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Fordypningsrommet, Fleinvaer

I was lucky enough to spend a week as artist in residence on a tiny island in the arctic circle this January, invited by Norwegian musician and innovator Håvard Lund. It was a unique, beautiful & unforgettable experience. Whilst there, I spent two days taking photographs & five days very ill...but recorded the hardanger fiddle playing and singing of a wonderful woman called Hanna. Here, I set her work to some images that I filmed on the island. The eerie noises you hear at the beginning and end of the video were recorded on the island's jetty. Whilst first I thought they might be the songs of whales, I think now they are the song of the island sighing in the wind. Two pieces of metal rubbing together and making the sound of ice glinting beneath the resonance of stars. . . Here is the poem that was gifted to me by the island. A place that didn't need my music as it had so much music of its own. 1. Moss, Ice, water, stone We are a game played by the Arctic winds: Those old sky gods who could not let go But rode here on the snow white backs of thundering stallions, Whinnying storm clouds, their hooves, the grey metal dawn across the water. They take their dice and roll Aurora Skittering like stones across the ice-ridden sound. Their clapping hands producing only silence, Louder than temple bells. Here, stone endures and brittle breaks. The water in me longs to be part of the sky And moss and seaweed wait beneath the ice To taste remembered starlight. 2. My love cloaks me in fur and feathers At my throat, a choker of emeralds The world, a mantle of grass Beneath a clamour of rose-capped mountains. I am earth, sky and stars. I am the sun’s slow ascent and burning fall A smattering of islands at my breast And my heart slow as the beat of icebergs. I am the sound of all things. The silence when all things are still. I am the moon that spins a half circle under glass And returns with the eider, Wings reflected in the mirrored sea. 3. Water, ice, moss, stone. I am the North Star and the compass point The pivot and the sinking of ships The place where silence is born In the squalling of rain upon ripple, From the mouths of seabirds who dip their wings into the sea like iron tongues To taste salt and starlight Sealed up in blues and greens and greys Where the old gods speak in the silence And the silence is full of the chatter of gods. Where the chatter of gods is in the silence. Moss, earth, water, stone