I first set foot in Iceland, at the age of 10, on a bleak winter’s night, in 1977. Snow was piled up in drifts, and a path from the aircraft had been cleared to the concrete shed which was then Keflavik Airport. Behind us was the foetid and overheated Loftleider Icelandic 707 which had brought us from Luxembourg and which would presently take us on to Washington, weather permitting. We were ushered into a brightly-lit and tatty terminal building, as though the set for Raid on Entebbe had been transported to the edge of the Arctic Circle. Yet I was intrigued. The post-War, functional architecture reminded me oddly of Hull. The blue tea cup filled with sweet, milky tea was strangely ‘self,’ rather than ‘other. Mum wanted to buy everyone big, wooly jumpers, and I ached to go and explore beyond the walls of the terminal. Many years later, I returned, to a bright and modern international airport, and a land that seduced me with its rugged, wild landscape and its oddly retro feel, a mix of corrugated iron and 1960s functionality. It was independent, not part of the EU, with its own money, its own language, and its own culture. Its food was delicious, its hotels disappointing, and its sights filled with mystery and awe. And when everyone else said no to allowing my partner and I to marry, Iceland said yes, and off we flew to Reykjavik and there we got married because we could not do so in our own land. So I want to share a few of my artworks and photographs inspired by this magical country.
My artworks can be purchased at https://www.artgallery.co.uk/artist/andrew_reid_wildman_2