied over the environment. Perceptually, the effects are similar to those generated by fog, although the contours of the landscape may be somewhat easier to distinguish. It was this atmospheric peculiarity that now caught Gudniâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s undivided attention. Shortly before entering the Akademie Jan van Eyck in Holland, where he studied from 1985 to â&#x20AC;&#x2122;87, he started to shift his palette from primarily blacks and greys to dominant blues. Concomitant with this shift, his pictorial structures became more geometrical. He began to apply the paint systematically in

Fig. 9: A view across the fjord Ísafjardardjúp. Photo by Georg Gudni 1983

long, unbroken brush stokes, thereby creating a tight and measured weave of intertwining horizontal and vertical lines that replicate the weave of the fibre canvas. To get an idea of these changes, it is informative to compare Mt. Ingólfshöfdi of 1984 with a painting of the same mountain executed only a year later. Relatively loose brush work has given way to an organized, web-like structure and a clearly defined silhouette. (Pls. 3, 12) The formal adjustments he made during the time abroad can be even better appreciated by juxtaposing Mt. Hestfjall of 1984 with another painting he did of that subject in 1987-’88, the unusual format of which (ca. 0.5 x 5.00 meters) is reminiscent of the Viking tapestry style called refilsaumur (laid and couched work). (Pls. 11, 20) Rather than depicting the whole mountain, Gudni has selected its most characteristic feature — the long, gentle declivity — and exaggerated it by drawing a sharp diagonal line between the corners, thus dividing the picture into two isosceles triangles. A number of other important alterations took place while he resided abroad. Wanting his work to be soothing and comforting, not unlike Matisse who “dreamed of an art of balance, of purity and serenity,”26 Gudni radically slowed down the pace of his execution. Instead of applying the colours in a few layers, he unhurriedly and patiently built up hundreds of thin glazes, thus producing only about 6-8 large canvases a year, working full time as an artist. (In 1992, his production went down to four.) This was the price he felt he had to pay in order to capture something more permanent than the fleeting moment, something

Pl. 22: Edge, 1988-89, 230 x 140 cm

that had a sense of timelessness and immutability, capable of evoking whispered rhythms of eternity. His resolution to work “against” the Zeitgeist — against the frantic speed of modern society, against the manipulated and fractured version of the world served up by the media, against anxiety, pretentiousness and trivia — had little to do with trying to be “original,” which has in any case become an obsolete criterion of virtue. It does, however, have a good deal to do with such ideas as harmony and healing — words that admittedly sound a bit hollow because of the way in which they have been distorted through gratuitous repetition — and the wish to soothe the emotional forces that clash within the troubled Postmodern psyche. In striving to attain this goal, Gudni would ponder over each work for months on end, repainting them again and again until he felt that the mountain itself and the thoughts, feelings and memories he had of it were reconciled and firmly bonded together. Since he was away from home, he was forced to rely solely on his visual recollections of the sites he was painting, so that his work became in effect a compilation of jumbled memories of sun, fog, rain and snow, each layer, as it were, representing a different encounter with the mountain.27 What we are left with, then, are images of mountains that do not convey a particular time of day or state of weather, but the sum total of all the experience the artist has had of them, including the thoughts that were triggered in his mind during the long process of production. This might explain why the overall colour of his works is so indeterminate and sombre, their luminosity being a kind of mean value of day, night and the seasons of the year. Some of the paintings are so subtle as to seem monochromatic, like Mt. Hestfjall of 1987. This is not simply a single grey tone, but alternating layers of translucent washes of white and black, each one modifying the layers above and beneath it. Careful examination of areas in other paintings that are apparently “black” is rewarded with the discovery that they are in fact composed of innumerable coloured glazes. In a pamphlet issued on the occasion of a solo show at the Academy in 1986, Gudni succinctly summarized his working procedure: For some time now I have been painting landscapes, gradually limiting myself to mountains. Each painting focuses on a single mountain, the one whose name it bears, but I think in the final image a particular view of that mountain will become mixed with several others or with impressions of other mountains, and with my feelings and thinking about a mountain. I don’t make very complicated paintings. I like simplicity of form and colour, but I find it takes a long time for the painting to grow towards that simplicity and for me to build it up with many layers of paint. The image reaches maturity as my own thoughts and feelings grow; I don’t want my paintings to get ahead of me.28

Pl. 5923: Slope, 1988, diameter 200 cm

Fig. 10: The inlet Berufjördur. Photo by Georg Gudni 1983

While the mountain has not yet begun to lose the singularity of its identity to the extent that it would later, the old-fashioned nature of the handiwork, the many glazes and simple relations of colours, endow his paintings with an aura of archaism, making them seem as if they belonged to a different era. Indeed, Gudni greatly admires such masters as the 19th-century Dane Vilhelm Hammershöi (the lucid architectural structure and unassuming simplicity of means), William Turner (especially the atmospheric nuances of his watercolour works), and Pieter Bruegel the Elder, whose finesse and loving care strike a strong chord in Gudni. But even more than the rich, jewel-like texture and unshakeable compositional unity of which Bruegel is such a master, it was the unobtrusive, slightly obscure detail in the distant backgrounds of the paintings — miniature landscapes of mountains, woodlands and meadows, dotted with church spires, animals and toiling peasants — which mostly excited Gudni. The desire to ‘think himself into’ the mountains, to enter and pass through them, led Gudni to close in on Bruegel’s macrocosmic vistas step by step until, as in Mt. Ernir (1987), he had so immersed himself into the landscape that a single mountain consumed his entire field of vista. (Pl. 17) A Hogarthian ‘Line of Beauty’ snakes about the picture plane, suggesting what might be seen as a sloping mountainside and a steel-blue sky, each component rendered equally dense and substantial as its counterpart (earth and air, mind and matter, are given the same degree of presence). Yet, because of the disintegration of particulars, the image is highly ambiguous and could just as easily pass for a wavy coast line seen from a great height. Despite the structural equilibrium of the two shapes, this duality of proximity and distance, of figure and ground, create a “tension” which Gudni felt had to be resolved. Hence, he began searching for a pictorial solution to the standard antitheses of near and far,

Pl. 24: Untitled, 1989, No II, 4 x 190 x 136 cm

Pl. 25: Untitled, 1989, No. V, 240 x 260 cm

inside and outside, subjectivity and objectivity, emotion and rationality, memory and vision, hoping to integrate painter, painted and painting in a single plane where those binaries collapse as merely artificial linguistic oppositions. III As Slope (1988) and Mt. Akrafjall and Skardsheidi (1987) indicate, Gudni’s art remained in this state of telescopic fluctuation for the next year and a half. (Pls. 23,19) In Edge (1989), while focusing on yet another side of a mountain, he lowered the inclination of the slope bit by bit until it was completely levelled into a straight horizontal line, and he was left to face the unmitigated “horror” of the “fearful symmetry” (cf. a photograph taken across the inlet Isafjördur, Fig. 9). (Pl. 22) Incidentally, Edge is the last work to bear a (topographical) nametag. No longer dealing with a specific site, he began referring to his works generically as “The Mountain,” labelling them only with the year in which they were made followed by a Roman numeral. Still, the problem of how to shun the intersecting line and “heal the cut” remained. The idea of how this might be accomplished came to him when working on a large painting of Mt. Hjörleifshöfdi in 1988, which had to be divided into two equal parts in order to get it out of the studio: what Gudni did was to let the vertical edge of the cliff, depicted on the left side panel with a thin skyline above, coincide with the juncture of the two stretchers. In the early stages of the work, a low horizontal strip of land in the foreground ran across the two panels tying them visually together, but as the painting progressed, the promontory took over the entire field of the canvas, leaving the earth and the sky as two emphatically separate entities. The outcome is akin to the triptych Untitled 1989, No. I, which consists of blue, black and grey panels respectively. (Pl. 21) Another, more developed, example of this line of thought is Untitled 1989, No. II, which is graduated over the length of four door-size stretchers from a pale blue to a resonant indigo, nearly black. (Pl. 24) At this stage, one might think that the artist has relinquished his inspection of nature and settled for a purely abstracted version of it. But, as can be inferred from comparing No. II to a photograph Gudni took with a telescopic lens of the belt crags in the inlet Berufjördur, he was still very much occupied with translating visual facts about the landscape into his work. (Fig. 10) Looking into or out of a fjord, where the mountains erupt abruptly from the sea, one can observe how they become increasingly ethereal as they recede into the distance; that is to say, the further away the mountain is, the more it is obscured by the intervening air. Seen in this way, the panel on the far left in Untitled 1989, No. II could be viewed as containing matter and atmosphere (or “anti-matter”) in measured proportions, those in the centre being

Pl. 26: Untitled,1989, No. VI, 80 x 180 cm

an equal mixture of the two, whereas the one on the right presents an infinite material condensation and total darkness, a sort of black hole, if you will. More generally, the picture seems to be divided into dark (right) and light (left) halves. Rather than abstracting “The Mountain,” Gudni has zoomed in on it, cropping out the external contours that would otherwise have endowed it with a specific identity. The full implications of the intertwining vertical and horizontal brush strokes now come to the fore, as they constitute the binding structure that keeps air and matter locked together. Perhaps the most durable and emblematic icon of the Modernist tradition, the grid has repeatedly surfaced in 20th century art since pre-WW II Cubist painting, iterated by such venerable artists as Braque, Picasso, Mondrian, Agnes Martin, Jasper Johns, Brice Marden and Sol LeWitt. From the outset, as Rosalind Krauss has convincingly argued in her seminal essay on the history of the grid, the lattice has been the tool that painting has used to carve out a zone of exclusive visuality that literature and narrative cannot impinge upon. Continuing to generate iterations of itself, in what frequently amounts to little more than a formulaic rehashing of the pattern, this form, according to Krauss, “functions to declare the modernity of modern art,” Krauss propounds:

In the spatial sense [the temporal one being simply an emblem of modernity], the grid states the autonomy of the realm of art. Flattened, geometricized, ordered, it is antinatural, antimimetic, antireal. It is what art looks like when it turns its back on nature. In the flatness that results from its coordinates, the grid is the means of crowding out the dimensions of the real and replacing them with the lateral spread of a single surface. In the overall regularity of its organization, it is the result of not imitation, but of aesthetic decree... the relationships in the aesthetic field are shown by the grid to be in a world far apart and, with respect to natural objects, to be both prior and final.29

But this definition of the grid as resistant to discourse and development, besides being antimimetic and antinatural, stands in contradiction to the very existence of Gudni’s work, embedded as it is in representation, description, narrative and memory. Is he, then, the exception that proves the rule, or has he actually broken the rational silence of the grid? Now, obviously Gudni does not replicate the landscape in the strictest sense of that word, but his paintings are certainly not antireal either (if Realism can be said to possess a special claim to reality), and by no means can they be qualified as having “turned their back on nature.” While the vertical and horizontal strokes, spreading in all four cardinal directions ad infinitum, do not have a corresponding value as such in the world of physical objects, they can be identified in Gudni’s work with natural phenomena to a degree that appears unprecedented for this seemingly inflexible structure. On the more traditional level, the coordinates of the matrix are multiplied instances of the mountain, or the (edge of the) cliff, and the surrounding plains. But Gudni goes further by correlating the vertical axes with — in addition to the forms of the earth — the falling rain, which connects him, as we discussed earlier, both visually and physically (or “psychophysically”) to the mountain. To make this relationship more palpable, not merely symbolic, he increasingly diluted the paint with varnish, as if painting with watercolours, thereby merging, at yet another level, painted subject and the medium of painting itself. With the possible exception of Jasper Johns’ technique, normally the modular grid is mapped onto the canvas with a ruler. It is mechanical, anti-painterly, severe, authoritative, cool and eminently materialistic. In the works of all the painters listed above, the grid compartmentalizes and flattens the homogenous surface, “crowding out the dimensions of the real.” To inject into it a feeling of the organic and steer clear of these spatially reductive consequences, Gudni, by contrast, renders the vertical and horizontal lines by hand in extremely fine glazes so that they overlap in a way which makes it virtually impossible to separate them, or determine which ones are superimposed on the others. In declining to chop the space into measured sequences of vacuumized chambers, he manages to create

Pl. 27: Untitled,1990, No. IV, 200 x 140 cm

an illusion of tremendous depth while still honouring the Modernist canon of “exclusive visuality.” Looking at Gudni’s works, the spectator feels himself empowered with an X-ray ability to penetrate even the most solid of substances. At the same time, the heavy gloss resulting from the thick layers of varnish causes the internal dimensions of the painting to undergo a reversal in the surface layer, projecting them into the viewer’s space. The viewer, in turn, is the surface and thereby becomes an integral part of the work’s spatial breathing. As with the mountain enshrouded in mist, the image appears to abandon the stretcher and float towards the onlooker, colliding with his gaze at an indeterminate point between the actual painting and viewer’s position. While the problem of the “primordial split” would seem to have been solved by this new technique (erasing or concealing it through proliferation), Gudni nevertheless felt he needed to look the divisive line straight in the eye once again. Having relegated it to the edge of the canvas, he continued to paint diptychs, resurrecting the physical void between the two panels. But not wanting to leave the “wound” open, as in Untitled 1989, Nos. I and II (Pls. 21,24), he tried to bridge the interstices with his webbed brush texture, as if it were a magic carpet capable of transporting him to the “other side,” or a putty with which he could cover up the Nietzschean Abyss. In Untitled 1989, No. IV, he attempted to accomplish this by intensifying the saturation of the colours towards the juncture of the two paintings, letting the brown washes on the left panel glide into the translucent blanket of greens on the other side. In Untitled 1989, No. VI, the unmixed red and blue at the far ends of the work coalesce in the centre, locking the two panels together like fingers clasped in prayer. (Pl. 26) In an interview conducted on the occasion of a retrospective of his drawings in 1992, Gudni underlined this desire to link and coordinate every element of the picture: I strive very hard to unify things; verticals and horizontals, earth and sky, simplicity and complexity. The same can be said about my use of colour; I will perhaps try to make a colour dark but still keep it somehow bright or paint a blue which is also perhaps a yellow. I’m trying to weave all of this together so that it can never be unravelled, and that is part of the reason, I think, why I work so slowly.30

Because of his preoccupation with the bisecting line, Gudni’s work may remind one of some of the New York School painters, specifically Barnett Newman and Mark Rothko, and even Ad Reinhardt to some extent. The similarity, however, could be misleading if one forgets the profound differences in intention and point of departure. Newman’s slender vertical stripe is a dramatic symbol for the lone, Giacomettian figure crying out in the vast

Pl. 6928: Untitled,1991, No. I,150 x 150 cm

void of a single unmodulated color.31 Like the figure in Caspar David Friedrich’s celebrated Monk by the Sea (1809), Newman’s zip is more accurately a substitute for the viewer who is hopelessly separated from the (rest of the) universe and patently awestruck by the powers of the elements. And much the same could be said of Rothko; the disjointed, free-floating blocks of colour with their dissolving edges conjure up a comparable mood. In fact, the whole history of the sublime, from Friedrich to Newman, depends on this figure/ground relationship for its effects, on placing the human being in the form of a line or a figure against the backdrop of nature, of the world “out there.” Far from revelling in the existential crisis of separation, Gudni wants to do away with the notion of disjunction between himself and the landscape. The mountain as a visual and physical entity is territorialized in the painting, where the distinction between the signifier and the signified starts to break down. Moreover, it is primarily due to the refulgent cover of varnish that this dislocation of the mountain takes place. Despite the frequent claim about self-effacing experience in Rothko and Newman, the matte texture of their work constantly reminds the viewer of the gap that exists between him and the image, just as a mountain is “separated” from us on a clear, sunny day.32 Eschewing anything that might hint at drama or tragedy, the surface of Gudni’s paintings disembodies the spectator, and then re-embodies him in the ubiquitous “aura of the painting,” which appears to have left its place on the wall to meet us. But perhaps more importantly, neither Rothko nor Newman was occupied with nature per se, and as for Reinhardt, he was only interested in “Art-as-Art.” As Irving Sandler has pointed out, “Rothko came to believe that any reference to art or nature, because they were known, finite and limiting, conflicted with the idea of a universal, supernatural “Spirit of Myth.’”33 The philosophical premises of Color Field painting, which was born of his work, lay in the psychology of sensory experience, the visual interpretation of concepts, and not in sensory experience itself.34 Newman put his finger on something when he said: American artists are at home in the world of pure idea, in the meaning of abstract concepts, just as the European painter is at home in the world of cognitive objects and materials. And just as the European painter can transcend his objects to build a spiritual world, so the American transcends his abstract world to make that world real.35

To sum up, one might say that whereas the art of Rothko, Newman and Reinhardt stems from thinking and looking, with Gudni it is the other way around, it results from looking and thinking.36

Pl. 29: Untitled,1990, No. V, 200 x 140 cm

Fig. 11: Outside and Inside (1934) by Jóhannes S. Kjarval Oil on canvas, 83 x 103 cm. Private Collection

By the end of the 80s, Gudni returned to the single canvas. In Untitled 1990, No. V, we see dark vertical stripes, “reddened with ruddy gore,” rise up from the “netherworld” like columns of smoke and fire in a volcanic eruption, fusing gently with the soft verdures above in a splendid “Marriage of Heaven and Hell” (1990, No. IV is a variation of this theme). (Pls. 29, 27) As a result of these experiments, embodied in the triptych 1990, No. II (A, B, C), Gudni embarked on a new voyage in Untitled 1990, No. VII. (Pl. 30) The afterimage of the former panels, it seems, rather than the image as such, has been transposed into the latter. The grid, while still present, has become an ephemeral, kinetic structure replicating a heavy rainfall, and if it were not for the sense of fixity emanating from the paintings themselves, one might actually look for an umbrella. The large monolithic form slightly to the right throws the picture a bit off balance. Wanting greater stability, he tapered the “cliff ” of Untitled 1990, No. VIII into a stout central pillar. (Pl. 31) On either side of the glassy pillar, overlapping the white horizontal bands, one can just barely make out the angulated, greenish forms — between them something even more vaporous is present — of “disembodied” mountains. Given enough time to view it, one has the feeling of being enveloped by the glistening membrane. (Like Reinhardt’s “black” canvases, which require a significant amount of time from the viewer, these painting strongly resist reproduction and have to be experienced first-hand. They do not cry out for attention, but seduce the spectator with their eerie repose into a visual bog that gradually swallows him up.37)

Pl. 7330: Untitled, 1990, No. VII, 200 x 140 cm

Fig. 12: Dawn at Hornbjarg (1958-60) by Jón Stefánsson. Oil on canvas, 101 x 131 cm Courtesy of the Labour Union’s Art Gallery

To get an idea of the distance Gudni has travelled since he began painting the landscape, it is instructive to compare and contrast Mt. Orrustuhóll of 1983 with the sensuous Untitled 1991, No. I. (Pls. 7, 28) Formally, of course, they have little in common, but the colour scheme is nevertheless remarkably similar. Whereas in Mt. Orrustuhóll the tonalities are left relatively unmixed, each colour signifying in the manner of Realism the different natural elements of which the scene is composed, in Untitled 1991, No. I everything — sky, grass, snow, cliff, moss and lava — has dissolved and melted together. (This is not to imply that the latter painting is simply an abstract realization of the former). And yet, far from being an amorphous puddle, the picture is highly composed. First, Gudni painted the whole canvas in the colours of “cliff, grass, moss and lava” and then, on the left half of the canvas, he superimposed subtle glazes of white, alluding to snow and an overcast sky, which form a delicate edge. To combine the two halves, another transparent band of white runs horizontally across the canvas. The composition recalls the lovers blissfully caressing each other in Constantin Brancusi’s The Kiss (ca. 1911): heaven and earth, male and female, embrace harmoniously across the abominable void, not as separate entities but as two bodies of equal stature capable of penetrating the inner shells of one another and so are interchangeable. (The painting can be turned up side down without any harm being done to the pictorial organization or its balance.)

Pl. 31: Untitled, 1990, No. VIII, 200 x 140 cm

IV Even if Gudni was not particularly enthusiastic about Icelandic landscape painting when he began to draw on nature, some noteworthy parallels to it can be found in his work, as became evident later. In 1988, after receiving a favourable review at his first private show at the Living Art Museum three years earlier, Gudni was awarded the cultural prize of the Daily DV for having revitalized the tradition. Curiously, in spite of a massive literary heritage, Iceland’s visual arts culture did not properly take off as an academic discipline until around the beginning of the 20th century. When it did, painting was nearly exclusively geared towards depicting the landscape for the first four decades. The reason for those unusual circumstances seems clear; there were no institutions in the country that could breed or maintain this sort of artistic activity, nor was there any appreciation for the need of such support. However, by the late-19th century, things had begun to change for the better, as the nation desperately sought to sever colonial ties with Denmark and establish independence. Although the literature provided a suitable index for identity, the founding fathers had to cope with the problem of how to reconcile the inhabitants with their land, which had plagued the country with volcanic eruptions, unfruitful harvests and hard winters throughout the centuries, and confer on it the status befitting the locus of national pride and freedom. In this respect, the so-called National Poems proved indispensable for the cause by providing a highly edited image of the land. They described nature dressed up in its Sunday best, in terms of shining white glaciers, bountiful fields, golden fjords and majestic mountains of distant blue, a vision that the painters tuned into when they began to preach the virtues of Iceland’s scenery. Judging from the work produced in the first three decades by such pioneers as Thórarinn B. Thorláksson (1867-1924) and Ásgrímur Jónsson (1876-1958), one would never suspect that this landscape was prone to serious mood swings or that the wind speed could ever surpass three degrees on the Beaufort scale. To quell the nation’s animosity and fear of nature and introduce it to the landscape on new, less hostile grounds, these artists conciliated the environment and, rather than showing the volcanic eruptions, grey skies, rain, sleet and snow of actuality, they constructed a veritable Arcadia, a decidedly false one. In this land of liberty and uncompromising parliamentary rights, the painters depopulated their works in order to underline the notion that the country belonged to everyone, not merely a handful of landowners.38 Nor are there any fences or enclosures to be seen that would promulgate such a property relationship as, for instance, is frequently the case with 17th and 18th century English landscape painting, where the subtext of the works reads as a ratification of territorial ownership. Immersed in the perpetual quietude of

Pl. 7732: Untitled, 1991, 220 x 120 cm

a cloudless mid-summer’s night, the landscapes of Thórarinn and Ásgrímur are usually devoid of any human traces and coated with the warm hues of a setting sun. (Aside from Ásgrímur’s illustrations to the Icelandic folk tales, there are a few noteworthy exceptions to this rule.) During the Great Depression, the theme of virgin nature continued to dominate Iceland’s artistic output, but by this time it had acquired a graver appearance in accordance with the economic hardship oppressing the nation. While Thórarinn and Ásgrímur seldom ventured outside the immediate vicinity of habitation, the chief representatives of this period, Jón Stefánsson (1881-1963) and Jóhannes S. Kjarval (1885-1972), began to explore the wilderness in all its raw glory. Acknowledging some of its fundamental characteristics, these artists left the soft meadows and copses to paint grim and desolate places and a more faithful rendering of the climate.39 Kjarval, in particular, who liked to work around Thingvellir (the site of the parliament of the ancient Republic) as Thórarinn and Ásgrímur before him, brilliantly managed to reinforce the homogeneous reality by relocating the national selfidentity, not in cosy settlements beside still rivers and blue majestic mountains under benevolent sunny skies, but in moss and lava-fields, and in the more menacing aspects of the Icelandic landscape. These works, which opened the nation’s eyes to the strange beauty of lava just as Gudni seems to have introduced it to the aesthetics of rain and fog, have an uncanny ability to appear both abstract/symbolic and realistic, depending on how one wishes to see them. By virtue of this dualism, where the latter idiom came to signify the old social order and the former the rise of a new regime, the unprecedented popularity of Kjarval’s work, cutting across boundaries of class and lineage, helped to pave the way for Iceland’s transformation from a peasant community to an almost wholly developed heterogeneous bourgeois society. Finally, landscape painting broke off into wholesale abstraction after the Second World War, slowly fading into other concerns thereafter. Between 1965, the year in which the SÚMmovement (an affiliation of young artists) was established, and the early 80s, when Gudni took up painting the landscape, artists took little or no interest in their native scenery and it was mostly left to hobby painters to maintain the tradition. It is therefore perhaps understandable that Gudni, as an ambitious young artist, should have been hesitant in the beginning about the genre, since it had come to be regarded as obsolete among committed artists, more than a little beneath their dignity. But his activity proved to be contagious and shortly after the mid-80s, a large group of painters had followed suit, either concentrating exclusively on the landscape or incorporating it into their work as a means of broadening their

Pl. 33: Untitled, 1991, No. II. 30 x 30 cm

Pl. 34: Untitled, 1992, No. II, 130 x 230 cm

range of expression.40 Even if the subject does not monopolize the field of painting as it once did, it is still commands a vital and a healthy position in the Icelandic art scene today. Among the more interesting aspects of the Icelandic landscape tradition is the peculiar fact that the Romantic concept of the sublime, as defined in Edmund Burke’s Inquiry into the Origin of our ideas of the Sublime and the Beautiful (1757), never caught on and can arguably be demonstrated to be virtually absent from the tradition — this in a country where nature is at its most savage and awe-inspiring! There are no works to be found in the entire repertoire of this convention even remotely on a par, for instance, with Turner’s Hannibal and His Army Crossing the Alps (1812), Friedrich’s The Polar Sea (ca. 1824), Asher Brown Durand’s Kindred Spirits, (1849), John Martin’s The Great Day of His Wrath (1851-54), Albert Bierstadt’s Yosemite Valley, Glacier Point Trail (1875-80) or even Friedrich Edwin Church’s Cotopaxi, Ecuador (1862). Living in close combat with the pitiless elements of

nature for over a millennium, the pioneers evidently felt the need to suppress the dismal aspects of the environment in order to recolonise the country on an emotional level and reclaim it from the oppressive governance of the Danish Crown. In the process, the landscape was emptied of all references to the sublime — the terror, fear, gloom, solitude, vastness, and intimations of infinity — and was injected instead with its antithesis, the “beautiful” — smoothness, gentle curves, proximity and a homely, assuaging intimacy. This is in stark contrast, for example, to the cosmoramas of the Hudson River School that set about expanding the new frontiers to the west with truly “operatic landscapes,”41 where the human figure is utterly dwarfed by the vastness of its surrounding space. And yet the works of Church, Bierstadt and Thomas Cole bespeak a certain boldness and assurance in the face of the formidable power of God reincarnated in nature, the “stick-figure” used to measure his omnipotence having its roots as much in military map-making as any conventions that the school might innocently have adopted from the European offshoot of Romanticism.42 When art started to part ways with the church in the 18th century, the traditional dwelling place of the Deity was relocated to the wilderness, and the Icelandic pioneers participated in this cosmic change of address. Iceland’s deity was not a vengeful Supreme Being leading a Great Nation to ever larger and more lucrative conquests of land in the name of law, order and cultural superiority, but a benign and forgiving Father slipping under the outward appearance of nature to pacify the elements and protect his people against extrinsic forces. The disparity between the Hudson River School and early Icelandic landscape painting, in terms of ambience, scale and manner of execution, could be likened to that between a Book of Hours, which the devotee contemplates in the privacy of his home, and the High Mass of the Roman Catholic Church. In that respect, the only real affinities between American and Icelandic painting of the period lie in the small-scale, intimate works of the Luminists Fitz Hugh Lane, John F. Kensett and Martin Johnson Heade.43 When the time came for the image of the landscape to be updated during the Great Depression, its countenance took on an earnest, yet reassuringly emphatic grimace, without the signifying content of the referent being modified or altered in any fundamental way. Indeed, the persistent absence of the sublime from the Icelandic landscape tradition — the fact that it does not show up where we would expect it to reach its most exuberant dimensions — prompts one to speculate whether there is some grain of truth to be found, after all, in Wilhelm Worringer’s dubious and once much-celebrated essay Abstraktion und Einfühlung (1908), in which he attempts, with some measure of nationalistic fervour, to draw a basic distinction between Northern and Southern art as it expresses itself in the outlook

on nature. Worringer holds that the South, blessed with mild climate and fertile soil, has generated an artistic volition that fearlessly explores the features of the external world and the ontological relationship of things in a nonreductive, mimetic fashion. The “primitive” people of the North, by comparison, subjected to harsh and turbulent weather, retreat instinctively into codified and elementary abstraction, tending toward exclusive rendering of single forms in an effort to suppress spatial representation: Whereas the precondition for the urge to empathy is a happy pantheistic relationship of confidence between man and the phenomena of the external world, the urge to abstraction is the outcome of a great inner unrest inspired in man by the phenomena of the outside world; in religious respect it corresponds to a strongly transcendental tinge to all notions. We might describe this state as an immense spiritual dread of space.44

This strict regulation of the landscape results, Worringer would seem to claim, in a kind of internalization of the environment, whereby the exterior world is turned “outside in” and viewed through a psychic device designed to alleviate agoraphobia, and to create out of the external confusion a manageable, knowable and a perfectly holistic entity. The outward, haphazard appearance of things, then, becomes regimented and rearranged according to the demands of an inner necessity that takes place a priori to any aesthetic considerations and can only be swayed, inflected or toned down, not radically altered, by the historical and political parameters within which the production of the work of art is inscribed. How those notions might impinge on the Icelandic landscape tradition can be inferred from Thórarinn’s picture of Thingvellir (1900), to which Gudni’s first landscape painting bears a strong resemblance, on both formal and affective levels. (Fig. 1, Pl. 6) In Thórarinn’s work, the ponies, farmstead and church — a token of common property — operate as surrogates for human presence, and the painting’s reflective enamelled surface encourages a certain diffusion of the viewer, almost nullifying his presence along with that of the artist. The mirroring lake, in which nature, man and God have been joined together in holy matrimony, echoes this dissolution of identity. Gudni’s painting has a similar impact on the spectator in all aspects save one: rather than being nullified, the artist/viewer becomes dispersed, because of the lack of any focal point in the work, over the field of the canvas through the active engagement of looking. Yet the meandering river, disappearing from sight behind a hill, indicates a wellspring somewhere beyond the mountain range on which the dispersed viewer can mentally focus and thereby

Pl. 35: Untitled, 1992, No. I. 130 x 230 cm

“dream” himself, so to speak, back together. More important, however, in connection to Worringer’s theories, is the feeling that Thórarinn’s painting — “almost abstract in its simplicity”45 — does not really function as a (Renaissance) window onto the external world, but rather onto the soul of the nation. Thórarinn would often simplify the topography in order to capture the aspirations of the people, inviting the viewer to bring the picture together, as it were, through his or her nationalistic sentiments. Although these emotions have largely faded away, the unity of Gudni’s painting depends similarly on the spectator’s participation. Presaging the spiritual doldrums that accompanied the Depression era, Jón Stefánsson’s painting of the Glacier Eiríksjökull (1920) opens upon a merciless and desolate scene. (Fig.5) An agglomeration of stones in the foreground, like a heap of mutilated bodies, is set against a bleak and cloudy sky, but in order to increase the tension and drama, the glacier has been positioned slightly off centre. The work, however, could hardly be categorized as sublime.

Pl. 36: Untitled, 1991, No. VII, 20 x 80 cm

First, the sculptural quality of the painting (the clouds are rendered equally palpable as the land) gives it a sense of calmness and stability not normally associated with the concept, undermining the allusion to the fragility of human the life that is central to the sublime. And secondly, it is confined to a narrow vista of land, which severely diminishes the notion of infinitude. Again we can find a correlative in Gudni’s oeuvre and again it diverges relatively little from its predecessor, as regards the basic pictorial structure. Instead of relegating it to the side, Gudni shows Glacier Eiríksjökull (1986) in the centre of the picture, the slopes of the glacier commencing their climb where they touch the sides of the frame. (Pl. 14) Highly geometricized and, in the spirit of Jón, giving the same amount of weight to the sky and ground, the image of the jökull, which is equipped with a resplendent cupola and looms mysteriously over the scene, looks like an alien spacecraft that has landed on the horizon line of the desert floor for an indeterminate period of residency. 46 Much of his recent output — where he seems temporarily to have reverted to the theme of Edge, though now “sewing” the partition tightly together with a multiplicity of horizontal brushstrokes as fine as any embroidery stitch, and bridging the colour from one side to the other — also possesses this eeriness. (e.g. Pls. 34, 35) There is an even a more intriguing parallel to be found between Gudni’s work and the symbolic lava paintings of Kjarval, although the correspondence may not be as evident as in the comparisons above. Like Jón, Kjarval avoided the panoramic by concentrating his vision microscopically into the immediate foreground, reducing the skyline to a thin stripe at the top of the canvas. The native legends are filled with tales about trolls that dwell high up in the mountains, ghosts roaming the countryside and hidden people called huldufólk who inhabit rocks, knolls and cliffs into which ordinary humans may occasionally be invited or taken by force, as the case may be. (Some Icelanders still believe in this legend, though Gudni is not among them.) Fascinated by those stories and always ready to please his countrymen with his idiosyncratic contrivances, Kjarval often included phantoms and huldufólk in his paintings, which was seen as a sign of their quintessential “Icelandic-ness.” Outside and Inside (1934) is a prime example — when examined, one can detect the shapes of at least three beings that have been thoroughly camouflaged to merge with their surroundings. (Fig. 11) The point here is that the distinction between man and nature, which may be regarded as a necessary condition for the idea of the sublime, has been evaded and the metaphysical barrier separating the outside from the inside has been removed. As with, say, Untitled 1990,

Pl. 8737: Untitled, 1990, 200 x 200 cm

Pl. 38: Untitled, 1997, 135 x 165 cm

No. VIII, the viewer is thus invited to identify with the landscape and become a part of it (the only difference being that in Gudni’s case, this identification is communicated through the oily skin of the painting reflecting the beholder; instead of identifying himself with nature by means of surrogates, he is able to do so through his own shadowy image, thereby becoming yet another ephemeral component of the work. However, it might be possible to maintain that Gudni is still stuck with one foot in the sublime, since, unlike Thórarinn, Jón and Kjarval, his abstract work elicits a feeling of boundlessness, which according to Kant forms the very essence of the sublime: For when apprehension has gone so far that the partial representations of sensuous intuition at first apprehended begin to vanish in the imagination, while this ever proceeds to the imagination of others, then it loses as much on one side as it gains on the other; and in comprehension there is a maximum beyond which it cannot go.47

Kant is referring, of course, to the discrepancy that arises from the ability to perceive the idea of totality on the one hand and the impossibility of ever coming to grips with it on the other, the contradiction between apprehension and comprehension which, for him, not even the imagination can overcome. Whether one agrees with Kant’s argument or not, Gudni has persisted in solving this dilemma by attempting to fuse thought and nature so that it is no longer necessary for the imagination to lose on one side as it gains on the other, whereby it reaches

its maximum distension and recoils with a psychological snap, “by which, however, a kind of emotional satisfaction is produced.” Nowhere is his longing to usurp the role of the sublime more evident than in Untitled 1991, No. II. Measuring 30 x 30 cm, it is roughly the size of a human skull. (It may be noted here that the scale of many of the paintings Gudni has done in the last three years is within a half a square meter). (Pl. 33) Seen from the standpoint of the huldufólk, through what appears to be a cave opening, the viewer could awaken to the discovery that he has been mentally abducted and placed inside a mountain, inside the “God-Head” itself, for the walls are translucent and there are no bounds to the vision. And the instant it is realized, he is wholly on the “other side,” in the heart of the solitary and all-encompassing domain of the “self-thinking thought.” This sensation may not last for long, but for a brief moment, the viewer has become the landscape. With each work Gudni has made, he has taken one step closer to the mountain, incorporating and consolidating his previous experience as if conducting some, great scientific experiment, until finally he seems to have come to inhabit it. In a sense, he has always been painting the same canvas, for each piece undergoes endless transformations – which remain permanently visible in the multitudinous variety of pentimenti before he feels the time has arrived to move on to the next one, at the point where nothing more can be added. As he has walked right up to the mountain and passed into it, metaphorically speaking, we should not be surprised to find him looking at the landscape in a reversed perspective, perhaps even through reversed time, like some being able to see simultaneously out of both the front and back of its head. 1991 marked a watershed in this respect, when suddenly a wide prospect appeared–black desert sands with undulating dunes in infinite succession and desolate valleys closed on both sides by mountain slopes that create a sort of tubular form that extends into the immense distance — as if, after millennia of dormancy, the “Mountain” had decided to open up its eyes. Untitled 1992, No. VII, showing what could be the mouth of a valley and a long vista, does not announce a change of subject, though it does mark a turning-point and new beginning, but rather it seems to sum up and condense all his previous efforts — the odd mountain has exploded into a plurality of others in a syncopated rhythm with the bisecting lines — in a single image. (Pl. 40) Indeed, this is not a painting of a particular valley as much as it is a retrospective view over the road that led him into the mountain, a purely cerebral picture, something like a brain scan indexing every picture he has done from the time he started on his journey. And as with brain scans, or the holographic charts of subglacial surfaces constructed by geologists to provide a bird’s eye view of the terrain, we seem to float within a tank of liquid and infinitely mutable sensations, where every notion and reflection has

become utterly transparent. (Gudni has said of this work that he was not attempting to paint a valley but an image of the air that fills it). (Fig. 13) “Transparent could be compared to reflecting” is a phrase belonging to Ludwig Wittgenstein, which Gudni’s painting might almost appear to illustrate. As one focuses on it, the various details of the scene successively melt away to the discovery of new ones, binding the notions that have been triggered into complex constellations of thought and meaning which, decomposing yet again, coalesce into an increased awareness of the whole. Untitled 1992, No. VII is only the first in the line of such reflections — Untitled 1992, No. XI is another example (Pl. 41) — and it is tempting, but questionable, to single it out as his best work to date. The Norwegian painter Christian Krogh (1852-1925) was of the opinion that while all “national art [was intrinsically] bad, all good art [was unavoidably] national.” In spite of some affinities with the Icelandic landscape tradition, Gudni has not made a conscious effort to cultivate those ties, and sharing Krogh’s aversion to parochialism, he would most certainly loathe the idea of his art being associated with any form of nationalism.48 His paintings are not so much of (Icelandic) mountains as they are about mountains (in general), about our elusive and ambivalent connection with nature. Like Cézanne, who advocated treating nature as a system based on “the cylinder, the sphere and the cone,”49 Gudni’s work, notwithstanding the stigma of apparent abstraction, locates the careful observation of the landscape within elemental geometry. Yet in his straightforward, matter-of-fact handling of the subject, the boundaries between image and symbol, theme and mode of expression appear to have been erased, or at any rate they have become extremely slippery and hard to define. Gudni is not interested in playing stylistic hard-ball and bouncing it against the walls of art history and the unique character of his paintings does not depend on a regime of negations and dogmatic conceptual closures, or on an erudite pictorial navigation through the shallow waters of subtle distinctions of meanings.50 In the same way that the external world constantly seems to elude our epistemological understanding, his images strongly resist conventional categorisation. What makes Gudni’s art so intriguing, as Gertrud Sandqvist has compellingly pointed out, is that he turns common notions of abstract painting upside down.51 Rather than defining its singularity by means of a grammar of binary oppositions, as being neither this nor that but something in between, he has managed to create a sort of visual Esperanto whereby the image can be comprehended as both abstract and realistic, geometric and painterly, specific and universal. This openness, along with the reflective nature of the support addressing the limitations of the body, has the effect of subduing the monadological presence of the artist as the author and producer of the work, while catering

Pl. 39: Untitled, 1992, 195 x 195 cm

Fig. 13: A three dimensional view of a subglacial Courtesy of Helgi Björnsson, Finnur Pálsson & Magnús T. Gudmundsson, 2000©

to the individual desires of the viewer, and in so doing it strives, as Gudni wrote in his diary, “to accommodate all the thoughts of the world” (which is not to say that they float in a “sea of meanings in which the spectators [can] fish at random”52). Perhaps there is no such thing as absolute objectivity, but if there were, Gudni has attempted to reach “those aspects of the human condition common to all”53 through the back door of profound subjectivity. Though he may be dealing with the truths of corporeal existence, one can scarcely fail to notice the quasi-religious and very personal nature of his art. Yet, while circumventing a purely materialistic view of the world, it does not endorse any supposition about the separation between mind and body/matter. Rejecting both transcendentalism and Cartesian dualism, it entails a philosophy of a third kind, for in it he appears to be advancing the idea that spirit equals substance, which is different from having “a ghost in the machine,” or saying that everything can be reduced to an arbitrary interplay of sub-atomic particles. Suffice it to iterate that the line separating the sky from the earth has been identified with a series of fissures in the internal landscape of our psychic make-up, the void between memory and reflection, sight and desire, and that for Gudni, painting has been a way of exorcising this “beast” — who knows, maybe there is chemical formula for it — lodged within us and a way of bridging the gap. To this purpose, he has riveted his gaze on the mountain, a traditional site of sacrifice and a prospective stairway to Heaven in all

religions, as he has endeavoured to purge away the appearances of contradiction. On a final note, let me briefly elaborate on some of the issues brought up in the introduction, namely about social responsibility and the function of art in the Postmodern era. Painting, particularly if it is abstract and courts the universal, has come to be regarded as stultifying, regressive and conservative, as an enemy of the future and its people, by those who lead the discussion and purport to uphold the true mission of the (Russian) vanguard.54 There is much to warrant this resentment. The auratic work of art, flirting with the biological mechanics of sensory experience, looks unrepentantly escapist and deplorably out of tune with the dire problems — social, economic, political, ecological — that harass the world today, and it is impossible not to associate the financial art boom of the 80s with the re-emergence of painting as the decade’s dominant art form. This frivolity in the face of a crisis has led to a widespread iconophobia inside the camp of the neo-left, which has deemed painting to be unable to cope with the situation and has denounced what it sees as the cult of the pictorial field. In the war it has waged against the medium of slow art, it has thrown everything smacking of spirituality, of introspection and catharsis, overboard, dismissing it as vague, unrealistic and mystifying, and focused instead on dismantling the institutions — so it claims — that nurse the enterprise. As much as Gudni’s mode of expression diverges from the brash and spontaneous paintings of the “New Wave” that were fast-cooked and made to order, I am not suggesting that he exists in a state of innocence because of the “primitive” market to which his works belong — though that, too, ties into the general thrust of this essay. The contemporary art scene is more complex and elusive than that. Determined to break up the solidified language of Modernism and create a new forum for deliberation, the anti-institutional left has simultaneously legitimated itself and fossilized into an institution of its own making. In place of the pedantic policies of the neo-conservatives, we have endless theorizing about language, power, duplication and gender, all carried out under the banner of moral rectitude. This is all very well, up to a point. However, such are the influences of Marxist theory, which used to be an underground force of resistance, that it has completely taken over the curriculum of art schools and Humanities departments, and has already proceeded to infiltrate the museum world.55 No less elitist and dogmatic than the ideology of the opposition, Marxist theory has in effect come to signal the other side of the coin in late capitalistic society, an exclusive club adhering to the cult of the code and the practice of demystification. What I am driving at, then, is this: there is something curious about a position that excludes certain media and entire fields of investigation because they do not conform to a pre-designed cultural agenda. Painting is neither inherently bad nor irresponsible, any more

than it is sterile and exhausted. Accountability, moreover, has nothing to do with following authoritarian dictates on what can be said or done, but rather it hinges on monitoring what becomes of one’s production: where does it go, how is it manipulated, what does it cost, who can use it? And besides, all art that receives critical attention — not only painting — is processed through the gallery system, or similar venues, where it is promoted, sold and bargained for, as Hans Haacke has so perceptively discussed.56 To paraphrase the contents of Meyer Schapiro’s well-known paper on the Social Bases of Art (1936), if we honestly wanted to liberate society and make everyone equal, we might as well begin by liberating the art scene by totally demolishing the hierarchy of “quality” that has helped to sustain the domination of those in power, intellectually no less than economically, throughout the history of humanity, and allow everyone to display their work in the “Museum” (which would then, naturally, cease to exist as we know it). Art, however, is said to reflect life. Quite apart from being an object of enlightenment and pleasure, it is a weapon of power, a tool of intimidation, a symbol of prestige. Provided that the global human condition can be ameliorated, we must be willing to sacrifice our professional careers, lay aside the pen and the brush if necessary, and concentrate on revolutionizing the social bases proper, through direct interaction (the arts, accordingly, should then spontaneously transform with it) — because a text about art is primarily a text about art, and art criticizing society in a gallery or a museum is first and foremost art criticizing society in a gallery or a museum. (One should also keep in mind that analysis is a form of control — “knowledge is power” — and not merely a method of deconstruction and subversion. Cultural criticism today is big business: it is an institution within the institution, a vocation which specializes in and revolves around the perpetual censuring of the system without ever posing any real challenge to it). Meanwhile, there is need for a more flexible and open type of art criticism that does not deem certain genres unworthy of consideration — landscape painting has continued to be ranked at the bottom in the international hierarchy of reputable subject matter — or regard spirituality as irrelevant and out of tune with reality.57 As we entered the 90s, new considerations and art forms (most notably installation, appropriation and photography) have come to predominate. Replacing the narcissistic self-exploration of the previous decade, the art currently most applauded proposes to unravel the falsehood of advertising and dispel the illusion of genius, even as it becomes itself transformed in the process into yet another consumer item with an unmistakable signature-style trademark. Yet for all the difference between angst-ridden Neo-Expressionism and the art of “impersonal” social dissection, both genres have in common an emphasis on infinite par-

Pl. 40: Untitled, 1992, No. VII, 170 x 180 cm

ticularization and therefore disintegration — the former dealing in individual emotions and the latter professing to dissect specific social relations. True spirituality, on the other hand, which at its most profound level approaches the anarchistic, aims for nothing less than a total unification. It threatens to destroy the hierarchy and merge everything harmoniously together, and the fact that it is regarded as a taboo by those who preside over the debate makes one wonder whether such propositions can only be taken seriously where the market does not have a stranglehold on artistic production. At any rate, both communism (before its downfall) and capitalism have found reasons to disclaim spiritual art as an intrinsic part of their secular systems. Even though Gudni belongs to an ‘artistic third-world country,’ it does not mean that his work is independent of the laws of the marketplace. After all, it exists in a state of objecthood and as such is no better or worse than any other tradable merchandise. It differs, however, from painting produced in the “international” headquarters of art in at least one important respect. Coming from a region that is not embroiled in deadly disputes about race and gender, Gudni has resolved to ponder the possibility of integration — to think about how the binary dualism between nature and culture, male and female, private and communal can be annihilated and joined together into a single entity. Contrary to Neo-Expressionism, the apparent “painterliness” of his work, does not signify the artist’s individuality. Avoiding the gesture of the (autobiographical) sign, the kind of formlessness associated with personal feelings, Gudni seems to have managed to liquidate his own presence by rigidly systematizing the brush work, thus elevating the personal to the supra-personal. And this — not privileging the inside as preferential, or the “soul” as being over and above the body — is one of the main strengths of his work. The tremendous sparseness of means with which Gudni has tackled his subject, the aspiration to fuse these oppositions in a single image, led some critics to think that he had already reached the end of the road of formal possibilities shortly after he began his career. Not only has he repeatedly proven them wrong, but his art has continued grow and deepen. Anti-heroic and far from having anything to do with pure formalism, Gudni’s art describes a silent and a humble visual quest for ultimate harmony and balance. And up to the present, it looks to be an auspicious journey.

New York, February-May 1992 Hannes Sigurdsson

Pl. 41: Untitled, 1992, No. XI, 195 x 195 cm

NOTES 1 “A Natural Order” was held at the Hudson River Museum of Worchester, Yonkers, N.Y., 27 May-12 August 1990, while “About Nature” took place at the Barbara Toll Gallery, New York, 20 January 10-February 1990. The “(Un)Making of Nature” was at the Whitney Museum, from 31 May-27 July, 1990. “Allocations” was presented at Zoetermeer near The Hague in the spring of 1992.

As an example of such ‘politically correct’ moralism one could name Vincent Shine’s Untitled (9/29/, 9/30, 10/1), 1990, Mark Dion’s and William Schefferine’s Wheelbarrows of Progress, 1990, and Peter Fend’s News Room, also from 1990. For an illuminating discussion of ecosystem art, ‘techno-sublime’ and ‘eco-agitprop,’ see Jan Avgikos’ “Green Piece,” Art Forum, April 1991, pp. 104110 (the works cited above are reproduced in that issue). 2

3 André Malraux. Picasso’s Mask, trans. June Guicharnaud and Jacques Guicharnaud (New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston, 1976), p. 55. 4 John Gruen: “Michael Heizer: ‘You might say that I’m in the Construction Business.”’ ARTnews 76, no. 10 (December 1977), p. 98. 5 It is fair to note that Smithson had begun to demonstrate a keen environmental concern in the last Earthworks he made shortly before his death in a plane crash in 1973. Contacting several mining companies, including Minerals Engineering Company of Denver and Hanna Coal Company, he offered a visual facelift to their reclamation activities. The project never came to fruition. See John Beardsley, Earthworks and Beyond: Contemporary art in the Landscape (New York: Abeville Press, 1989). 6 See Carol Hall: “Environmental Artists: Sources and Directions” in Art in the Land: A Critical Anthology of Environmental Art, edited by Alan Sonfist. (New York: E.P. Dutton, Inc., 1983), p. 51. 7 It may be noted here that Long has been attracted to the desolate aspects of the Icelandic wilderness, trekking around the country to create sculptures. 8 Quoted from Suzi Gablik’s Has Modernism Failed? (New York: Thames and Hudson, Inc., 1984), p. 44. See furthermore Graham Beal’s “Richard Long: The Simplicity of Walking, the Simplicity of Stones” in A Quiet Revolution: British Sculpture since 1965 (London: Thames and Hudson Ltd., 1987), pp. 110-114. 9 This commonality can be attributed to several factors, among the most important of which is a series of exhibitions surveying the history of late 19th and 20th century Scandinavian art–consisting primarily of landscape paintings — that toured around Europe and America in the 80s: “Scandinavia Today” (1982), “The Mystic North” (1984), “Dreams of a Summer Night” (1986) and “Northern Light: Northern Art at the Turn of the Century” (1988). In addition to attracting attention abroad, these exhibitions did much to inspire a renewed interest among Nordic artists in their own visual heritage and brought to light the artistic affinities of the

five nations. (Østein Hjort adumbrates the importance of those shows in his essay “Att tjäna konsten, att tjäna sitt levebröd,” and sees them as having ‘created a Nordic consciousness’. See Transparencia Azul: nordisk samtidskonst på väg till Latinamerika (a travelling exhibition that opened up in Sweden and toured to five SouthAmerican countries), February 23, 1991-February 5, 1992, p. 59). This collaboration may be traced to the support and scholarly guidance of the Nordic Arts Center in Sveaborg, Finland, which has done much to introduce Scandinavian artists amongst themselves in the last decade through various group projects, as well as promoting their work outside the member countries. After the Second World War, when the barriers between the nations were removed, Scandinavian artists felt the time had come to band together and break out of the isolation that had prevented them from entering the mainstream. Pledging to write a chapter in foreign relations, they founded The Association of Nordic Artists (NKF) in 1945. But because of lack of funding and common exhibition facilities, they accomplished little and the union was kept afloat by the voluntary work of a few idealists. All this changed when the Finnish state decided to donate a castle on the tiny island of Sveaborg, just outside Helsingfors, to the organization in 1973, although the Arts Center did not formally open until five years later. Since then, the NKF has primarily focused on hosting symposia, regulating the wage terms of its members, guarding them against copyright infringements and so forth, while the Arts Center has taken care of planning exhibitions and distributing information. The 80s has therefore been a decade of unprecedented communication between Nordic artists, and it is probable that few Icelanders of the younger generation have engaged more actively in it than Gudni. He has participated in “Ung Nordisk Konst” (1985), “Borealis” (1987), “Aurora” (1989), ‘Transparencia Azul” (1991-92) and “Il Paesaggio Culturale” (1992), a survey of Scandinavian landscape art from 1890–1990 – to name but a few of his joint Nordic shows. (For a complete listing of his group exhibitions, see back of the catalogue.) 10 All of these artists are directly or indirectly preoccupied with the landscape, and most of them paint in a purely abstract idiom. By comparison, newer figures working within this stylistic terrain outside Scandinavia — like Fiona Rae, Stephen Ellis, Richard Kalina, Jonathan Lasker, Moira Dryer and Cary Smith from America; Ian Davenport and Callum Tunes from Great Britain, and Stefan Mattes from Germany — have opted not to deal with unspoiled nature but with the claustrophobic confines of the metropolis. “In all of their art, a natural, open sense of space is replaced by the kind of flattened-out, compressed space you see when you look at television or a computer monitor. It’s a fundamentally urban vision — a man-made, crammed, artificial landscape in which things seem a little more charged up, but somehow a little more desolate.” Stephen Henry Madoff: “A New Lost Generation.” ARTnews, April, 1992, p. 76.

“In the U.S. we no longer engage in a dialogue of how nature constructs us,” Ashley Bickerton has noted, “but rather how we construct nature.” A conversation with Mark Dion, Galeries Magazine, Paris, October-November, 1989, p. 149.

12 John House, presenting ‘An Outside View’ of Scandinavian painting around the turn of the century, seems to be right on the mark when he observes: “This enriched version of nature–a form of nature mysticism–runs through Scandinavian painting at this period. Nature and the countryside are seen as the expression of the life-force and as the repository of essential values, in contrast to the shallowness and artificiality of urban civilization [...] The preoccupations of the earlier twentieth century have largely erased the Scandinavian painters from international view; and the criteria by which late nineteenth-century painting has been discussed are particularly inapplicable to it. Scandinavian painting cannot be treated in terms of polarities between academic and avant-garde; between nature and culture, between free brush and drawing. Indeed, the total inadequacy of these categories in this context should make us look again at many rooted assumptions about French art.” It would appear that Nordic art was becoming more relevant by the minute. See Dreams of a Summer Night, Arts Council of Great Britain, Hayward Gallery, London. 10 July - 5 October, 1986, p. 22 and p. 28. 13 It must be conceded that Nordic art has not been easily accessible and many of the best works belonging to the tradition are locked up in museums and small private collections. (The general public, not only millionaires, have long been the principal patrons.) All the same, foreign institutions have made few attempts to acquire examples of it.

17 When Gudni began attracting attention in Iceland, many of those who were keeping a watchful eye on him, myself included, wondered how he had arrived at painting mountains. It was as if the subject had suddenly sprung out of his head in a highly developed state. I have thus wanted to be scrupulous about his beginning to quench this curiosity but also to demonstrate how those early works bear upon his career as a whole.

A critic of The Daily DV, for instance, confounds Minimalism with the minimum conditions of Gudni’s work in a caustic review of a group show in which Gudni participated at the National Gallery of Iceland in 1988, accusing him of having stagnated into a routine run-of-the-mill production. See The Daily DV, Oct. 1988. 18

19 It is worth keeping in mind the following comment by Maaretta Jaukkuri: “[...] Concrete art reflects a desire to integrate art and the environment, art and the surrounding world. A comprehensive approach to the improvement of the world was the mark of both Soviet post-revolutionary art and the Concretists’ efforts during the post-war period. It is decidedly ironic that this mode of expression is often considered remote from reality.” Konkret i Norden, ibid., note 18, p. 7. 20 An interview by Theadora Vischer with Federle in the April issue of Flash Art, 1988 (pp. 68-71) provides an introduction to his theories.

In a thought-provoking article in the New York Times, entitled “Selling Out?: Pushed and Pulled, Environment Inc. is on the Defense,” Keith Schneider observes that the National Wildlife Federation, the Wilderness Society, the Sierra Club and Greenpeace have all issued layoffs in the last two years even if the directors are still commanding six-figure salaries. More gravely: “The financial problems have caused some of the organizations to turn for help to the same industrial polluters they have long criticized. The chairman of Waste Management Inc., which has racked up millions of dollars in environmental fines at its landfills and hazardous waste dumps, is a major contributor and sits on the board of the Wildlife Federation. The National Audubon Society’s acclaimed “World of Audubon” television documentaries are financed by the General Electric Company, which has been at the top of the Environmental Protection Agency’s list of companies with the most toxic waste sites.” (March 29, 1992, Section 4, pp.1 and 3). Jan Avgikos closes the circle when he remarks: “Ecosystem art aspires to reconcile the arcadian dream of the garden with the materialism of natural history but falls short of recuperative synthesis; more plausibly, it manages a liaison between corporate atrium greenhouse and museological display of natural habitats. “ Art Forum, ibid, note 2, p. 106.

21 Iceland 1986. Handbook published by the Central Bank of Iceland, Reykjavik 1987, p. 8.

Icelanders are usually called by their first names, since their surname simply refers to their father. Gudni, however, uses his middle name.

23 Borealis 3: Painting and the Metaphysical Landscape (a joint project between Nordic Arts Centre and Malmö Konsthall), Malmö Konsthall, 1987, p. 64

16 Hördur [was] an admirer of Victor Vasarely and once took an interview with him in his studio in Paris. See Vasarely by Victor Vasarely. Trans. by I. Mark Paris, (Great Britain: Phaidon Press Ltd., 1981), p, 5.

24 In one of the greatest works of speculative philosophy, Die Phänomenologie des Geistes (1807), Hegel charts what he regards as the three successive stages of self-awareness: consciousness (Bewusstsein), self-consciousness (Selbstbewusstsein) and

22 As it would have taken up too much space, his pencil and watercolour sketches have been left out of the discussion altogether. The concepts embedded in those works normally precede those found in the oil paintings, and they have a special force of their own. Perhaps more than his canvases, they are based on a firsthand inspection of the environment, even those that appear to have nothing to do with looking at the landscape. In the earliest sketches, Gudni often indicated on the drawings the location, date and time–sometimes to the minute–and in some cases the weather conditions, recalling Constable’s cloud studies. He soon gave up this practice, but the scrutiny continued. An equilateral triangle turned up-side-down with a line down the centre could, for instance, be taken as a river flowing down a mountain gulch. A sequence of watercolour brush strokes, starting off in a light blue at and ending in a darker colour, seems to be a meditation on the nature of the “fetters” which hold earth and sky in a reciprocal relationship. The result resembles Buddhist calligraphy, which the devotee creates as a part of a spiritual meditation.

Reason (Vernuft). The first of these phases addresses sensory apprehension of particular things; the sensible object as something external and heterogeneous unto itself. The intellect tries to come to terms with the hidden forces behind external appearances and resorts to the idea of laws. Yet they are not truly explicative since they are only a way of ordering and describing a phenomenon, not explaining it. The mind enters the next stage, that of self-consciousness, when it realizes that the explanation of sense-phenomena is the product of understanding itself, and this, in turn, involves the recognition of selfhood in oneself and others through desire. Ultimately the subject enters the level of pure Reason which is a synthesis of the two previous phases, consciousness and self-consciousness, objectivity and subjectivity: “The true self is no longer seen as an ideal from which the actual self is hopelessly alienated, but rather as the living core, so to speak, of the actual self, which expresses itself in and through its infinite manifestations... it sees Nature as the objective expression of infinite Spirit with which it is itself united.” (Friedrich Copleston, S.J. A History of Philosophy, Book Three, Volume VII. An Image Book, 1985, p. 185). It is this final phase with which Gudni has gradually been trying to come to terms in his work.

25 Since Gudni began painting the landscape, he has only concentrated on a few mountains, the most prominent ones being Mt. Kögunarhóll, Mt. Hekla, Mt. Háganga, Mt. Keilir, Mt. Orrustuhóll, Mt. Hestfjall, Mt. Ernir, Mt. Búrfell, Mt. Esja, Mt. Hvalfell, Mt. Skjaldbreidur, Mt. Akrafjall, Mt. Systrastapi, Mt. Thríhyrningur, Mt. Lodmundur, Mt. Pétursey, Mt. Helgafell, Mt. Stóri Dímon, Mt. Herdubreid, Glacier Eiríksjökull and Glacier Snaefellsjökull.

Herchel Chipp: Theories of Modern Art. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1968), p. 135.

Take this, for example, from Irving Sandler: “The passivity and impersonality of Rothko’s brush and reductive design are, on the one hand, ironic, as is all self-effacement. On the other hand, they suggest a desire on his part that the viewer vacate his active self. This can lead to cosmic identification, but that has a tragic dimension, for it evokes the ultimate loss of self–death.” The Triumph of American Painting: A History of Abstract Expressionism, Harper & Row, Publishers, 1970, p. 183. (See also the letter Rothko and Gottlieb wrote to the New York Times on June 7, 1943, in which they articulated their position on art and tragic myth. Republished in part in Mark Rothko by Diane Waldman. Thames and Hudson Ltd., London, 1978, p. 39). It is also worth here to keep in mind Max Kozloff ’s analysis of the cultural politics practised in America during the Cold War: “[...] In choosing primitive icons from many cultures, Southwest India or Imperial Roman, for example, they attempted to find “universal” symbols for their own alienation. Their art was suffused with totems of atavistic faith raised in protection of man against unknowable, afflicting nature [sic.].” (See note 12) (Max Kozloff: “American Painting during the Cold War,” reprinted in Pollock and After: The Critical Debate, edited by Francis Frascina. (London: Harper & Row Publishers, 1985), p.110. Sandler, op. cit., p. 179.

Some critics and art historians, it should be mentioned, see Abstract Expressionist painting as developing in concert with the propositions that can be found in Merleau-Ponty’s Phenomenology of Perception (1945); e.g. Michael Auping (“Beyond the Sublime,” published in Abstract Expressionism, London: Thames and Hudson Ltd., 1985, p. 148) and Donald Kuspit (“A Phenomenological Approach to Artistic Intention,” Art Forum, January, 1974). 34

In an article by Adalsteinn Ingólfsson, Gudni is quoted as saying this about his stay in Holland: “Being away from Iceland, I had to use my mind’s eye to see the mountains I wanted to paint, and I discovered that I actually wanted to paint them from memory, not from direct observation... The mountains had become a means to an end. I suppose I am really trying to come to terms with concepts like stillness, awe, even memory itself.” (Iceland Review: “Mountains of the Mind” 1-1989, Vol.25, p. 66). As soon as he returned to Iceland, he began to travel around the countryside again in his mountain truck.

35 Barnett Newman, “The Sublime is Now” Tiger’s Eye, 1.6. (Dec. 15 1948), p. 37.

The brochure, which was issued only in a few copies, is unpaginated. 28

“Grids,” published in Rosalind Krauss’ collection of her essays: The Originality of the AvantGarde and Other Modernist Myths. (Cambridge MA: MIT Press, 1985), pp. 9-10. 29

30 “Ég veit hvaðan ég kem, en ég veit ekki hvert ég er að fara.” (“I know where I’m coming from but I don’t know where I’m going.”) The Daily Morgunbladid, May 16, 1992.

The analogy between Newman’s zips and Giacometti’s sculptures is brought up in an article by Thomas Hess: “Barnett Newman and Alberto Giacometti,” Issue, New York, Spring 1985, p. 39.

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Just how misleading it can be to take things at a face value is demonstrated by the fact that Gudni was not even aware of Reinhardt’s work until the summer of 1991 after the “similarity” was pointed out to him following the great retrospective of his work at MoMA (May 30-Sept. 2, 1991). Some critics have furthermore pointed to a relationship with the German artist Günter Förg, although it is difficult to find a resemblance beyond the fact that both artists occasionally make polyptychs. (Cf. Pls. 19, 20) (see e.g. Günter Förg: Painting/Sculpture/Installation, Newport Harbor Art Museum, January 20 - April 2, 1989). Much more relevant than a comparison to Förg, whose surfaces are often sheets of unpainted lead or copper, is one with the early work of Brice Marden. Marden’s rich and subtle “monochrome” polyptychs are inspired, as are Gudni’s, by the spiritual contemplation of the natural world, and are carefully crafted. (See Klaus Kertess, Brice Marden: Paintings and Drawings, Abrams, New York, 1992). 36

37 The speed of contemporary life makes it difficult for most people to spend the time that is required to come to terms with a complex work of art. Listen to Peter Schjeldahl on “The Dearth of Painting”: “The problem with painting now as a living art is that fewer and fewer people know how to look at it — and, more gravely, why to look at it, with what appetites. Infinitely subtle painting is over-qualified for present gross visual uses. The recently educated

don’t look at anything with slow absorption; they read everything with cynical speed. Painting threatens to become another sign in a global empire of signs, signifying in its case old ideals of leisured cultivation.” (The Village Voice, March 31, 1992, p. 97.) The relatively small size of the work and absence of people is characteristic of the Icelandic landscape tradition, and in Gudni’s paintings no living thing, not so much as a blade of grass, is permitted to infringe upon the pictorial field. As if seen from the days of yore, when the country was untouched by the traces of men and livestock, Gudni has emptied the land of all human associations. The eminence Öskjuhlíd is a case in point. (Pl. 13) Some of the mountains Gudni has painted, like Mt. Esja and Mt. Keilir, are in the close vicinity of Reykjavik. But Öskjuhlíd, though one would never suspect it, is actually located in the heart of the city, crowned by four big water tanks that have recently been changed into a fancy revolving restaurant. Gudni has helped us to imagine what it must have looked like to the earliest Norwegian settlers, who arrived in Reykjavik around 874 A.D. 38

39 During the Depression, Ásgrímur began to loosen up his academic style. Confessing a great admiration for van Gogh, which he apparently felt he had to suppress because of the political climate at the time, he first ventured to describe the true climate of the country in the early 30s (e.g. The Road to Hafnarfjördur 1931: The Museum of Ásgrímur). He apparently decided, however, to wait another 15 years before he thought it safe to divulge his secret passion for volcanic eruptions. Those works are perhaps the closest we have to the idea of the sublime within the Icelandic landscape tradition. 40 In a symbolic gesture, which says much about the influence Gudni has had on his Icelandic colleagues, a former teacher at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts, Sigurdur Örlygsson, wrote “Hommage à Georg Gudni” on the invitation card he sent him on the occasion of a private exhibition at the Gallery Svart á hvítu in 1988. It must also be said that Gudni has had more than his share of emulators since the mid-1980s.

Barbara Novak, Nature and Culture: American Landscape and Painting, 1825-1875. (Oxford University Press, 1980), p. 32. 41

The material that these army excavations for increased Lebensraum yielded was to stimulate the entire profession of art makers, from the most conservative academicians, wanting to provide their history paintings with an added flair of reality, to the latest in avant-garde invention. Faced with the enormity of the American landscape, Thomas Pownall and other early military landscapists had found it necessary to reduce the figure almost to the level of surface incidents in order to get the scale correct. Similarly, R. Hood and G. Heriot introduced human figures to provide scale and focus. Those lessons were later assimilated in the works of better known artists. Consider, for instance, Cole’s solitary Indian figure in Kaaterskill Falls (1826) that occupies less than half a percentage of the picture. The viewer is at pains to empathize with this noble savage, at least without the aid of a powerful magnifying glass. Or Thomas Moran’s The Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone (1872), or even Bierstadt’s famous The Rocky Mountains, Lander’s Peak (1863). Those artists were situated on the borderline of the inaccessible, stretching the premises of 42

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civilization further out into the wilderness. Moreover, as much as those paintings suggested to the urbanites what to admire in nature, they also posited ways of how to go about harnessing it. The process of mapping the land inevitably involves the notion of possession and domination, and thus transposes the role of the menacing agent from nature to humanity. This process is still at work in America, although in a different and subtler form. 43 In a section on Germany and Scandinavia (pp. 255-273), Novak notes this resemblance: “It has long seemed to me that the similarities between Scandinavian and American art in the nineteenth century are rooted in the importance of each country’s vigorous folk art. The conceptual focus and impersonal hand of a strong folk tradition runs parallel to, and tempers, the more sophisticated tradition, in both America and Scandinavia.” (op. cit., p. 261.) 44 Wilhelm Worringer, Abstraction and Empathy, trans. M. Bullock (Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1963, pp. 3-25). The quote is taken from Modern Art and Modernism: A Critical Anthology, edited by F. Frascina and C. Harrison. (London: Harper and Row Publishers, 1982), p. 161. 45

Selma Jónsdóttir in Dreams of a Summer Night, op. cit., p. 281.

A certain formal affinity can also be found between Untitled, 1990, No. VII and Jón’s Dawn at Mt. Hornbjarg (1958-60), which depicts two ravens, their wings fully stretched in mid-air, and a cliff rising out of the sea, penetrating through layers of scuds and disappearing into the cloud coverage (compare Fig. 12 to Pl. 31). 46

47 Emmanuel Kant, The Critique of Judgement, trans. J.H. Bernard. Book II, New York: “Analytic of the Sublime,” p. 90. Another angle on the sublime that might need to be reckoned with is the implication “of nothing further happening” as Jean-François Lyotard has postulated. Discussing Burke’s treatise, he finds that the fundamental task of the sublime is to bear expressive witness to the inexpressible. Rather than actually showing “nothing,” the artist, in his attempt to assert everything, is forced to imply that “the sublime is like this,” and that, Lyotard suggests, is the real meaning of the concept (see “The Sublime and the Avant-Garde,” in The Lyotard Reader, ed. A. Benjamin, Cambridge, Mass.: Basil Blackwell, 1989, pp. 199-204). Lyotard seems to be working with Hegel’s category of pure being (Sein), which is wholly indeterminate, and thus the idea necessarily passes into the concept of not-being. Yet when we try to encompass this state in its totality, he argues, we find we are thinking of nothing at all. In other words, the mind passes from being to not-being and from not-being back to being again in much the same way as Kant defines the sublime. This dialectical antithesis, however, is only the first step on the road to pure being, according to Hegel, which is the synthesis of the two stages through the movement of becoming. The triad of Hegel’s logic, then, is made up of being, not-being, or “nothing,” and becoming. By not displaying a significant development or movement, repeatedly depicting the sublime in more or less the same formal terms with little variation, the Abstract Expressionists can hence be seen, as indeed Lyotard sees them, as stuck between being and not-being; i.e. with the symbol. For Gudni, by comparison, no single painting signifies the sublime in and of itself. Rather, it is always the next work that entails the ultimate reunion

(cf. his remark that [he] knew where [he] was coming from but did not know where [he] was going; The Daily Morgunbladid, op. cit., note 30). More precisely, the sublime, for Gudni, could be regarded the sum total of all his oeuvre, from the first landscape he painted to last one he will ever execute.

Guilbaut and Anne Wagner. Parachute (59), July-Sept. 1990, pp. 4-10). I was impressed with many of Wall’s replies, particularly as they pertain to the position of the spectator, and some of his concerns are obliquely reflected in this essay. Sandqvist, op.cit., p. 83.

“I have noticed that some people misunderstand what I’m doing, perhaps intentionally,” says Gudni. “I’m not knitting a new chapter to the Icelandic landscape tradition or underlining national values because I happen to be painting Icelandic mountains. I regard myself as a modern artist in the widest sense, not particularity as an “Icelandic” artist.” The Daily DV, March 5, 1988. 48

See H. Chipp, Theories of Modern Art, op. cit., p.19.

Taking it out of the context of the moment, those presently in charge of the welfare of “High Art” seem to have replaced the idea of formalism with the idea of play in an effort to update Greenberg’s theory of art. In his book A Fine Disregard: What makes Modern Art Modern (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1990), MoMA’s curator Kirk Varnedoe describes the avant-garde artist from the view-point of the inventor of rugby, “who with a fine disregard for the rules of football as played in his time, first took the ball in his hands and ran with it.” (p. 9) Yves-Alain Bois is also caught up with the notion of art-as-game, despite his associations with the Marxist circle. Writing the text that accompanied the Reinhardt retrospective in 1991, he notes that “[Reinhardt’s] chess playing is entirely directed against paintingas-chess-playing, against painting-as-struggle, against the against,” which is, of course, simply a way of tightening the rules of artistic chess playing (Ad Reinhardt, Rizzoli, New York, p. 14). Obfuscating and opaque, Bois does not deal with Reinhardt’s paintings per se at any length, nor does he attempt to put them into a social context, but focuses instead on seemingly endless conceptual differentiations. What we have here, in fact, is an instance of “theoretical formalism” par excellence, whereby the formal beauty of the critical argument is offered as a correlative for that of the art being discussed.

54 This kind of aversion to recent painting comes across clearly in some of the essays by Benjamin H. D. Buchloh, Hal Foster and Douglas Crimp, which is not to detract from their often powerful and persuasive arguments. See e.g. Crimp’s “The Art of Exhibition” republished in October: The First Decade, 1976-1986.” (Cambridge, Massachusetts: The MIT Press, , 1987), pp. 223-255. Or Foster’s Recodings: Art, Spectacle, Cultural Politics, (Seattle/ Washington: Bay Press, 1985).

Gertrud Sandqvist: Borderlines, Tema Celeste, 1992, p. 82. Sandqvist nicely couches her experience as a viewer, writing: “Gudni’s paintings have the same poetic qualities as the intervals between words. The simple curve, the shining gray traces of the brush, the blue night sky are all markers of the low-voiced understanding you can feel when walking with a friend in a landscape where the eye and the body become part of the unity of sky and mountain and water and grass, when the tone means much more than the word.” (trans. G. Florby) 51

Serge Guilbaut, in a response to a comment made by Jeff Wall, mistakenly supposing that his work might not be an attempt to eradicate ‘the love affair with the floating signifier’ as he had previously thought. (See “Representation, Suspicions and Critical Transparency: An interview with Jeff Wall” by T.J. Clark, Serge 52

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I speak here from my own experience of English and American universities. A similar shift of emphasis took place inside the art academy during last decade. In 1991 David Ross, the director of the Whitney Museum of American Art, hired one of the most prominent and adamant defenders of the Marxist position, Benjamin H. D. Buchloh, to head the curatorial studies program at the museum. A thorough inquiry into the intellectual camaraderie and mutual safeguarding of interests of those who make it their business to criticize art and society should therefore be in order. (A preliminary study has been made by Edward W. Said. See “Opponents, Audiences, Constituencies and Community” in Post Modern Culture, edited by Hal Foster. Pluto Press, 1983). 55

“As you know, more often than not it is by way of commercial galleries that one eventually gets invited to shows that attract larger audiences. Documenta, museum exhibitions, and so forth rarely present works that have not been, at least marginally, sanctioned by the art trading posts. The same is true for the art press. I am sure we would not be discussing this here today if I had not shown in commercial galleries. You would probably not know my work, and it might be very different or nonexistent... So, all in all, it is a messy situation, full of compromises.” See “A Conversation with Hans Haacke” by YvesAlain Bois, Douglas Crimp and Rosalind Krauss. Reprinted in October: The First Decade, op, cit., p. 195. 56

57 In “Critical Reflections,” Thomas Crow — referring to the texts of Buchloh and Charles Harrison as being “distinguished by a thoroughly appropriate elevation of tone and impersonal precision of language”— would seem to accede to this requirement to some degree when he observes: “But where art demands translation into a more vernacular idiom, refined vocabularies can suddenly appear ill-adapted to the job. This can even be the case with the home territory of high criticism. Some of the most successful work in an impeccably conceptual mode... has depended upon reference to specific, local histories and experience. A full account of their achievements will require a more demotic style of paraphrase than serious art writing has generally been able to accommodate” (Art Forum, May, 1992, p. 105).

Fig. 14: Georg Gudni working on a canvas in the Department of Painting at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts in December 1982

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Pl. 42: Untitled, 1996, 110 x 150 Previous spread: Galleri Lars Bohman, Stockholm 1991

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Pl. 43: Untitled, 1997, 135 x 165 cm

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EARTH, AIR AND WATER Georg Gudni and The Icelandic Landscape Tradition

Nature may be right in front of us, and beyond. It is above and below, even within us. But most of all it is found in time, always changeable and continuous. Never the same. And it will never be found in square frames. Halldór Laxness — The Atom Station, 1948

At the beginning of the 1990s painter Georg Gudni, by his own admission, found himself in something of a cul-de-sac, artistically speaking. In spite of a relatively short professional career — his work was first seen publicly in a 1983 group show — Gudni was by the early 90s repeatedly credited with having single-handedly revitalized the century-old and ailing tradition of Icelandic landscape painting. Hannes Sigurdsson has thoroughly documented Gudni’s early progress, which we might sum up here by saying that it was fuelled by two main impulses. The first was the desire common to every young artist to “make it new,” coupled with a dissatisfaction with the “new” options available to him. (“I found myself becoming increasingly bored looking at art magazines, reading critical texts... simply keeping up with and following... the latest trends”)1. The second was his deep love of the Icelandic landscape, nurtured through regular exposure to it from an early age. This went hand in hand with a dislike of the way this landscape had been “exhausted and over-exploited”2 by traditional painters. As a young art student Gudni was attracted to the earliest, virtually apprentice works by the country’s first professional landscape painters, Thórarinn B. Thorláksson and Ásgrímur Jónsson — small and unassuming pastoral scenes or softly painted studies of distant horizons — as well as primitive landscapes by amateur painters or itinerant naturalists such as Sveinn Pálsson. Significantly, Gudni was also impressed with the artless 19th-century watercolour renderings of the Icelandic landscape by “outsiders” untainted by local tradition, such as the Englishman Collingwood.

Pl. 44: Untitled, 2003, 280 x 200 cm 111

It is this strand of landscape painting that lies behind Mt. Orrustuhóll, Gudni’s seminal painting of 1983, executed while he was still in art school.(Pl. 7) It goes a long way towards the stark and monumental geometry of his later paintings, yet retains some of the details that we find in what we might call traditional landscapes, details that were to be relentlessly pruned from subsequent works. To arrive at a personal vision of the world through his beloved Icelandic landscape, Gudni needed to get away from it. It was during his two years of study in the Netherlands, at the Jan van Eyck Akademie in Maastricht, that the artist fully realized the implications of what he was doing. As early as 1987 he said in an interview with the present writer: Being away from Iceland, I had to use my mind’s eye to see the mountains I wanted to paint, and I discovered that I actually wanted to paint them from memory, not from direct observation. By the time I settled on a mountain, I had already decided on the “look” of the final picture, the shape of the canvas and so on. And in thinking about a particular mountain, I also found that it became mixed with impressions of other mountains and my felings about mountains in general. The mountains had become a means to an end. I suppose that I am really coming to terms with concepts like stillness, awe, even memory itself.3

I think it is fair to say that during those first heady years of his career, Gudni’s approach to the landscape of his native country was primarily conceptual; it was about ideas such as “stillness,” “awe,” “memory” and “empathy” rather than about natural landmarks with hallowed names such as Thingvellir or Mt. Skjaldbreidur. The main thrust of the Icelandic landscape tradition — grounded as it was on a combination of topography (an old Icelandic saying goes: Worthless is the nameless landscape), Cézannesque formalism and a dazzling (and to many unrealistic) chromaticism — was of little or no use to a painter wanting to go beyond the visible, except as something to rebel against. By 1990, Gudni’s idea-based approach to landscape had led him towards a radical realignment of its elements. In an astonishing painting such as Untitled of 1990 he would devote a whole canvas to the “blueness” of a given natural scene — Gudni himself referred to it as a “painting of air.” (Pl. 30) In a second Untitled of the same year he would divide the different colouristic attributes of a mountain into separate panels, which would then be yoked together as an “abstraction” or “concretization” of the mountain in question, depending on one’s point of view. (Pls. 30, 31, 33, 34) Unsurprisingly, when Gudni showed a number of these paintings at the Artek Gallery in Helsinki in 1992, the catalogue introduction by Michael Casey focused almost entirely on their place within the canon of contemporary abstract art.

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Pl. 45: Untitled, 1995, 170 x 180 cm

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In itself, the increasing abstraction of the natural motif in Gudni’s art was a logical development, given his idealizing cast of mind. Or, as he cogently explains to Kevin Power in a recent book on his work: “I think that landscape paintings and abstract paintings come from the same source — it’s a matter of forms and colors rather than telling stories. In my case, the works have always been very close to abstract or simple geometric forms.”4 Later on in the same interview Gudni goes into more detail: The move from landscape to geometry was something that just happened step by step, very naturally. I was painting these mountains, and little by little I got very interested in how one color touched the other or how the sky met the earth or the mountain. I was starting to look more closely at things and focusing on how earth (solid) and sky (air) came together; it started with some paintings of slopes and ended with a vertical line or two parts of the same size.5

There is no doubt that these paintings served their purpose, as far as Gudni was concerned. But, as he confessed to the present writer, they had brought him further than he was comfortable with from the landscape motifs that continued to invade his sketchbooks. In the wake of his numerous treks and travels in the Icelandic interior, Gudni discovered within himself a need to come to terms with landscapes qua landscapes, recollect what he felt when sketching and photographing them and

Pl. 46: Untitled, 1995, 75 x 200 cm

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Pl. 47: Untitled, 1996, 135 x 165 cm

[to] understand and discover how things were, what kind of light was present there at the time, or even if it is possible to see things like that... It’s not a path towards abstraction — I want to paint lyrically, but I also want to retain the rational element. It is a landscape, but I do not want you to connect to it in any way as something specific.6

Gudni’s “return” to actual landscape sources at the beginning of the 1990s also led him towards a re-evaluation of the Icelandic landscape tradition and eventually to a dialogue with it which has continued to the present day. It was a move that might even have been triggered, directly or indirectly, by two important exhibitions of Icelandic landscape painting that took place in 1989-90. One of them was the National Gallery’s retrospective of the work of Jón Stefánsson (1881-1962), who was to become increasingly important to Gudni as time went by. The other was a large exhibition of Icelandic art entitled Landscapes from a

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High Latitude, which travelled to five galleries throughout Britain in 1989-90. Though the exhibition was never shown in Iceland, Gudni, as the youngest artist included in it, would have been familiar with its premises. What distinguished this exhibition from all previous surveys of Icelandic landscape art was the conceptual or idea-based approach of the British curators and writers. For the first time the Icelandic landscape tradition was not presented in the form of an all-too-familiar Modernist litany: Paul Cézanne who begot Jón Stefánsson who begot Kristín Jónsdóttir etc., but rather as a species of Symbolism, as evidenced by the titles of the main essays in the catalogue — John Russell Taylor’s Symbolism: The Constant Strain in Icelandic Art, and Michael Tucker’s Not the land, but an Idea of a Land. In their essays both Taylor and Tucker make a strong case for considering the early work of Thorláksson, Ásgrímur Jónsson and even Jón Stefánsson in terms of its metaphysical aspect, its striving to come to terms with something supra naturam within Iceland’s extraordinary landscape. Until then earlier discussions of the Symbolist strain in Icelandic art had been limited to the early paintings of Jóhannes Kjarval and sculpture of Einar Jónsson. Three years earlier, Dreams of a Summer Night, an exhibition of largely Symbolist Scandinavian painting at the turn of the 20th century had been organized for the Hayward Gallery in London. Of Icelandic work, it included four paintings by Thorláksson, which were introduced only in the most general terms. And in the scholarly surveys of Scandinavian Symbolist art which accompanied the exhibition, there was no mention of Icelandic art or artists. In short, by 1990 Georg Gudni would have been encouraged to take a fresh look at the work of Thorláksson, Ásgrímur Jónsson, Jón Stefánsson and their followers, who dominated Icelandic art until the onset of World War II. It has been said that, by and large, theirs is a landscape without weather: it is as if rain, fog, frost and fierce winds were never a part of the Icelandic climate. In an essay on nature-based art in Iceland art historian Audur Ólafsdóttir maintains that: “The idealization of nature in the works of the pioneers of Icelandic art derives from the ideology of the nationalist, romantic campaign for independence.”7 More specifically, it served to remind Icelanders, with their deeply ingrained utilitarian view of nature, of the aesthetic separateness of their soon-to-be-independent country, on par with its cultural, historical and linguistic separateness. This idealization has parallels in the visions of nature propagated by the Icelandic Romantic poets during the early part of the 19th century. John Russell Taylor sees in this idealization of the Icelandic landscape a wishful thinking of sorts:

Pl. 48: Untitled, 2001, 200 x 180 cm 117

Icelandic colourists often maintain that there is nothing unrealistic about their colours, and it is just the ignorance of outsiders to suppose that the Icelandic scene is grim and uniformly dark-toned. There is of course a lot to that, but all the same, it is difficult not to conclude that the Icelanders’ penchant for brilliant colour-schemes is also partially a compensation and partially a symbolic device for imbuing what they see in front of them with the feeling they experience while seeing it — the light that never was on land or sea, indeed.8

It is instructive to compare the Icelandic “school” of landscape painting to the Canadian Group of Seven, which also sought to define itself in nationalist terms at a similar point in time, c. 1910-30. For the Canadians, the separate identity of their country was best served by an honest appraisal of its natural aspect under all circumstances. Like their ancestors, the French and English explorers who had traversed their vast country, they sallied forth to distant parts to bring back to civilization views of verdant valleys as well as boulder-strewn riverbeds, sunsets as well as thunderclouds and storms. The opposition the Canadian artists encountered centered on their honesty, as their landscapes were simply too harsh and chaotic for “cultured” tastes in Toronto or Ottawa.9 This charge was never levied against the Icelandic landscape pioneers — with good reason. If, as suggested at the outset, Georg Gudni revitalized the Icelandic landscape tradition, it was chiefly by transcending it, turn it into what art historian Martica Sawin has called “the vehicle for ‘intimations of immortality’ in the Wordsworthian sense,” adding that “to look into his light-suffused distances is to be led beyond nature towards a vision of eternity.”10 Paradoxically, this process involved not further idealization of the landscape, but rather a more pragmatic attitude towards it. In their nationalist fervor, most Icelandic landscape painters had concentrated on what Halldór Laxness called the “blessed summerland,” a few beauty spots with a “European” appeal in the southern and western part of Iceland, ignoring the country’s generally hostile climate, the desolate highlands, the barren lava fields, the impassable glacial rivers, the breakers incessantly pounding the shores. For Gudni, these were the essential aspects of the Icelandic landscape and defined the country’s “otherness,” what Roland Barthes might have called its “islandicité.” The artist was not the only one to hold this view, for the 1990s also saw the beginning of an ecological debate in Iceland that centered on government plans to locate hydroelectric stations in what its spokesmen called the “bleak and barren” and, by implication, “disposable” parts of the highlands. Critics of these plans argued that by so doing, heavy industry was encroaching on the country’s heartland. By now this has become an ongoing debate.

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Pl. 49: Untitled, 1996, 135 x 150 cm

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It should be mentioned that Gudni was not the first artist to rebel against the idealistic interpretation of the Icelandic landscape depicted by the pioneers of the genre. In the 1920s and early 1930s, shortly after Iceland gained commonwealth status within the Danish state, a few painters, led by Gudmundur Einarsson of Middal (1895-1963) protested against what they termed the “misappropriation” of the Icelandic landscape by their immediate predecessors. They felt the earlier style was too European and too “soft,” that it failed to do justice to the “harsh vitality” of the Icelandic natural scenery. They claimed that this “harshness” had, more than anything, shaped the breed of Icelanders and enabled them to survive centuries of inclement climate and natural disasters, presumably on the principle that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. The artistic response of this new generation of painters (which included Finnur Jónsson, Sveinn Thórarinsson and Ásgeir Bjarnthórsson) to the“ideal” landscape was to seek out and paint little-known and frankly unappealing places, scenes of natural disasters and views of Iceland in deepest winter. If Gudni can be said to belong to an Icelandic painterly tradition, however tangentially, this is probably it. In his search for essences Gudni went beyond topography and geological facts. His sketchbooks from the 1990s onwards continue to bear witness to his interest in the particular aspects of well-known mountains and promontories such as Ernir, Dímon, Lodmundur, Lómagnúpur, Pétursey, Botnssúlur, Vífilsfell, Mosfell et. al. But translated to canvas, these motifs lost their identifying details and names and reverted to archetypes. Gudni reduces the Icelandic landscape to three archetypes: the horizon, the vale and the mountain. At the same time he enters into a dialogue with those painters who laid the foundations of the prevailing vision of the Icelandic landscape: Thorláksson, Ásgrímur Jónsson, Jóhannes Kjarval and Jón Stefánsson. Gudni’s large paintings of horizons from the mid1990s onwards may be seen as a gloss on Thorláksson’s and Ásgrímur Jónsson’s early landscape panoramas, for instance Thorláksson’s Hekla picture of 1912 or Jónsson’s many watercolours from the Hornafjördur region. These paintings document the meeting of dramatic landscapes, outlined in pristine detail, and an equally dramatic cloudland, views made possible by Iceland’s unusual atmospheric conditions. Gudni’s paintings are more about what happens in the space between the viewer and the horizon, different degrees of transparency and different types of weather: winds, fog and rain. Moreover, emphasizing that these paintings are to be experienced by the whole body, not just the optical nerves, Gudni paints his natural scenes on the vertical scale, the human scale, rather than the horizontal.

Pl. 50: Untitled, 1997, 193 x 223 cm 121

Fig. 15: Curtains of Rain (1925-1964) by Jóhannes S. Kjarval Oil on canvas, 140 x 145 cm. Courtesy of Reykjavík Art Museum

Gudni was well aware that these paintings were a significant departure from the work of his predecessors, claiming that “painting rain and fog was a way of breaking with the landscape tradition.”11 Actually, there is one Icelandic landscape artist who does, on occasion, incorporate weather into his paintings, namely Kjarval. For most of his life Kjarval worked on an extraordinary painting entitled Curtains of Rain (1925-1964), which shows a semi-transparent veil of rain being drawn halfway across a lava landscape in the manner of a stage curtain. (Fig. 15) An untitled painting of Gudni’s from 1990 showing the remnants of vertical rain being swept across one half of the canvas, is surely a veiled tribute to Kjarval. (Pl. 51) But unlike Kjarval and his followers, Gudni has never been loath to explain his motives: Rain radically changes the landscape and the way in which we see it. First of all, I think that the rain materializes the air: in other words, a valley that appears empty is full when it starts to rain. The rain, in fact, isolates forms from the background so that you notice different landscapes in the rain than you do in clear weather. It simplifies everything, both color and forms. The rainy weather... provided me with something totally different from the sunny, pleasant weather conditions that one tends to see in landscape paintings. And even more to the point, the rain obscures and never tells the whole story so that you have to use your imagination to construct what is potentially there.12

Another important aspect of these paintings of the 1990s, fitting in with Gudni’s avoidance of specific details, is the anonymity of the motifs. They are inspired by places

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Pl. 51: Untitled, 1990, 50 x 61 cm

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Fig. 16: Lava (1949) by Jóhannes S. Kjarval. Oil on canvas, 121 x 120 cm Courtesy of Reykjavík Art Musuem

that are so unimportant that people hardly even bother to give them names. These are the places that you might well pass when you go from one destination to another, places that don’t have anything dramatic or beautiful about them. I think it is very interesting to work with something very ordinary and try to turn it into the opposite. Thus the viewer has nothing to focus on, but it remains a landscape. You find it familiar, but... you have to build the final picture in your head.13

This fits in with Gudni’s liking for other works by Kjarval. In his conversations with Kevin Powers he explains the attraction, for him, of a popular Kjarval painting such as the 1949 Lava: “ It is not specific as far as any precise definition of where it is but it is more a matter of what it is, what type of landscape it is, and that is something which has always been of interest to me.”14 (Fig. 16) Of another Kjarval painting, Bleikdalsá (ca. 1950-60) he says: I have started to like [it] in the last few years, I think mainly because it hardly has a subject at all: it is more like a snapshot of a light-colored or almost white stone in the middle of the canvas, with a river on one side and land on the other. And there is no sky, nothing at all. I feel that it is akin to my paintings of a landscape that can be found or seen in between places, in-between places of no interest.15 (Fig. 17)

Pl. 52: Untitled, 2004, 190 x 200 cm 125

Fig. 17: Bleikdalsá (1966) by Jóhannes S. Kjarval. Oil on canvas, 100 x 155 cm Courtesy of Reykjavík Art Musuem

If Gudni’s paintings of anonymous, in-between places set up a straightforward confrontation between man and unbounded space that we may choose to experience either physically or intellectually, his series of paintings of vales are altogether more complicated, structurally as well as intellectually. Yet they appear simple enough at first, and even second glance. They are either constructed as light-filled spaces between two mountainsides or as a series of intersecting valleys “as intricate as a cross-section through the clinker-built keel of longships,” to quote Jane Johnston.16 In both cases their effect is hypnotic. Gazing into the former, the spectators are slowly drawn towards their luminous centres, offering the infinite comfort of the womb and the possibility of a higher state of being. The viewer is reminded of that almost primordial first known landscape painting by an Icelandic artist, a composite construct like Gudni’s paintings, namely Sigurdur Gudmundsson’s 1872-3 backdrop of a valley landscape for Matthías Jochumson’s Romantic play about Icelandic outlaws. Like Gudni’s works, Gudmundsson’s painting speaks of the possibility of a safe haven, the Edenic state. (Fig. 18) This is probably why most people who see these paintings automatically think they recognize them. Or in the words of the artist: “[They] speak to something inside them.” 17 The experience can be catharthic; the present writer once witnessed a spectator breaking down in tears before one of Gudni’s vale paintings. With the intersecting valleys the viewing experience is more ordered, though the end result tends to be the same. Instead of being swallowed up in an instant, the spectator is brought in gradually, following the inwards-receding valleys, penetrating one layer of semi-transparent paint after another, ultimately reaching, not exactly a vanishing point, but a point of no return somewhere in the faraway mist.

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Pl. 53: Untitled, 2006, 240 x 220 cm

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Fig. 18: Backdrop for “The Outlaws” (1872-73) by Sigurdur Gudmundsson Courtesy of the National Museum of Iceland

But whereas the former category of vale painting is essentially about space and light and the way they come together to create transcendental experiences that liberate us from our humdrum lives, Gudni has greater ambitions for his paintings of intersecting valleys. In interviews he frequently talks about them as “rooms”: “I was interested in... how the mountain slopes on each side were like walls in a room.” 18 But to him these “rooms” were not only full of air and rain and fog, they became spaces “for thoughts and imagination and emotion,” and in that space “the waves of sound travel and thoughts are expressed and our imagination is free. And it is also a space for solitude.”19 The painting technique itself becomes instrumental in effecting this fusion between subject and painting: “When I returned to landscapes — specifically, valleys — I painted with horizontal and vertical brushstrokes... The brushstrokes, painted according to the shape of the canvas, were... rational and concentrated, weaving [together] the subject matter, the emotion, the time, the light, the memory and so on.”20 In his journey towards the centre of these paintings, the spectator thus travels through a space impregnated with feelings, memories and imagined sounds, not unlike Sigurdur Gudmundsson’s backdrop with its absent outlaws. Today we have become the outlaws, in need of a safe haven where our imagination can roam at will. For Gudni landscape is defined by the human presence, our possession of it, our presence in it and our thoughts about it. Everything else is topography, or “dead matter,” to quote his view of the painting of Ad Reinhardt.

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Pl. 54: Untitled, 1998, 70 x 80 cm

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Here he finds common ground with Kjarval, yet again. Though the latter was never oblivious to topography — for Kjarval place-names were part of the poetry of landscape — he regarded the “meaning” of a particular landscape as the sum of everything that had happened in or around it: the lives of the people who had lived in it from time immemorial and had colonized it through the fabrication of poetry and folktales about it as much as through land cultivation, the historical events that had taken place there, and finally the presence of the artist himself. Which is why we find familiar landscapes by Kjarval teeming with the unfamiliar: faces or men and women, ethereal beings flitting in and out of rock faces, stylized harps or boats, signifying perhaps poetry or the power of the imagination and finally reminders of the artist’s part in the colonization of the landscape in the form of painted palettes. In a discussion about his early work, Gudni says: “It all started with the mountain — for me the mountain was a symbol not only of landscape, but also, I think, of Iceland and the history of Icelandic art.”21 As Hannes Sigurdsson makes clear in his essay on the artist, these mountain paintings are about many things: not least history, myth and pathetic fallacy — the trope of depicting an empathetic resonance of nature with subjective human emotion. As for the archetypal paintings of single mountains that Gudni has produced since 1990 (until the present), they are characterized by a greater self-consciousness than before, as well as a greater consciousness of the image of the mountain in the history of Icelandic art. We find Gudni picking up on one of his early images of a mountain, for example the 1985 Ernir, but now the emblematic — and enigmatic — flatness has given way to a fuller, more three-dimensional depiction, as in the Untitled of 1999. This adds more reality to the painting, but paradoxically, it also adds to the mysterious aura of the mountain. Whereas Ernir or Thrídrangar (1986) loomed large in the form of huge backdrops or flat shadows, suggesting that “what we saw was what we saw,” to appropriate a famous saying of Frank Stella, a later painting like Untitled and others of the same ilk seem to suggest that something unexpected might be happening at the point where the flatlands meet the mountain, or along the edges of the mountain or even behind it, out of sight. These paintings tie in with an intriguing dialogue which Gudni has conducted with the paintings of one of his illustrious predecessors, Jón Stefánsson. Though Gudni was more drawn to the work of Thorláksson and Ásgrímur Jónsson during the early part of his career, he always had grudging respect for Stefánsson. In the wake of the abovementioned reappraisal of Stefánsson’s work in the early 1990s, whereby his numerous

Pl. 55: Untitled, 1994, 150 x 170 cm 131

Pl. 57: Untitled, 1998, 193 x 223.5 cm

studies of dark and gloomy mountains in barren landscapes were found to carry a strong symbolist charge, Gudni began to address Stefánsson’s paintings with his own. One particular painting of Stefánsson’s took Gudni’s fancy, namely the 1920 Eiríksjökull (Eric’s Glacier): I found myself becoming very intrigued by the way in which he [Stefánsson] opens up a path for us to go from one space into another. The mountains are no longer the most important element in the painting: what matters is the way he takes you from the lower part into what lies beyond, whether it be the middle section or the background.22 (Fig. 5)

This interest in the spatial progression within Stefánsson’s paintings is probably behind a number of “pairings” that Gudni started to experiment with in the 1990s. They would feature either the interlinking of two mountainsides, essentially offshoots of important “mountainside-paintings” like the 1987 Ernir, where the spectator would be encouraged to make the mental effort to continue inwards, to pass from one intersection to another, or alternatively Gudni would paint a pair of free-standing mountains, as in the Untitled of 1998. (Pl. 56)

Pl. 56: Untitled, 1988, 70 x 85 cm 133

The latter look like the sort of mountains that Stefánsson might paint: dark, bleak and ominous, silhouetted against a leaden sky. But whereas Stefánsson generally makes his mountains into single iconic presences that demand our awe from a respectful distance, Gudni’s softlypainted mountains, huddling close to each other, draw us towards the conjunction of their contours. Like so many of Gudni’s earlier — and indeed later — works, this painting urges us to believe in the deep significance of the seemingly “insignificant” places that lie beyond those contours. In his essay on Icelandic art Michael Tucker invokes the writing of philosopher Gaston Bachelard and studies of Shamanism in order to explain the “poetically charged Icelandic response to a landscape of awesome, magnetic power and pastoral charm.”23 To him, this response is partly a process of healing, whereby the artist, as leader of his tribe, must “pass through initiatory terrors of desolation and loneliness, with an actual or symbolic wilderness providing the crucial terrain wherein psychic abstraction is eventually transmuted to emphatic solitude, a prelude to worthwhile social interaction.”24 Is there not in Gudni’s celebrations of insignificant, wild places somewhere in between the distant mountains an echo of the Shamanistic theme of removing oneself to the wilderness, “dispensing with the distracting clutter of everyday life in order to attain an inner level of transcendent energy and affirmation”? This is perhaps fanciful conjecture, athough it is beyond doubt that Georg Gudni has had a more profound effect on our awareness of the Icelandic landscape than any other living artist. Whereas Kjarval brought us up close to both the geological and mythic centre of this landscape, Gudni has turned it into a vehicle of extraordinary physical and metaphysical complexity, which has by no means exhausted its appeal.

Reykjavik in May 2007 Adalsteinn Ingólfsson

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Pl. 58: Untitled, 2004, 170 x 110 cm

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NOTES Ed. Viggo Mortensen & Pilar Perez, Strange Familiar: the Work of Georg Gudni, Perceval Press 2005, p. 23. 2 Ibid. 3 Iceland Review, 11.9.1987. 4 Mortensen & Perez, p. 26. 5 Ibid. p. 30.  6 Mortensen & Perez, p. 41. 7 Audur Ólafsdóttir, “Visions of Nature in Icelandic Art,” in Confronting Nature: Icelandic Art of the Twentieth Century (Washington D.C.: Corcoran Gallery, 2001), p. 23. 8 John Russell Taylor, “Symbolism: The Constant Strain in Icelandic Art,” in Landscapes from a High Latitude: Icelandic Art 1909-1989 (The Barbican Art Centre et al., 1989), p. 104.  See for instance Charles C. Hill, The Group of Seven, Art for a Nation, National Gallery of Canada, 1995. 9 Martica Sawin, “Updating the Nordic Sublime” in Confronting Nature: Icelandic Art of the Twentieth Century, p. 20. 10 Mortensen & Perez, p. 42. 11 Ibid. pp. 41-42. 12 Ibid. p. 38. 13 Ibid. p. 25. 14 Ibid. pp. 25-26.  15 Ibid. p. 16. 16 Ibid. p. 17.  17 Ibid. p.30. 18 Ibid. p.30. 19 Ibid. pp. 30-31. 20 Ibid. p. 35. 21 Ibid. p. 49.  22 Michael Tucker, “Not the Land, but an Idea of a Land”, in Landscapes from a High Latitude:Icelandic Art 1909-1989 (The Barbican Art Centre et al. 1989), p. 107.  23 Ibid.  24 Ibid, p. 114. 1

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Pínulítil er hún til í hærri upplausn??? Annars fá Odda til að stækka hana og hún 139 verður svolítið gróf

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ÁGRIP

SPEGLANDI SPEGLAR Sumarsýning Listasafnsins á Akureyri 2007 er helguð verkum Georgs Guðna landslagsmálara, en þar gefur að líta höfundarverk eins helsta listamanns sinnar kynslóðar. Í stað þess að sýna verk Guðna í réttri tímaröð er hver hinna þriggja sýningarsala safnsins tileinkaður ákveðnu minni sem oft bregður fyrir á ferli Guðna: fjöll, dalir og sjóndeildarhringur. Þróun er sjaldnast beint línulegt ferli. Með því að nálgast verkin út frá þema fremur en tímaröð geta áhorfendur og listamaðurinn sjálfur séð hvernig þau hafa þróast gegnum nýja fagurfræðilega og gagnrýna linsu. Við Guðni hófum báðir nám við Myndlista- og handíðaskólann árið 1980, þar sem við vorum í myndlistardeild frá 1981–1984. Málverkið var nýlega aftur komið í tísku með skvettum og slettum af því taginu sem hafði komið abstrakt expressjónisma á kortið með tilheyrandi mótvægi við raunsæi og myndræna frásögn. Á skólaárunum gusaði Guðni málningunni á strigann, lét hana leka í dropatali eða bókstaflega rigna á léreftið. Stíll hans átti rætur að rekja til nýja expressjónismans sem fram kom upp úr 1980 og tengdist þeim menningarlegu og sögulegu straumum beggja vegna Atlantshafsins sem leiddu til loka móderníska tímabilsins. Það sem í fyrstu voru handahófskenndir dropar tók smám saman á sig mynd risavaxins spegilslétts lóns, undarlegs spegils sem lítur á stundum út fyrir að vera glerharður en samt svo sveigjanlegur að hægt væri að stíga í gegnum hann. Okkur félögunum til mikillar furðu birtist allt í einu árið 1983 yfirlætislaust landslag út úr óreiðu frumforma og fálmkenndrar pensilskriftar. Fyrst birtist landslagið á striga listamannsins, og síðan kom sjálfur listamaðurinn í ljós: Georg Guðni, landslagsmálari. Guðni var skyndilega orðinn gamaldags landslagsmálari í landi þar sem abstrakt konseptlist hafði verið við völd í meira en tvo áratugi. Þegar hann afhjúpaði verk sín í Nýlistasafninu árið 1985 urðu áhorfendur heillaðir. Persónuleg efnistök og sérstæð nálgun Guðna gerði það að verkum að honum var strax hampað og hann lauk námi sem boðberi nýrrar sýnar á eitthvað sem kallast gat séríslenskt. Guðni hafði enduruppgötvað og endurreist íslensku landslagshefðina sem listheimurinn var búin að afskrifa sem dauða og úr sér gengna. Á námsárum okkar urðum við Guðni góðir vinir. Ein ástæða þess að ég ákvað árið 1985 að snúa baki við málaralistinni var sennilega sú hve einbeitt sýn Guðna var sem listamanns.

Pl. 60: Untitled, 2004, 200 x 150 cm Previous 141 spread: National Gallery of Iceland, 2003

Leiðir skildi; ég fór til London en hann til Hollands í framhaldsnám við Jan van Eyckakademíuna í Maastricht og næsta áratuginn hittumst við aðeins heima í fríum. Undir lok níunda áratugarins tók Lars Bohman-galleríið í Svíþjóð Guðna upp á arma sína og árið 1991 lagði Bohman drög að einkasýningu hans. Guðni bað mig um að skrifa ritgerð í sýningarskrána en vegna m.a. efnahagslægðarinnar varð ekkert úr útgáfu hennar. Stytt útgáfa ritgerðar minnar fyrir sýningarskrána var svo birt í Skírni haustið 1994. Með því að birta þessa ritgerð mína, Þar sem himinn mætir jörð, í fullri lengd núna, meira en fimmtán árum eftir að hún var skrifuð, má segja að verið sé að draga fram í dagsljósið sögulegar minjar. Sem slík segir greinin ef til vill meira um tíðarandann en listamanninn. Snemma á tíunda áratugnum fór íslensk list loksins að brjótast út úr einangrun sinni með afgerandi hætti og vekja meiri eftirtekt erlendis. Grunnþættir í sögu myndlistar á Íslandi sem raktir eru í ritgerð minni voru og eru enn nauðsynlegir vegna þess að list Guðna, rétt eins og svo margra annarra íslenskra listamanna, er sprottin upp úr hinni sérstöku þróun landslagsmálsverksins, ekki síður en landinu sjálfu. Í ritgerð sinni Láð, loft og lögur: Georg Guðni og íslenska landslagshefðin í myndlist heldur Aðalsteinn Ingólfsson áfram umfjöllun um list Guðna þar sem minni grein sleppir árið 1992. Aðalsteinn skoðar samband Guðna við íslenska landslagshefð, sem bregður víða fyrir í verkum listamannsins og hann er sér vel meðvitaður um. Þetta staðfestir að Ísland hefur eignast listsögulega hefð sem síðari kynslóðir geta leitað í smiðju til. Í ritgerð minni er fjallað um hvernig samræða landslagsins í verkum Guðna leitar jafnvægis við þá skynjun sem þetta viðfangsefni veitir; með öðrum orðum, hvernig Guðna tekst að töfra fram þær fíngerðu sjónhverfingar sem fært hafa honum viðurkenningu og aðdáun svo margra. Í ritgerðinni er einnig fjallað um hið pólitíska vægi landslagsmálverksins sem oft er álitið gjörsneytt öllu slíku hlutverki. Af þeim sökum er bókin, ólíkt sýningunni sjálfri, byggð upp í hefðbundinni tímaröð til að veita heildstætt yfirlit yfir feril Guðna. Bókin snýst að mestu leyti um málverk hans á striga, en ákveðið var að sleppa öllum vatnslitamyndum, blýantsteikningum og kolaskissum sem hann hefur gert í áranna rás. Sömuleiðis þeim ljósmyndum sem Guðni hefur tekið á ferðum sínum um landið í gegnum tíðina og skipta orðið þúsundum. Hvað hefur breyst á þeim fimmtán árum síðan ritgerðin var upphaflega skrifuð? Fyrst má telja breytingar á íbúasamsetningu landsins vegna fjölda innflytjenda, sem hér voru aðeins örfáir fyrir tveimur áratugum. Víðtæk einkavæðing ríkisstofnana ber vitni um alþjóðavæðinguna og hefur breytt því hvernig Íslendingar líta á landslag. Íslenska landslagshefðin á rætur að rekja til fyrri hluta 20. aldar og var mjög hvött áfram af baráttu þjóðarinnar fyrir efnahagslegu og pólitísku sjálfstæði. Enda þótt túlka megi list Guðna á alþjóðlegum nótum, hafa þessir þættir sterk áhrif á hvernig hann nálgast landslagið og þær jákvæðu viðtökur sem

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verk hans hafa fengið hér heima. Landslagið hefur að geyma þrautseigar leifar þjóðlegrar vitundar sem tákn sameignar og menningarlegrar samstöðu; það er spegill sem við höldum uppi bæði til að skoða okkur sjálf og sýna heiminum hver við teljum okkur vera. Vegna þess að Ísland hefur svo lengi verið á útjaðri heimskortsins hefur „íslensk list“ fengið það hlutverk að tala „máli þjóðarinnar“ og gefa hugtakinu merkingu. Undir yfirborðinu má þó greina tilfinningavitund sem er andsnúin því að vera skilgreind sem þjóðernishyggja. Hún er meira í anda innhverfrar sjálfsskoðunar sem grefur undan þeirri „opinberu“ ímynd sem haldið er á lofti af „okkur Íslendingum“ og spyr rannsakandi hvort það að vera Íslendingur hafi í raun nokkurt mannfræðilegt eða darwinískt gildi. Eftir að hafa verið undir oki nýlenduveldis í aldaraðir hefur íslenska þjóðin loksins eignast fullþroskað pólitískt, hagstjórnarlegt, samfélagslegt og menningarlegt sjálfstæði — nákvæmlega á þeim tímapunkti þegar núverandi kerfi eru tekin að gliðna og renna undir nýja heimsskipan. Með þetta í huga er okkur boðið í ferðalag um landslag Guðna, okkar eigið innra landslag, og með honum sjáum við sjálfsmynd okkar speglast fram og til baka frá ótal hliðum.

Hannes Sigurðsson

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Pl. 61: Untitled, 2005, 200 x 180 cm

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FJALLA-FJÖLLUN Ónefnd 1992 nr. VII

Ég er úti, stend eða sit á steini. Ég horfi í kringum mig á sjóndeildarhringinn, víðáttuna, fjöllin. Sum standa nálægt, önnur fjær. Ósjálfrátt fer hugurinn (sálin) að reika, kannski að svífa um. Ég fer út í fjarlægðina, út í eilífðina þar sem fjöllin hafa órjúfandi kyrrð, þar sem þau eru hætt að vera fjöll, þau eru loftkennd. Ég fer inn í þau, í gegnum þau. Það sem býr í fjallinu er líka fyrir utan það og í kyrrðinni er líka ógn og drungi. Í loftinu rúmast allar hugsanir heimsins. Georg Guðni: úr skissubók, dagsett 8. janúar 1989.

Síðan listaakademían var og hét hefur landslagið rokið upp og niður vinsældalistann og fengið margvíslegar merkingar. Þannig yfirgnæfði íslenska landslagsmálverkið, sem einkenndist í upphafi af undarlegum sambræðingi akademísks raunsæis, rómantíkur og þjóðlegra kennda, mestalla aðra myndlist í landinu frá aldamótum og fram undir lok síðari heimsstyrjaldar, þegar það umbreyttist í abstrakt-útgáfu á sjálfu sér og vék að lokum fyrir fjölbreyttari viðfangsefnum. Eftir að „konseptið“ hélt innreið sína með tilkomu SÚM áttu myndlýsingar á „Hver á sér fegra föðurland“ litlu fylgi að fagna. Mörgum fannst landslagsmálun búa yfir (hættulega) staðnaðri hugmyndafræði og vera hálfvegis fyrir neðan sína virðingu, sérstaklega meðlimum yngri kynslóðarinnar. Nú þegar við virðumst standa frammi fyrir vistfræðilegri tortímingu hefur náttúran öðlast aðkallandi þýðingu. Upp úr miðjum síðasta áratug fóru listamenn í Evrópu og Bandaríkjunum aftur að gefa henni meiri gaum, en út frá nokkuð mismunandi forsendum. Á Íslandi, líkt og annars staðar á Norðurlöndum þar sem umhverfisspjöll af völdum mengunar eru ennþá hverfandi, hefur aukinn klofningur milli borgar og sveitar leitt til löngunar að græða saman sorfin tengsl, yfirleitt með (ómeðvitaðri) endurmeltingu á arfleifð fyrirrennaranna. Í erlendum stórborgum, þar sem sýndarveruleikinn er kominn á hærra stig, hefur firringarfiðringurinn og tregablandinn söknuður eftir móður náttúru aftur á móti vikið fyrir hagnýt-

Pl. 62: Untitled, 1994, 185 x 200 cm 147

ari afstöðu til landsins. Bandarískum listamönnum er til dæmis tamt að einblína á yfirvofandi eyðileggingu lífríkisins, sem veldur svipuðum ótta og atómsprengjan gerði á dögum Kaldastríðsins, og beita gjarnan nýjustu tækni og vísindum (tölvuvæddum innsetningum, textuðum ljósmyndum, „techno-sublime“, „eco-agitprop“) til að koma umhyggju sinni á framfæri og hrista upp í áhorfendum. Málstaðurinn er vafalaust góður. En slíkar sjónrænar umvandanir í þágu náttúruverndar eiga það hins vegar til að fletja út innihaldið svo verkin virka oft sem lítið annað en umbúðir utan um boðskapinn. Georg Guðni (Hauksson, f. 1961) átti hvað stærstan þátt í að blása nýju lífi í íslensku landslagshefðina. Það eru líka fáir íslenskir listamenn sem jafn hreinræktað hefur verið apað eftir, ef ekki „grá-blátt“ áfram í lit og formi þá stemningu og yfirbragði, enda eru málverk hans villandi fljótmelt í einfaldleika sínum. Myndlist Guðna snýst þó ekki eins mikið um landslagið sem slíkt og um þekkingarfræðilegt samband okkar við umhverfið, hvernig við erum samofin því, og í henni er tvíhyggjunni varpað fyrir róða. Málverkin styðja því ekki hina hefðbundnu skiptingu í líkama og sinni, náttúru og menningu, heldur er í þeim ýjað að þeirri hugmynd að „andi“ jafngildi efni. Þetta er hvorki tilbrigði við „drauginn í vélinni“ né það álit að allt megi skoða sem innantómt sprikl efnafræðilegra öreinda. Spurningin snertir samspil mótífs og málverks við vilja listamannsins í dansi skilningarvitanna. Við fyrstu sýn mætti álykta að myndir Guðna væru bundnar við einhvers konar mínimalískan formalisma. Svo er ekki. Hann er að glíma við andstæða póla listrænnar sköpunar og leitast við að brúa þá: Hið geometríska (vitsmunalegt, röklegt, vélrænt, venslað, afmarkað) og maleríska (tilfinningalegt, draumkennt, lífrænt, sundurlaust, fljótandi). List hans byggist á nákvæmum athugunum á fyrirbrigðum náttúrunnar — hann gerir sér tíðar ferðir um öræfi og sveitir í fjallatrukknum sínum til að upplifa hana fyrirvaralaust — og er þess vegna í grundvallaratriðum „empírísk“. Formrænt útlit verkanna stafar með öðrum orðum ekki síður af „raunverulegum“ eigindum landslagsins en stílvali. Sem dæmi notaði hann í byrjun stundum stefnu pensilfaranna til að greina á milli forms og birtuskila. En smám saman þróuðust strokurnar úr órólegu fálmi yfir í fíngerð hnitakerfi eins og sjá má í 1992 nr. VII, og við munum fara betur í saumana á síðar, því til að skilja „hvert hann er að fara“ er nauðsynlegt að vita hvað á undan er gengið. (Pl. 40) Strax í upphafi ferils síns beindi Guðni sjónum sínum að stökum fjöllum, vanalega umkringdum eyðilegu landflæmi, nálgaðist þau hægt og sígandi og lýsti þeim á sífellt einfaldari og almennari hátt. Fyrir honum vakir að snúa landslaginu yfir í málningu svo að fjallið og sýn hans af því verði eitt. Til að átta sig á afstöðu Guðna til fjallsins er gagnlegt að hafa tvö auðkenni íslenskrar náttúru á bak við eyrað, skógarleysið og veðrahaminn. Þessi áleitni prósi, sem

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hann hripaði niður í skissubók árið 1987 og minnir á vedíska hugleiðslubæn, ætti að koma okkur á sporið: „Ég mála fjallið með sjálfum mér. Ég mála sjálfan mig í fjallið. Ég mála fjallið úr huganum“. Hér er jafn sparlega farið með orð og listamaðurinn notar form og liti. Segja má að Guðni hafi dregið athyglina að rigningunni og slyddunni á svipaðan hátt og Kjarval, og seinna Jón Stefánsson, opnuðu augu okkar fyrir hrjóstrugu bersvæðinu. Fólk er oft (viljandi) blint á hið augljósa. Varla skortir úrkomuna á Íslandi, og samt drottna „sólskinsmyndir“ yfir málarahefð okkar þótt rok og rigning setji mun frekar svip sinn á loftslagið. Ein af athyglisverðum afleiðingum úrkomu eða frassa (þ.e. máun útlína og afmáun smáatriða) er hvernig hlutirnir — í okkar tilviki fjallið — hliðrast til í slíkri veðráttu og verða óefniskenndir. Þannig „aflíkamað“ yfirgefur fjallið sína hlutlægu verund, losnar úr viðjum þyngdarlögmálsins og umbreytist í flöktandi vofu. Þar sem þessar aðstæður hafa áhrif á hæfileikann að meta fjarlægðir getur verið erfitt að henda reiður á hvað hluturinn er langt í burtu, hvort fjarlægðin skiptir kílómetrum eða aðeins örfáum metrum; hvort hluturinn er rétt fyrir framan nefið á manni eða (ekki óalgeng skynvilla) inni í hausnum. Á sama tíma myndar regnýringurinn áþreifanlega efnisbrú milli hlutarins og manns sjálfs, hugarins og þess sem hann meðtekur. Í sólskini og björtu veðri skapast aftur á móti gleidd eða rof milli þess að horfa og ókunnugs hlutveruleika sýnarinnar. Í góðu skyggni er nánast eins og ígrundun ytri fyrirbæra gufi upp í þunngert loftið. Tvísæið sem sprettur af rigningunni veitir hlut og huga á hinn bóginn tækifæri að mætast á sama grundvelli. Frá sjónarmiði Guðna er munurinn milli hugsunar (loft) og efnis (jörð) því spurning um stigsmun fremur en eðlismun. Hugarstarfsemin þarf vitaskuld ekki að vera einangruð, hún getur borist út fyrir ramma sinn og orðið finnanleg. Það nægir að leiða hugann að borgarumhverfi okkar til að glöggva sig á hvað fyrir honum vakir, enda mætti segja að bygging sé hneigð eða þrá sem færst hefur yfir í þanka og þaðan, í gegnum uppdrátt, yfir í fast efni. Séð í þessu ljósi er rignignarúðinn þær milligönguagnir sem tengja „skynlaust“ efnið við hugann — hugann sem fjallið gekk inn í og varð hluti af starfsemi hans í viðstöðulausum samruna upplifunar, tilfinningavangaveltna, minninga. Guðna er blámóðan ekki síður hugleikin. (Það mætti líka orða það svo að hún hafi laðast að Guðna, að hann sé henni hugleikinn.) Fjöll sýnast loftkenndari eftir því sem þau standa manni fjær uns þau leysast upp við himinhvolfið. Hvar byrjar fjall, hvar endar það? Hvaða lína, eða samsetning á línum, má með fullvissu segja að lýsi tilteknu fjalli? Hvernig vitum við að hún lýsir því en ekki einhverju öðru? Í blámóðu fjarskans er ógjörningur að greina ákveðnar útlínur. Eða réttara sagt, þær eru allstaðar.

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Þetta hefur valdið Guðna nokkrum heilabrotum. Árið 1987 tempraði hann hálf-expressjónískan stíl sinn og hóf að bera málninguna á dúkinn í löngum, órofnum pensilstrokum þannig að úr varð þéttur vefur samtvinnaðra láréttra (jörð) og lóðréttra (loft) lína er endurspegla flétting strigaháranna. En hann lét ekki þar við sitja. Í stað þess að smyrja litnum á í fáeinum lögum byggði hann flötinn upp af þolinmæði með hundruðum ef ekki þúsundum næfurþunnra hjúpa og þynnti olíumálninguna svo mikið út með fernis að ómögulegt er að segja hvar ein lína hvílir og önnur tekur við. Útkoman líkist ekki bara vatnslitum, votviðrið hefur á vissan hátt verið endurstaðsett innan myndarinnar. Verklagið hafði hinsvegar í för með sér að Guðni gat aðeins búið til um átta málverk á ári. Og afraksturinn fer minnkandi. Þetta hefur hann mátt gjalda fyrir að reyna að fanga eitthvað varanlegra en hverfult augnablikið, eitthvað óháð tíð og tíma, fært um að kalla fram hljóðlausa hrynjandi náttúrnnar. Hann liggur yfir hverri mynd svo mánuðum skiptir, málar hana og endurmálar aftur og aftur, þangað til hann telur að fjallið og þær hugsanir, tilfinningar og minningar sem hann hefur um það hafi bundist saman á órekjandi hátt. Það sem mætir þá áhorfandanum eru ekki myndir sem sýna fjallið undir ákveðnum veðurskilyrðum eða tíma dagsins, heldur heildarsummu allra þátta þeirrar reynslu sem Guðni hefur haft af því, þar á meðal hugsana sem urðu til meðan á löngu vinnsluferlinu stóð. Þetta útskýrir einnig hvers vegna litur margra verkanna er jafn grár og óafgerandi og raun ber vitni; birtustyrkur þeirra er einskonar meðaltal hinna mismunandi stunda dagsins og árstíðanna fjögurra. Skerandi litasamsetningar og formrænt skæklatog, er túlka eiga ástríðufullar kenndir gerandans, liggja þeim víðsfjarri. Sumar myndirnar luma á svo fíngerðum litbrigðum að þær virðast eintóna. En ef grannt er að gætt kemur í ljós að þær eru gerðar af miklum fjölda hálfgegnsærra himna í öllum regbogans litum, sem hver um sig breytir lítillega blæbrigðum laganna fyrir ofan og neðan. (Alla myndlist verður að skoða milliliðalaust, og það á sérstaklega við um málverk Guðna. Þau eru eins og tónlist sem hljómar rétt við heyrnarmörk, jafn illprentanleg og svarttóna-málverk Ad Reinhardts.) Þrátt fyrir jafnvægi formgerðarinnar skynjaði Guðni samt sem áður „spennu“ milli nálægðar og fjarlægðar, forgrunns og bakrunns, er hann sveiflaðist innbyrðis eins og verkin Brekka (1988) og Akrafjall og Skarðsheiði (1987) gefa til kynna. Hann tók því að leita að lausn á andstæðunum nánd-firð, inni-úti, huglægni-hlutlægni, tilfinning- ígrundun, minning-sýn í þeirri viðleitni að sameina málverkið, málarann og hið málaða í einu plani þar sem slíkar mótsetningar standast ekki lengur og brotna undan innbyggðri togstreitu tungumálsins. Í Brún (1989), á meðan hann var að mála bratta fjallshlíð, lækkaði hann hallalínuna stig af stigi uns hún var orðin að flugbeittu, láréttu striki en skar myndflötinn í tvo jafna hluta, og

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hann stóð frammi fyrir hinni „ógnvekjandi samhverfu“, svo notuð séu orð William Blakes. Brún er síðasta myndin sem Guðni gaf (staðfræðilegt) nafn. Hann var ekki lengur að fást við tiltekið landsvæði og byrjaði að vísa almennt til verkanna sem „Fjallsins“. Eftir það eru þau einungis skrásett árgerðinni ásamt rómverskri kennitölu. Hugmyndin, hvernig hann gæti forðast þennan þverskurð og „grætt sárið“, fæddist þegar hann hafði lokið við stóra mynd af Hjörleifshöfða (1988), sem skipta þurfti í tvennt til að koma henni út úr vinnustofunni. Guðni lét lóðréttan jaðar höfðans, með himinrönd fyrir ofan, stemma við samskeyti blindrammanna. Í upphafi gekk mjó landræma eftir „forgrunninum“ er tengdi einingarnar saman, en að lokum tók höfðinn yfir allt sjónsvið léreftsins, og landræman á hinum flekanum hvarf sömuleiðis svo eftir stóð „himinhvolfið“. Aðskilnaði himins og jarðar hafði verið vísað út fyrir málvekrið, að brúnum umgjarðarinnar, á þann stað þar sem hin klassíska sjónblekking opnaði glugga sinn mót umheiminum. (Ef málaralist fyrri tíðar markast af einrými og veigamikill angi módernismans af fjölrými, samanber Erró, mætti kenna póst-móderníska „nýaldarsýn“ Guðna við alrými.) Hjörleifshöfða svipar til þrítöflunnar 1989 nr. I, er samanstendur af „bláum“, „gráum“ og „svörtum“ flekum. Guðna þótti samt ekki nóg að gert. Í 1989 nr. II — fjórir strammar, hver um sig á stærð við hurð, sem spanna á tæplega átta metra kafla frá heiðbláum til mettaðs indígóblás litar, næstum svarts, frá dreifðum öreindum til svarthols — er „skurðarlínunni“ engin hvíld gefin. Það er eins og verkið innihaldi allt efni jarðar. Guðni fiskar ósýnilega línuna upp úr hinu Nietzsche-íska hyldýpi, bilinu á milli aðliggjandi rammanna, og hrekur hana út fyrir „endamörk heimsins“. Lóðrétt og lárétt pensilförin koma nú til skjalanna því þau eru sá kóngulóarvefur, sá rammgerði fjötur „sléttur og blautur sem silkiræma“, er heldur efni og tómi læstu saman. Grindin er kannski táknrænasta einkenni hinnar módernísku hefðar. Síðan hún var innleidd í málverkum frum-kúbistanna hefur hún lifað hálfgerðu kóngalífi og smitast kynslóða á milli, frá Picasso og Braque til Piet Mondrians og þaðan yfir til Agnesar Martins, Jasper Johns, Brice Mardens og Sol LeWitts. Grindin, eins og listfræðingurinn Rosalind Krauss rökstyður af kantaðri fortölulist, er það meðal sem myndlistin hefur notað hvað mest til að „einkavæða sjónsviðið“ og koma í veg fyrir að frásagnarhefðin traðki á yfirráðasvæði hennar. Hún heldur áfram að ala af sér fleiri dæmi um eigið ágæti, samkvæmt Krauss, jafnframt því að vera andsnúið þróun og umræðu. Krauss fullyrðir einnig að hún sé „and-eftirlíkingarleg og and-náttúruleg“. Eftir málflutningi hennar að dæma ættu málverk Guðna í rauninni ekki að geta verið til. Er hann einfaldlega undantekningin sem sannar regluna, eða má vera að honum hafi heppnast að rjúfa vitsmunalega þögn grindarinnar og opna hana fyrir merkingarfræðilegum,

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jafnvel frásagnarlegum, möguleikum? Krauss fjallar um hvernig ristanetið hefur verið notað til að lýsa yfir „nýsköpunarmætti nútímalista“. Í tímalegum skilningi er þetta net einfaldlega tákn nútímaleika, en: Í rýmislegum skilningi staðfestir grindin sjálfstætt ríki myndlistarinnar. Hún er marflöt, geometríukennd, skipuleg, auk þess að vera and-eftirlíkingarleg, and-náttúruleg, and-raunveruleg. Hún sýnir hvernig listin lítur út eftir að hafa snúið baki við náttúrunni. Flatneskjan sem stafar frá hnitásunum sópar burt eiginleikum raunveruleikans og hleypir hliðarútbreiðslu grindarinnar á tvívíðu yfirborðinu óskorað að. Reglufesta skipulagsins er ekki afleiðing eftirlíkingar heldur fagurfræðilegs ásetnings [...] Grindin gerir það að verkum að samtengingar á hinu fagurfræðilega plani virðast tilheyra öðrum heimi og vera, með hliðsjón af náttúrulegum hlutum, bæði endanlegar og fyrirfram ákvarðaðar. (The Originality of the Avant-Garde and Other Modernist Myths, bls. 9-10. MIT Press, 1985)

Guðni „stælir“ berlega ekki landslagið í strangasta skilningi þess orðs, en málverkin hans eru ekki and-realísk heldur (sé þá á annað borð hægt að segja að realisminn hafi eitthvað sérstakt tilkall til raunveruleikans), og það er vissulega ekki hægt að tala um að þau „snúi baki við náttúrunni“. Þótt lóðrétt og lárétt pensilförin, er breiða „óendanlega“ úr sér í höfuðáttirnar, eigi sér ekki beinlínis hliðstæðu í heimi áþreifanlegra hluta má finna með þeim skyldleika sem virðist fordæmislaus fyrir þessa annars ósveigjanlegu formgerð. Ásar ristarinnar eru margfölduð eftirmynd af útlínum fjallsins, eða jaðri klettsins, og sléttunnar umhverfis. En Guðni gengur lengra með því að setja fallbeinar rendurnar í samhengi við regndropana er tengja hann sjónrænt — bæði „andlega og líkamlega“ — við fjallið. Og með því að „rennbleyta“ olíumálninguna í fernis hefur hann aðhæft viðfangsefnið enn frekar að náttúru miðilsins, gert það „snertanlegt“ (ekki bara táknað það). Hið staðlaða snið grindarinnar er vanalega dregið upp á léreftið með reglustiku; það er mekanískt, and-malerískt, flatt, stíft, kalt, valdmannslegt og einstaklega vitsmunalegt. Það hólfar og fletur út einsleitt yfirborðið og „sópar burt eiginleikum raunveruleikans“. Guðni dregur hinsvegar línurnar fríhendis í örfínum, ótalmörgum lögum sem gefur þeim lífræna vídd. Og með því að brytja rýmið ekki niður í lofttæmd holrúm hefur honum tekist að skapa tilfinningu fyrir botnlausri dýpt án þess að sleppa hendinni af höfuðkennisetningu módernismans um „útilokandi sjónvægi“. En hann þverbrýtur annað boðorðið, vegsömun flatnseskjunnar. Áhorfandanum finnst sem hann sjái í gegnum holt og hæðir vegna tærleika litablæjanna. Háglansinn, sem orsakast af margsmurðri fernisolíunni, veldur því að innri víddir málverksins umsnúast á yfirborðinu og varpast út í rúm áhorfandans. Hann rennur á móti, saman við yfirborðið, og verður þar með hluti af andardrætti verksins. Eins og fjall í súld virðist

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myndin yfirgefa vegginn og líða út í salinn. Hún rekst á augnaráð áhorfandans á ótilteknum punkti milli hans og málverksins. Hann og það verða eitt. (En þetta gengur ekki upp nema áhorfandinn gefi sér góðan tíma. List Guðna er enginn skyndibiti. Hún er hundraðrétta einkaveisla fyrir augað.) Guðni hefur nálgast fellið skref fyrir skref (án þess að hreyfa sig úr spori) og horfið inn í það. Á vissan hátt er hann alltaf að mála sömu myndina því hvert verk tekur stöðugum breytingum, sem sjást í margþættum undirlögunum, áður en hann færir sig yfir á næsta léreft og „engu“ verður við bætt. Eftir að hafa trítlað þannig á hvarmaljósunum upp að fjallinu og gengið á vit þess ætti okkur ekki að koma á óvart að sjá Guðna horfa á landslagið frá „gagnstæðum“ sjónarhóli, innan úr því, líkt og kynjavera með augu allstaðar á höfðinu. Fjallið, „alter-ego“ Guðna, horfir samtímis á okkur og sjálft sig. 1992 nr. VII kom sem skúr úr heiði þegar óvænt birtist víðáttumikill dalur með svarbrúnum, iðandi eyðisandi og þverhníptum fjallgörðum til beggja handa. Það er engu líkarara en „Fjallið“ hafi allt í einu ákveðið að opna augun eftir milljón ára dvala. Verkið steypir mismunandi tímabilum á ferli listamannsins saman við andartak upplifunarinnar. Það er eins og heilaskannmynd eða bakspegilsyfirlit af leið hans inn í „Fjallið“. Þverstæðurnar milli innra-ytra, minningar-sýnar hafa dregist saman, ef þær hafa þá ekki horfið með öllu. Við fljótum í glæru, vökvafylltu hylki þar sem allt virðist sýnilegt, enda segist Guðni ekki hafa verið að mála dalinn heldur andrúmsloftið sem fyllir hann. Það mætti halda að Wittgenstein hefði verið að rýna í þetta verk þegar hann skrifaði að „gegnsæi mætti líkja við hugsun“. Einstök atriði myndarinnar leysast upp fyrir augliti okkar, bindast í margbrotið mengi skynjana og merkingu, og önnur gægjast fram, sem renna svo aftur saman við aukna vitund um heildina. Norski málarinn Christian Krogh (d. 1925) hafði einu sinni á orði að þótt öll þjóðleg list væri í eðli sínu slæm, þá væri öll góð list óhjákvæmilega þjóðleg. Þrátt fyrir ákveðinn skyldleika við íslensku landslagshefðina hefur Guðni aldrei lagt mikið upp úr honum og yrði ábyggilega lítt snokinn fyrir að láta bendla list sína við „göfugan málstað lýðveldisins“. Myndir hans eru heldur ekki svo mikið af (íslenskum) fjöllum og þær eru (almennt) um fjöll, fjalla-fjöllun, „gatið“ milli hlutarins og þess sem á hann horfir. Guðni heimfærir athuganir sínar á náttúrunni upp á raðvenslakerfi rúmfræðinnar og klæðir landslagið í skrautlausan búning grunnformanna, rétt eins og Cézanne taldi því best komið til skila. Fyrstu verk Guðna voru þannig stundum lítið meira en strik, þríhyrningur og baugur (land, fjall, sól) sem hann útfyllti með fremur tætingslegri pensilskrift.

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En í látlausri meðhöndlun sinni á viðfangsefninu hafa skilin milli tákns og myndar, inntaks og stílbragðs, smám saman máðst í burtu. Eða segja má að andstæðurnar hafi gengið í eina sæng. Í öllu falli er erfitt að henda reiður á hvar mörkin liggja. Kannski er algjör óhlutdrægni ekki til. En ef hún væri það, þá reynir Guðni að miðla „kjarna landslagsins“ í gegnum bakdyrnar á algjörri hlutdrægni. Öfugt við ný-expressjónisma síðasta áratugar er malerísku yfirbragði verkanna ekki ætlað að bera vitni um skapgerð listamannsins. Með því að kerfisbinda pensildrættina hefur Guðna lánast að sneiða hjá þeirri formleysu sem tengd er við persónulegar tilfinningar, hjá hinu sjálfvísandi og kempulega burstafari sem Lichteinstein skopstældi svo eftirminnilega í Big Painting (1965), og jafnframt að draga úr „nærveru sinni“. Og það að hann skuli ekki vera með innyflin utan á sér á kostnað sjónrænna staðreynda, eða líta á „sálina“ sem einhvern veginn ofan og handan við líkamann, er einn af athyglisverðari flötum á list hans. Hin tilvistarlega spegilmynd sem horfir við okkur í 1992 nr. VII flytur okkur fram á við til útópískra Iðavalla og samtímis afturábak eitthvert inn í okkur. Verkið rænir augunum úr áhorfandanum til að skoða sig sjálfa. Að horfa er fylgifiskur þess að hafa sjón og vera vakandi. Skoðun felur á hinn bóginn í sér leit innan um það sem ber fyrir augun. Verundin tvístrast í sundur milli sín og ásýndar sinnar, sín og „Fjallsins“ sem orðið er tvífari sjálfsverunnar. Að lokum hættir skoðandinn að nenna að leita og snýr sér að öðrum hlutum í fullvissu þess að ekkert meira sé að sjá. Þessi vissa kallast vitneskja. En hversu mikið sem augnaráðið djöflast nær það aldrei að afklæða sýnina; það mokar sig niður þar til það er statt á kafi í henni. Dyrnar sem sjónin kom inn um skellast í lás og við taka óendanlega margar ómerktar útgönguleiðir. Málverk Guðna lýsa and-hetjulegri og and-formalískri leit eftir fullkomnu jafnvægi. Og þetta ferðalag hans verður stöðugt „kunnuglegra furðulegra“ með hverju árinu sem líður.

Hannes Sigurðsson

Þessi grein birtist upprunalega í Skírni, Tímariti hins íslenska bókmenntafélags, haustið 1994 (168. árgangur), bls. 538–546.

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Pl. 63: Untitled, 2003, 280 x 200 cm

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ÁGRIP

LÁÐ, LOFT OG LÖGUR Georg Guðni og íslenska landslagshefðin í myndlist

Þessi ritgerð fjallar um þær breytingar sem urðu á myndlist Georgs Guðna við upphaf tíunda áratugar síðustu aldar og þróun hennar í framhaldinu, með sérstakri áherslu á tengsl þessarar myndlistar við túlkun eldri listamanna á náttúru Íslands. Það hefur komið fram í greinum og viðtölum við listamanninn að við upphaf ferils hans, um 1982 eða svo, gerðist hann afhuga því sem var efst á baugi í alþjóðlegri myndlist. Kom þar til vantrú á þær lausnir myndlistarvandans sem boðaðar voru í listtímaritum og sýningum. Um leið hóf hann að horfast í augu við þau áhrif sem langvarandi ferðalög um óbyggðir Íslands höfðu haft á hugmyndir hans um eðli og markmið myndlistar.   Strax á námsárum sínum kynnti Georg Guðni sér hvernig íslenskir forverar hans höfðu túlkað það sem nefna mætti „veruleika öræfanna“, og vildi þá afskrifa megnið af landslagstengdri myndlist helstu listamanna landsins sem hjáróma og klisjukennda. Þess í stað einblíndi hann á lítt þekkt verk örfárra frumherja á borð við Þórarinn B. Þorláksson og Ásgrím Jónsson, þar sem fátt var að finna nema haf, land og sjóndeildarhring. Auk þess lagði Georg Guðni sig eftir verkum „utangarðsmanna“ í landslagstengdri myndlist, alþýðumálara, náttúrufræðinga og útlendinga á borð við Englendinginn Collingwood.   Upp úr hógværum, fábrotnum og ljóðrænum landslagsmyndum af því tagi spratt síðan Orrustuhóll (1983), eitt af lykilverkunum á ferli Georgs Guðna, sem á býsna margt sammerkt með mikilfenglegum og samhverfum fjallamyndunum sem hann gerði síðar, nema hvað smáatriði fá að fljóta með sem síðar hverfa með öllu. Myndlist Georgs Guðna varð síðar æ huglægari, þökk sé námsdvöl hans í Maastricht í Hollandi, þar sem hann hóf að mála myndir af íslenskum fjöllum og dölum eftir minni. Um 1990 hafði listamaðurinn snúið baki við allri yfirfærslu staðhátta á léreft; þess í stað einangraði hann ákveðna þætti sem hann tengdi við staðina sem hann var með í huga; gráma grjóthlíðanna, grænku mosaþembunnar, brúna litinn moldarbarðsins og bláma himinsins allt um kring og gerði úr þeim óhlutbundna litfleti til uppröðunar í einfaldri röð. Þótti ýmsum áhugamönnum um myndlist Georgs Guðna, ekki síst erlendum gagnrýnendum, sem hann væri að færast æ meira í átt til hreinnar, náttúrutengdrar afstraktlistar.

Pl. 64: Untitled, 2004, 280 x 200 cm 159 Previous spread: Gallery Turpentine, Reykjavík 2006

Innan tíðar fór listamaðurinn að sakna landslagsins sem þessar myndir voru byggðar á og bjóst til að brjóta eigindir þess sjálfs til mergjar, í stað þess að gera úr því óhlutbundnar einingar. Áframhaldandi ferðalög hans um landið áttu sinn þátt í þessari hugarfarsbreytingu, auk þess sem hann tók að endurskoða íslensku landslagshefðina sem hann hafði áður gefið falleinkunn. Þess má geta að um þetta leyti, 1990, hafði einnig farið fram endurmat á þessari sömu hefð meðal íslenskra og erlendra listfræðinga, þar sem kom fram að hinn huglægi þáttur — táknhyggja eða einhvers konar frumspekipælingar — voru fyrirferðarmeiri í viðhorfum og verkum eldri landslagsmálara en menn höfðu áður talið. Má þar nefna yfirlitssýningu á verkum Jóns Stefánssonar í Listasafni Íslands 1989-90 og stóra sýningu á verkum íslenskra myndlistarmanna í Bretlandi, sem nefndist Landscapes from a High Latitude.   Eitt einkenni á verkum frumherjanna í íslenskri myndlist er að landslagsmyndir þeirra eru nánast án veðurs; það var engu líkara en regn, þoka, frost og fárviðri fyrirfinndust aldrei á Íslandi. Þetta hafa menn túlkað sem upphafningu landslagsins í þágu þjóðernishyggju eða sem hreina og beina óskhyggju. Georg Guðni snerist öndverður gegn þessari upphafningu/óskhyggju í þeim landslagsmyndum sem hann hóf að gera í kjölfar hins meinta afstrakttímabils. Í augum hans voru vond veður og óblítt landslag helsta einkenni á Íslandi, og ættu að vera helsta aðdráttarafl þess. Um svipað leyti hófst í íslensku þjóðfélagi virk umræða um gildi óbyggðanna, en þá höfðu komið fram áform um vatnsaflsvirkjanir á ýmsum stöðum á hálendinu.   Í framhjáhlaupi má geta þess að strangt til tekið var Georg Guðni ekki fyrsti landslagsmálarinn sem snerist öndverður gegn eilífu „sumarlandi“ íslensku frumherjanna; á þriðja áratug aldarinnar kom fram lítill en harðsnúinn hópur landslagsmálara (Guðmundur Einarsson frá Miðdal, Finnur Jónsson, Sveinn Þórarinsson o.fl.) sem setti sig upp á móti því, taldi það einmitt stuðla að misskilningi á íslenskri náttúru, sem væri í eðli sínu allt annað en vinsamleg mönnunum. Ef Georg Guðni sver sig í ætt við einhvern hóp listamanna, þá er það sennilega við þennan hóp endurskoðunarsinna.   Segja má að sú myndlist Georgs Guðna sem fylgir í kjölfarið megi flokka niður í þrjár frummyndir eða erkitýpur; sjónhring, dal og fjall. Í stað þess að elta uppi sérkenni landslagsins þannig að áhorfanda sé alveg ljóst hvað myndirnar eiga að fyrirstilla, hreinsar hann skipulega í burtu alla staðháttafræði. Eftir stendur fjall eða dalur sem eru eins og samnefnarar allra fjalla og dala á landinu. Í þessum verkum verður áhorfandinn áþreifanlega var við endurvakinn áhuga Georgs Guðna á íslensku landslagshefðinni. Myndir hans af sjónhring sem teygir sig út í ysta fjarska eru eins konar samræður við víðáttumyndir Þórarins B. Þorlákssonar og Ásgríms Jónssonar frá fyrstu áratugum 20stu aldar, nema hvað Georg Guðni hefur meiri áhuga á því sem gerist í rýminu, sjálfu andrúmsloftinu, heldur en í landslaginu í fjarska: rigningunni, þokunni og skýjafarinu almennt.   Í viðtölum hefur Georg Guðni gert grein fyrir áhuga sínum á veðri og vindum, þar sem hann nefnir t.a.m. þær breytingar sem verða á landslaginu vegna veðurs. Auk þess telur hann

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að veður í landslagsmyndum geri meiri kröfur til áhorfenda, þröngvi þeim til að reiða sig á ímyndunarafl sitt. Myndlistarlegt andóf Georgs Guðna gegn staðháttalýsingum er ekki einasta atlaga gegn „merkilegum“ stöðum í landslaginu, heldur meðvituð lofgjörð um alla „ómerkilegu“ staðina sem við látum okkur sjást yfir, bara vegna þess að enginn hefur gefið þeim gaum. Þarna á hann ýmislegt sammerkt með Jóhannesi Kjarval, sem opnaði augu íslenskrar alþýðu fyrir fáförnum stöðum sem ekki voru í samræmi við þær hugmyndir sem menn gerðu sér um „dægilegt“ landslag.   Málverk Georgs Guðna af dölum, kvosum eða dældum í landslaginu eru öllu flóknari samsetningur en sjónhringirnir, þó svo þau virðist aðgengileg við fyrstu sýn. Þau eru aðallega tvenns konar, ljósmettaðir dalbotnar sem breiða út faðminn móti okkur eða dalir uppfullir með drögum sem skerast með taktföstum hætti inn að skjannabjartri þungamiðju. Upp í hugann kemur ein fyrsta landslagsmynd sem kennd er við Íslending, leiktjald Sigurðar Guðmundssonar við Útlaga Matthíasar Jochumsonar frá 1872-73, þar sem hrjóstrugt óbyggðalandslagið er sýnt sem griðarstaður. Georg Guðni hefur líkt myndum sínum af dölum við „vistarverur“, uppfullar af regni og þokuslæðingi, en einnig af hugsunum og hljóðum. Þetta eru griðarstaðir, segir hann, þar sem maðurinn getur verið einn með hugsunum sínum og ímyndunum. Aftur er eins og Georg Guðni kallist á við Kjarval, sem iðulega leit á landslag sem samnefnara fyrir allt sem gerst, heyrst og hugsað hefði verið á þeim stað, miklu frekar en dauða jarðfræði.   Á undanförnum tveimur áratugum hefur Georg Guðni einnig tekið hugmyndir sínar um fjallið til endurmats. Eldri fjallamyndir hans voru oft eins konar skuggamyndir með sterka „emblematíska“ nánd. Síðari myndir hans af fjöllum eru með raunsærra sniði, en eins og iðulega gerist í verkum Georgs Guðna, dregur raunsæið hvorki úr dulúð þeirra né „emblematískri“ skírskotun. Með margskonar virkjun fíngerðra ljóseffekta gefur hann í skyn að við rætur þessara fjalla, eða þá rétt handan þeirra, sé að finna hugljómun sem áhorfandanum beri að kynna sér.   Í þessum myndum er einnig að finna lágt stemmdar samræður við Jón Stefánsson. Lengi vel voru verk Jóns ekki efst á vinsældarlistum Georgs Guðna, en smám saman jókst álit hans á hinum þungbrýnda byggingarmeistara. Við skoðun á myndum Jóns varð Georg Guðni hugfanginn af meðhöndlun hans á rými, af því hvernig hann leiðir áhorfandann skipulega inn í myndir sínar, inn í dali og krókaleiðir inn á milli fjalla. Í nokkrum myndum beinir Georg Guðni sjónum að tveimur samstæðum fjöllum sem gætu verið komin beint út úr landslagi eftir Jón. Georg Guðni málar þessi fjöll sín mjúklega, gæðir þau innileika sem vekur með okkur löngun til að leggja á okkur ferðalag inn að innstu drögum, þar sem kunna að leynast innstu rök.     Aðalsteinn Ingólfsson

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Pl. 65: Untitled, 2006, 160 x 160 cm

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LIST OF PLATES Page 2-3

Pl.1: Untitled, 1989. Oil on canvas, 23,5 x 121 cm. Collection of artist.

Page 6

Pl. 2: Mt. Burfell, 1986. Oil on canvas, diameter 36,5 cm. Collection of artist.

Page 12

Pl. 3: Mt. Ingolfshöfdi, 1984. Oil on canvas, 34 x 28 cm. Private collection.

Page 20

Pl. 4: Untitled, 1995. Oil on canvas, 185 x 200 cm. Private collection.

Page 22

Pl. 5: Untitled, 2002. Oil on canvas, 244 x 205 cm. Private collection.

Page 25

Pl. 6: Leira, 1983. Oil on canvas, 35 x 50 cm. Private collection.

Page 26

Pl. 7: Mt. Orrustuhóll, 1983. Oil on canvas, 36 x 43 cm. Collection of artist.

Page 28

Pl. 8: Ferningsskjaldbreidur, 1987. Oil on canvas, 80 x 80 cm. Kópavogur Art Museum.

Page 31

Pl. 9: Mt. Háganga. Oil on canvas, 1985, 50 x 60 cm. Private collection.

Page 32

Pl. 10: Glacier Snaefellsjökull, 1985-86. Oil on canvas, 140 x 200 cm. Private collection.

Page 34-5 Pl. 11: Mt. Hestfjall, 1984. Oil on canvas, 30 x 150 cm. University of Iceland. Page 36

Pl. 12: Mt. Ingólfshöfdi. Oil on canvas, 1985-86, 23 x 120 cm. Private collection.

Page 36-7 Pl. 13: The Eminence of Öskjuhlíd, 1986. Oil on canvas, 24 x 120 cm. Jan Van Eyck Akademie, Maastricht. Page 39

Pl. 14: Glacier Eiríksjökull, 1986. Oil on canvas, 140 x 150 cm. National Bank of Iceland.

Page 40

Pl. 15: Mt. Thríhyrningur, 1986. Oil on canvas, 330 x 290 cm. Galleri Lars Bohman, Stockholm.

Page 44

Pl. 16: Dalur í Kjós, 1985. Oil on canvas, 110 x 200 cm. Jo Eyck, Wiljre, Nederland.

Page 47

Pl. 17: Mt. Ernir, 1987. Oil on canvas, 220 x 240 cm. Reykjavik Art Museum.

Page 48-9 Pl. 18: Untitled, 1999. Oil on canvas, 135 x 165 cm. Private collection. Page 50

Pl. 19: Mt. Akrafjall and Skardsheidi, 1987. Oil on canvas, 10 x 50 cm. Galleri Lars Bohman, Stockholm.

Page 50-1 Pl. 20: Mt. Hestfjall, 1987-88. Oil on canvas, 53 x 371 cm. Private collection. Page 52-3 Pl. 21: Untitled, 1989. No. I. Oil on canvas, 3 x 170 x 170 cm. Frederic Roos Collection. Page 55

Pl. 22: Edge, 1988-89. Oil on canvas, 230 x 140 cm. Galleri Lars Bohman, Stockholm.

Page 56

Pl. 23: Slope, 1988. Oil on canvas, diameter: 200 cm. Private collection.

Page 59

Pl. 24: Untitled, 1989, No. II. Oil on canvas, 4 x 190 x 136 cm. Galleri Lars Bohman, Stockholm.

Page 60-1 Pl. 25: Untitled, 1989. No. V. Oil on canvas. 240 x 260 cm. Galleri Lars Bohman, Stockholm. Page 63

Pl. 26: Untitled, 1989. No. VI. Oil on canvas, 80 x 180 cm. Private collection.

Page 64

Pl. 27: Untitled, 1990, No. IV. Oil on canvas, 200 x 140 cm. Collection of artist.

Page 66

Pl. 28: Untitled, 1991, No. I. Oil on canvas, 150 x 150 cm. Private collection.

Page 69

Pl. 29: Untitled, 1990, No. V. Oil on canvas, 200 x 140 cm. Private collection.

Page 70

Pl. 30: Untitled, 1990, No. VII. Oil on canvas, 200 x 140 cm. Galleri Lars Bohman, Stockholm.

Page 73

Pl. 31: Untitled, 1990, No. VIII. Oil on canvas, 200 x 140 cm. National Gallery of Iceland.

Page 74

Pl. 32: Untitled, 1991. Oil on canvas, 200 x 140 cm. Private collection.

Page 77

Pl. 33: Untitled, 1991, No. II. Oil on canvas, 30 x 30 cm. Private collection.

Page 78

Pl. 34: Untitled, 1992, No. II. Oil on canvas, 130 x 230 cm. Collection of artist.

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Page 81

Pl. 35: Untitled, 1992, No. I. Oil on canvas, 130 x 230 cm. Collection of artist.

Page 82-3 Pl. 36: Untitled, 1991, No. VII. Oil on canvas, 40 x 80 cm. Private collection. Page 84

Pl. 37: Untitled, 1990. Oil on canvas, 200 x 200 cm. Kiasma, Museum of Contemporary Art, Helsinki.

Page 86

Pl. 38: Untitled, 1997. Oil on canvas, 135 x 165 cm. Private collection.

Page 89

Pl. 39: Untitled, 1992. Oil on canvas, 195 x 195 cm. Collection of artist.

Page 93

Pl. 40: Untitled, 1992, No VII. Oil on canvas, 170 x 180 cm. Collection of artist.

Page 95

Pl. 41: Untitled, 1992, No. XI. Oil on canvas, 195 x 195 cm. Collection of artist.

Page 105 Pl. 42: Untitled, 1996. Oil on canvas, 110 x 150 cm. Private collection. Page 106-7 Pl. 43: Untitled, 1997. Oil on canvas, 135 x 165 cm. Private collection. Page 108 Pl. 44: Untitled, 2003. Oil on canvas, 280 x 200 cm. Galleri Lars Bohman, Stockholm. Page 111 Pl. 45: Untitled, 1995. Oil on canvas, 170 x 180 cm. Reykjavik Art Museum. Page 112 Pl. 46: Untitled, 1995. Oil on canvas, 75 x 200 cm. Private collection. Page 113 Pl. 47: Untitled, 1996. Oil on canvas, 135 x 165 cm. Private collection. Page 114 Pl. 48: Untitled, 2001. Oil on canvas, 200 x 180 cm. Private collection. Page 117 Pl. 49: Untitled, 1996. Oil on canvas, 135 x 150 cm. Private collection. Page 118 Pl. 50: Untitled, 1997. Oil on canvas, 193 x 223 cm. Collection of artist. Page 121 Pl. 51: Untitled, 1990. Oil on canvas, 50 x 61 cm. Collection of artist. Page 122 Pl. 52: Untitled, 2004. Oil on canvas, 190 x 200 cm. Private collection. Page 125 Pl. 53: Untitled, 2006. Oil on canvas, 240 x 220 cm. National Bank of Iceland. Page 127 Pl. 54: Untitled, 1998. Oil on canvas, 70 x 80 cm. Reykjavik Art Museum. Page 128 Pl. 55: Untitled, 1994. Oil on canvas, 150 x 170 cm. University of Iceland. Page 130 Pl. 56: Untitled, 1998. Oil on canvas, 70 x 85 cm. Private collection. Page 131 Pl. 57: Untitled, 1998. Oil on canvas, 193 x 223,5 cm. National Gallery of Iceland. Page 133 Pl. 58: Untitled, 2004. Oil on canvas, 170 x 110 cm. Private collection. Page 134-5 Pl. 59: Untitled, 1998. Oil on canvas, 135 x 165 cm. Private collection. Page 138 Pl. 60: Untitled, 2004. Oil on canvas, 200 x 150 cm. Private collection. Page 142-3 Pl. 61: Untitled, 2005. Oil on canvas, 200 x 180 cm. Collection of artist. Page 144 Pl. 62: Untitled, 1994. Oil on canvas, 185 x 200 cm. National Gallery of Iceland. Page 153 Pl. 63: Untltled, 2003. Oil on canvas, 280 x 200 cm. Galleri Lars Bohman, Stockholm. Page 156 Pl. 64: Untitled, 2004. Oil on canvas, 280 x 200 cm. Collection of artist. Page 161 Pl. 65: Untitled, 2006. Oil on canvas, 160 x 160 cm. Private collection. Page 165 Pl. 66: Untitled, 2007. Oil on canvas, 240 x 220 cm. Collection of artist. Page 172-3 Pl. 67: Untitled, 2000. Oil on canvas, 90 x 190 cm. Private collection. Page 175 Pl. 68: Untitled, 2005. Oil on canvas, 200 x 190 cm. Private collection.

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EXHIBITION HISTORY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY

GEORG GUDNI 1961 1980-85 1985-87 1993-95 1997-01

BIOGRAPHY Born in Reykjavik. Studies at the Icelandic College of Art and Crafts, Reykjavik. Studies at Jan van Eyck, Academie, Maastricht, the Netherlands. Member of the Board of Directors, Richard Serra Fund. Member of the Board of Directors, National Gallery of Iceland.

2007

One-Person Exhibitions Akureyri Art Museum, Iceland: The Mountain. A retrospective exhibition. (Catalogue)

2006

Gallery Turpentine, Reykjavik, Iceland. Galleri Lars Bohman, Stockholm, Sweden. Track 16, Santa Monica, Los Angeles: The Nature of Landscape. (Together with Viggo Mortensen). Gallery O2, Akureyri, Iceland. Galerie Forsblom, Helsinki, Finland. Galleri Lars Bohman, Stockholm, Sweden. National Gallery of Iceland, Reykjavik. A retrospective exhibition. (Catalogue) Nordiska akvarellmuseet, Skärhamn, Sweden.

2002

Skaftfell in Seydisfjördur, Iceland. (Together with Peter Frie)

2000

Gallery Sævar Karl, Reykjavik, Iceland.

1999

Church of Hallgrimur, Reykjavik, Iceland. Galleri Lars Bohman, Stockholm, Sweden.

1998

Reykjavik Art Museum, Kjarvalsstadir, Reykjavik, Iceland. (Catalogue)

1995

Nordic House, Reykjavik, Iceland. (Catalogue) Café Mokka, Reykjavik, Iceland: Terra virgo.

1994

The Corridor, Reykjavik, Iceland. Galleri Lars Bohman, Stockholm, Sweden.

1993

The Living Art Museum, Reykjavik, Iceland.

1992

Galerie Artek, Helsinki, Finland. Slunkariki, Isafjordur, Iceland. Gallery Nyhofn, Reykjavik, Iceland.

1991

Galleri Lars Bohman, Stockholm, Sweden.

1990

Galleri Sölvberget, Stavanger, Norway. Galleri Riis, Oslo, Norway.

2004 2003

168

1989 1988

Galleri Lars Bohman, Stockholm, Sweden. Galleri Lång, Malmö, Sweden. (Together with Jon Oskar)

1987

Slunkariki, Isafjordur, Iceland. Gallery Svart á hvítu, Reykjavik, Iceland.

1986

Jan van Eyck Academie, Maastricht, Netherlands. Café Mokka, Reykjavik, Iceland.

1985

The Living Art Museum, Reykjavik, Iceland.

2007

Group Exhibitions Saurbæjarkirkja, Hvalfjördur, Iceland: Myndin af Hallgrími.

2006

Church of Hallgrímur, Reykjavik, Iceland: Myndin af Hallgrími. Gallery Turpentine, Reykjavik, Iceland. Hoffmannsgallerí, Reykjavik, Iceland: Vegvísar. National Gallery of Iceland, Reykjavik, Iceland: Málverkið eftir 1980. The Faroe Islands Art Museum, Thorshavn: The Renewal of  the Icelandic Painting. National Gallery of Iceland, Reykjavik. (Works from the collection) National Gallery of Iceland, Reykjavik: Landslagið og þjóðsagan. Hoffmannsgallerí, Reykjavik, Iceland: Kennd við tilfinningar.

2005

Århus Kunstbygning, Århus, Denmark. Kunstnersammenslutningen Jylland. Sakskøbing Sukkerfabrik, Lolland, Denmark: Lys over Lolland. Sophienholm, Copenhagen, Denmark: Island-sagaøen.

2004

Espace d´art contemporain Gustav Fayet, Serignan, France: Parallele 64. Art Contemporain Islandais.

2003

Edsvik Konsthall, Sollentuna, Sweden: Dialog med naturen. Konstens Hus, Lulea, Sweden: Dialog med naturen. Pommersches Landesmuseum, Greifswald, Germany. National Gallery of Iceland, Reykjavik. Röda sten museum, Göteborg, Sweden: Carnegie Art Award. Helsinki City Art Museum, Meilahti, Finland: Carnegie Art Award Victoria Miro Warehouse, London, UK: Carnegie Art Award. Kunstforeningen, Copenhagen, Denmark: Carnegie Art Award.

2002

Tretyakov Museum, Moscow: Confronting Nature. National Gallery of Iceland, Reykjavik: Icelandic Art 1980-2000. Kunstnernes Hus, Oslo, Norway: Carnegie Art Award.   Reykjavik Art Museum, Harbour House: Carnegie Art Award. Gerduberg, Reykjavik, Iceland: Þetta vil ég sjá. Reykjanesbaer Art Museum, Keflavik: The Golden Brush.

169

2001 2000

National Gallery of Iceland, Reykjavik: Yfirlit 20. aldar. Reykjavik Art Museum, Kjarvalsstadir: Flogið yfir Heklu. (Catalogue) Corcoran Gallery of Art, Washington DC, USA: Confronting Nature. (Catalogue) National Gallery of Iceland, Reykjavik: Andspænis náttúrunni. The Faroe Islands Art Museum, Thorshavn: The Golden Brush. Reykjavik Art Museum, Kjarvalsstadir: The Golden Brush. Felleshuset, Nordic Embassies, Berlin, Germany: The Golden Brush. The Living Art Museum, Reykjavik: Nýja málverkið — andar það enn? The Corridor, Reykjavik: The Golden Brush. Barbican Art Gallery, London, UK: Carnegie Art Award. Reykjavik Art Museum, Kjarvalsstadir: Carnegie Art Award. Gerduberg, Reykjavik, Iceland: 25 ára afmælissýning F.B. Konstakademien, Stockholm, Sweden: Carnegie Art Award.

1999

National Gallery of Iceland, Reykjavik: Carnegie Art Award. Helsingin Taidehalli, Helsinki, Finland: Carnegie Art Award. Sophienholm, Copenhagen, Denmark: Carnegie Art Award. Amos Anderson Art Museum, Helsinki, Finland: Carnegie Art Award. Kunstnernes Hus, Oslo, Norway: Carnegie Art Award. Akureyri Art Museum, Iceland: Sjónauki III. National Gallery of Iceland, Reykjavik: Nýja málverkið á 9. áratugnum. The Corridor, Reykjavik: The Golden Brush. (Catalogue) Art.is. The touring exhibition Lífæðar. (Catalogue)

1998

National Gallery of Iceland, Reykjavik: Íslensk myndlist á 20. öld. Stenersenmuseet, Oslo, Norway: Carnegie Art Award. Sophienholm, Copenhagen, Denmark: Carnegie Art Award. Konstakademien, Stockholm, Sweden: Carnegie Art Award. National Museum of Fine Arts, Beijing, China: Icelandic Painting of the 20th Century. (Catalogue) Hong Kong Museum of Art: Icelandic Painting of the 20th Century. (Catalogue) Charlottenborg, Copenhagen, Denmark: Natura. Museum of Contemporary Art, Vilnius, Lithuania: Studija Islandija.

1997

PS1, Contemporary Art Center, New York, U.S.A. Café Mokka, Reykjavik: Maður með mönnum. The touring exhibition New Territories: Balbardie Gallery, West Lothian, Howden Park Gallery, Livingston, Scotland: New Territories. (Catalogue)

1996 1995

Rooseum, Malmö, Sweden. Reykjavik Art Museum, Kjarvalsstadir: Íslensk Náttúrusýn. (Catalogue) Kunstforeningen, Gammel Strand, Copenhagen, Denmark: Mörkets lys. The touring exhibition New Territories: (Catalogue) Stamford Art Center, UK. Ferens Art Gallery, Hull, UK.   Lancaster Maritime Museum, UK.  Sheffield Hallam University Gallery, UK. Vejle Art Museum, Denmark: Nordiske landskaber. Ernst Museum, Budapest, Hungary: Fragments: Contemporary Icelandic Art. (Catalogue)

170

1994 1992

Deiglan, Akureyri, Iceland. Gallery Greip, Reykjavik, Iceland: Salon exhibition. Nikolaj, Copenhagen, Denmark: Islandske Kunstnere 1944-1994. (Catalogue) Konstmassan, Stockholm Art Fair, Sweden: Nordiskt 90-tal. (Catalogue) Palazzo Esposizioni, Roma, Italy: Il Paesaggio Culturale, Aspetti Dell´Esperienza Nordica Nell´Arte, 1890-1990. (Catalogue)

1991

The touring exhibition Transparencia Azul: (Catalogue) Moderna Museet, Stockholm, Sweden. Museu de Arte de Sao Paulo, Brazil. Museu de Arte Moderna, Rio de Janero, Brazil. Museo Nacional de Artes Plásticas, Montevideo, Uruguay. Museo de Arte Moderno, Buenos Aires, Argentina.   Museo de Arte Moderno, Bogota, Colombia.  Centro de Arte Moderna, Lisbon, Portugal. Museo de Arte Contemporaneo de Caracas, Venezuela. Charlottenborg, Copenhagen, Denmark.

Rheinlandhalle, Cologne, Germany: Icelandic Art in Cologne. (Catalogue) Jan Van Eyck Academie, Maastricht, the Netherlands: De Kollektie. Kunstnernes Hus, Oslo, Norway: The Art of Drawing. (Catalogue) The touring exibition Landscapes from a High Latitude. (Catalogue)   The Ferens Art Gallery, Hull, UK. Great Grimsby Town Hall, Grimsby, UK. The Barbican Art Centre, London, UK. Brighton Polytechnic Gallery, Brighton, UK. Burstow Gallery, Brighton, UK. The Talbot Rice Art Centre, University of Edinburgh, Scotland.

1989

Nordic Art Center, Sveaborg, Helsinki, Finland: Aurora 3. (Catalogue)

1988

Galleri Lång, Malmö, Sweden. National Gallery of Iceland, Reykjavik: Aldarspegill. (Catalogue) Lyngby Kunstforening, Denmark: Ny Islandsk Kunst. (Catalogue) National Gallery of Iceland, Reykjavik: Five Young Artists. (Catalogue)

1987

Malmö Konsthall, Malmö, Sweden: Borealis 3. (Catalogue) Reykjavik Art Museum, Kjarvalsstadir: Myndlistarmenn framtíðarinnar.

1986

Staatliche Kunstakademie, Düsseldorf, Germany. Jan van Eyck Academie, Maastricht, the Netherlands.

1985

Skeppsholmen, Stockholm, Sweden: Ung Nordisk Kulturfestival (UNK).

1984

Trondheim Art Museum, Norway: Utgaard.

1983

Reykjavik Art Museum, Kjarvalsstadir: UM: Ungir myndlistarmenn. (Catalogue) JL-húsið, Reykjavik, Iceland: Gullströndin andar.

1990

171

Teaching Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts, Reykjavik. Iceland Academic of the Arts, Reykjavik.

Works in Public Institutions and Private Companies National Gallery of Iceland. Reykjavik Art Museum. Kópavogur Art Museum, Iceland. University of Iceland Art Museum, Reykjavik.  Isafjordur Art Collection, Iceland. Apoteksbolaget Konstförening, Stockholm, Sweden. Contemporary Art Museum, Helsinki, Finland. Malmö Museum, Sweden. Moderna Museet, Stockholm, Sweden. Museum of Contemporary Art, Oslo, Norway. Rooseum Art Collection, Malmö, Sweden. Eimskipafélag Íslands. Icelandair Art Collection. The City of Reykjavik. SAS. Central Bank of Iceland. Sparisjóður Bolungarvíkur, Iceland.

1988 1988 1990 1992 1995 1996 1997 1998 1999 2000 2002 2003

Awards  The DV Prize for Visual Arts. One-year stipend from the Visual Artist Fund. Icelandic Ministry of Culture, Science and Education. Three-month stipend from the Visual Artist Fund. Icelandic Ministry of Culture, Science and Education. Six-month stipend from the Visual Artist Fund. Icelandic Ministry of Culture, Science and Education.  Three-year stipend from the Visual Artist Fund. Icelandic Ministry of Culture, Science and Education.  Artist in residence at Stanford Art Centre, UK. Travelgrant from the Icelandic Ministry of Culture, Science and Education. Nominated for Carnegie Art Award. Nominated for Carnegie Art Award. Ars Fennica Nomination, Helsinki, Finland. Nominated for Carnegie Art Award. Two-year stipend from the Visual Artist Fund. Icelandic Ministry of Culture, Science and Education.

Bibliography Halldór B. Runólfsson: “Ný landsýn”, Þjóðviljinn, March.13, 1984. Guðbergur Bergsson: “Georg Guðni”, Þjóðviljinn, February 13, 1985. Bragi Ásgeirsson: “Georg Guðni í Nýlistasafni”, Morgunblaðið, March 15, 1985. Kimmo Sarje: “Islannin vouret”, Taide, nr. 2, 1986. Aðalsteinn Ingólfsson: “Mountains of the Mind”, Iceland Review, Issue 1, 1987. Súsanna Svavarsdóttir: “Málverk er ekki efnið, heldur andinn”, Morgunblaðið, October 25, 1987. (Interview) Þorsteinn G. Gunnarsson: “Ég mála fjallið með sjálfum mér”, Nýtt líf, Issue 7, 1987. Halldór Björn Runólfsson: “Georg Guðni”, Gallery Svart á hvítu. 1987. (Catalogue) Sjón: “Af fjöllum”, Heimsmynd. Volume 2, Issue 6, November 1987, p. 113. Aðalsteinn Ingólfsson: “Fjöllin eru minn sálarreitur”, Dagblaðið, March 5, 1988. (Interview) Hrafnhildur Schram: “5 menningarnir”, Mannlíf, Volume 5, Issue 7, 1988, pp. 68-77. (Interview) Gísli Sigurðsson: “Fimm ungir og upprennandi í Listasafni Íslands”, Lesbók Morgunblaðsins, September 3, 1988. John Peter Nilsson: “Nordens unga  80-talister-efterlyser naturen, uppfinner landskapet”, Manads journalen, nr. 3.

172

March 1988, p. 132. (Interview) Steve Sem-Sandberg: “Landskapet bortom synranden”, Svenska Dagbladet, May 6, 1989. Aðalsteinn Ingólfsson: “Old Skills to New Images: Recent Icelandic Printmaking”, Scandinavian Review, Autumn 1989, pp. 57-58. Halldór Björn Runólfsson: “Listamaðurinn og föndur hans”, Aurora 3, Helsinki, Nordiskt Konstcentrum, 1989. (Catalogue) Gertrud Sandqvist: “Maleri som fingeravtryck”, Svenska Dagbladet, February 23, 1991. Halldór Björn Runólfsson: “Intimacy, Austerity and Irony”, Flash Art, nr. 157, 1991, pp. 108-111. Tiina Nyrhinen: “Kaikki sulautuu horisonttiin”, Helsingin Sanomat, March 5, 1992. Rita Roos: “Molnet, himlen eller luften”, Hufvudstadsbladet, March 15, 1992. Guðrún Þóra: “Veit hvaðan ég kem, ekki hvert ég fer”, Lesbók Morgunblaðsins, May 16, 1992. (Interview) Hannes Sigurðsson: “Georg Guðni”, Aspetti Dell’Esperienza Nordica Nell’Arte 1980–1990, ll Paesaggio Culturale, Roma 1992. (Catalogue) Michael Casey: “Georg Guðni”, Siksi, 3, 1992, pp. 53-54. Gertrud Sandqvist: “Borderlines”, Tema Celeste, Contemporary Art Review, January-March 1992, nr. 34, pp. 80-84. Gunnar J. Árnason: “Í djúpum dal málverksins”, Pressan, April 29, 1993. Eiríkur Þorláksson: “Í skauti landsins”, Morgunblaðið, May 1, 1993. Ólafur Gíslason: “Landslagið og mynd þess”, Vikublaðið, May 7, 1993. Hannes Lárusson: “Magurt en þó feitt”, DV, May 11, 1993. Gunnar J. Árnason: “Georg Guðni”, Siksi, nr. 3, 1993, pp. 48-49. Hannes Sigurðsson: “Fjalla-fjöllun”, Skírnir, Autumn 1994, pp. 538-546. Gunnar B. Kvaran: “A Survey of Icelandic Art”, Ernst Museum, Budapest 1995. (Catalogue) Gunnar J. Árnason: “Georg Guðni”, New Territories, Stamford Art Centre 1996. (Catalogue) Margrét Elísabet Ólafsdóttir: “Legg allt í hverja einustu línu”, Alþýðublaðið, July 13, 1995. (Interview) Gunnar J. Árnason: “New Perspectives”, Iceland Review, 1995. Bragi Ásgeirsson: “Landsminni”, Morgunblaðið, July 25, 1995. Gunnar J. Árnason: “Georg Gudni”, Contemporary Art. Vol 3. No, 3, 1996, pp. 7-9. Paul Lydon: “Looking Out the Window”, Iceland Review, 1996. Sigrún Davíðsdóttir: “Ljós myrkursins – verk norrænna meistara”, Morgunblaðið, January 27, 1996. Hulda Stefánsdóttir: “Ímyndun og veruleiki geta verið jafn raunveruleg”, Morgunblaðið, April 18, 1998. (Interview) Gunnar J. Árnason: “Kammermúsík á striga”, Morgunblaðið, May 1, 1998. Áslaug Thorlacius: “Í faðmi dalsins”, DV, May 11, 1998. Silja Aðalsteinsdóttir: “Buskinn skiptir máli”, DV, May 15, 1998. (Interview) Richard Middleton: “From Here”, Iceland Review, nr. 4, 1998. Anders Olofsson: “Georg Gudni”, Galleri Lars Bohman, Stockholm, 1999. Halldór Björn Runólfsson: “Eftir syndafallið” Morgunblaðið, June 27, 1999. Sindri Freysson: “Ævintýradalur Georgs Guðna”, Lesbók Morgunblaðsins, February 19, 2000. (Interview) Jón Proppé: “Litróf heiðanna”, Morgunblaðið, March 3, 2000. Hrafnhildur Schram: Reykjavík málaranna/Reykjavik of the Painters, Mál og menning 2000, pp. 86-87. Vigdís Stefánsdóttir: “Horft inn í eilífðina”, 110 Reykjavík. Bær í borg. Rotaryklúbburinn Reykjavík, Árbær, 2001. (Interview) Jón K.B. Ransu: “Ógurleg fegurð náttúrunnar”, Morgunblaðið, July 20, 2002. Edward Weinman: “Painting Scandinavia”, Atlantica, September-October 2002. Gunnar J. Árnason: “Skoðun Georgs Guðna Haukssonar á landinu”, Georg Guðni, National Gallery of Iceland 2003. Gertrud Sandqvist: “Painting as Weaving”, Georg Guðni, National Gallery of Iceland 2003. Edward Weinman: “Imaginary Landscapes”, Atlantica, March-April 2003. Emilia Siltavuori: “Landskap med diffus horisont”, Hufvudstadbladet, March 13, 2004. Sverrir Guðjónsson: “Úrkoma í grennd; portrett Georg Guðni”, Hús og híbýli, nr.188, issue 12, 2004. Viggo Mortensen: “Introduction”, Strange Familiar, Perceval Press 2005, pp. 1-7. Jane Johnson: “The Landscapes of Iceland and Georg Guðni: Works in Progress”, Strange Familiar, Perceval Press 2005, pp. 8-21. Kevin Power: “Conversation with Georg Guðni”, Strange Familiar, Perceval Press 2005, pp. 23-57. Anna María Björnsson: “Mountain Man”, Iceland Review, 2005, pp. 34-39. (Interview) Anna Jóa: “Birta á landi”, Morgunblaðið, November 16, 2006, p. 57.

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ABOUT THE AUTHORS HANNES SIGURDSSON

has been actively involved in the art world for 27 years. He was appointed the director of the Akureyri Art Museum in 1999, and is the founder and director of the Icelandic Cultural Enterprise art.is. Sigurdsson received an M.A. in Art History from UC Berkeley, having previously studied at University College London and graduated from the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts, Department of Painting, and the Reykjavik College of Music as a flautist. He worked in New York for half a decade as an art correspondent and began his career as an independent curator there. Since then, he has edited and published dozens of books and catalogues and curated over 350 exhibitions and large-scale projects, including shows on Matthew Barney, Louise Bourgeois, Jenny Holzer, Per Kirkeby, Carolee Schneemann, Sally Mann, Peter Halley, Spencer Tunick, Joel-Peter Witkin, Andres Serrano, Komar and Melamid, Orlan, Barbara Kruger, Henri Cartier-Bresson, Rembrandt and Goya, to name but a few. Sigurdsson has collaborated with museums, institutions, educational authorities, corporations and galleries around the world in countries as diverse as Norway, Faroe Islands, Greenland, Latvia, Russia, Germany, England, France, Spain, Jordan, India, Japan and the United States. He is the founder of the Icelandic Visual Arts Awards that were launched in 2006.

ADALSTEINN INGÓLFSSON

is an art historian and presently director of the Icelandic Museum of Design and Applied Art in Gardabær. He has also been curator and senior curator at the Reykjavik Municipal Museum and the National Gallery of Iceland. He has worked as arts editor and chief arts reviewer for a Reykjavik newspaper, DV, and three magazines, Stord, Iceland Review and Atlantica. He has written on Icelandic art and culture for specialist magazines in Sweden, Denmark, Finland, England, the USA, Canada and France, and over twenty books on Icelandic and Scandinavian art and culture, the most recent being an acclaimed monograph on Faroese artist S.J. Mikines. Adalsteinn Ingólfsson has written essays for over a hundred exhibition catalogues and brochures in Iceland and elsewhere and curated around fifty exhibitions of Icelandic and foreign art in different countries. He has been a guest lecturer and visiting critic at numerous academic institutions in Scandinavia, England, Poland, Canada and the USA. Adalsteinn Ingólfsson studied in Scotland, England, Italy and Sweden and has an M.A. in English literature from the University of St. Andrews, Scotland, and an M.A. in Art History from the Courtauld Institute of Art, London.

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Pl. 68: Untitled, 2005, 200 x 190 cm Previous spread: Pl. 67: Untitled, 2000, 90 x 220 cm

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GEORG GUDNI

THE MOUNTAIN AKUREYRI ART MUSEUM 30 JUNE – 19 AUGUST 2007

Editor & Curator

Art.is/Erika Lind Isaksen Proofreading

Julian Thorsteinson, Shauna Laurel Jones, Bára Magnúsdóttir & Uggi Jónsson Photography Georg Gudni, Gudmundur Ingólfsson, Viktor Smári Saemundsson, Ívar Brynjólfsson, Hannes Sigurdsson,National Gallery of Iceland, Reykjavik Art Museum & The Labour Union’s Art Gallery CV & Bibliography

Sigrún Jónasdóttir Printing Oddi, Reykjavik, Iceland Paper

Galerie Silk, 200 gr Typography

Bulmer, Avenir ISBN 978-9979-9632-9-5

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

The following companies and individuals supported this publication:

Orustuhóll, Gunnar Dungal & Thórdís Alda Sigurdardóttir, Sjóvá-Almennar, Icelandair & Nordurorka

Georg Gudni (b. 1961) studied at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts in the early 1980s and at the Jan Van Eyck Akademie in Holland from 1985 to 1987. By mid-decade he had already breathed new life into both painting as a medium and into landscape â&#x20AC;&#x201D; so historically central to Icelandic national identity â&#x20AC;&#x201D; as a subject. Gudni has exhibited extensively in the Nordic countries and Western Europe, both solo and in group shows, as well as in the United States, China, and South America. His images are characterized by formal simplicity with a densely layered atmospheric quality that makes them optically engaging. His landscapes, subtle yet powerful, possess a refined sensibility not only to the Icelandic countryside he portrays, but also to the profound emotional and corporeal relationships with the natural environment that stand available to us all.

179

Selfportrait, 2000. Oil on canvas, 50 x 40 cm

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m outside, standing or sitting on a stone. I look around, toward the horizon, at the amplitudes and the mountains. Some stand close by, others further away. Automatically, the mind starts roaming or perhaps gliding around. I go into the distance, into eternity, where the mountains have impenetrable tranquillity, where they cease being mountains and become aeriform. I enter and pass through them. What exists in the mountain exists also outside of it, and in the surrounding quietude both dread and gloom reside. And in the air all the thoughts of the world can be accommodated. Georg Gudni

ISBN 978-9979-9632-9-5

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