One of my most treasured memories of the Westfjords Residency (February 2020) was a group visit to the house of Guðbjörg Lind Jónsdóttir. As we crossed the threshold, her quiet curation cast a spell of peace and tranquillity. A private view served with a drop of apple liqueur.
Every corner of her domestic arrangement is an exquisitely poised still-life. Her home is an art installation, a testament to the marvellous within the everyday. The walls are delicately collaged with vintage photographs of Icelandic ancestors. One window, two visions: the present day and the historical dock. On surfaces, glass bottles and other dream objects – memento mori or conduits to our elsewheres. An imaginary taxonomy.
At the heart of this space, what could be more appropriate than a station with which to type wishes? We each take our turn, the tap, tap, tapping channelling our collective unconscious. I think of Gaston Bachelard’s poetic conditions of being housed (1958), but I write something else. My paper is folded and placed in the stove: “I wish to curate a show of this work.”
