Reykjavík Grapevine - 29.07.2011, Síða 22

“Ironically,
however, most
of the resistance he
faced was from other
gay men, who were
scared of exposure and
persecution.
Others were for a
long time convinced
that Hörður was
actually trying to
start a sex club.”
22
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 11 — 2011
From a young age, Hörður showed an aptitude for music.
“We always had music in my fam-
ily,” he says. “I express myself a lot
through music. Where other people
write in diaries, I write songs.”
Even at a tender age, his passion for
sticking up for the downtrodden was
evident. The first song he ever com-
posed, at the age of 12, was about a man
living in a piano box down by Reykja-
vík harbour. “There's always been this
strong power in me where I don't accept
unjust things,” he tells me.
This would carry over into young
adulthood when, at the age of 18, he was
fired for suggesting that his co-workers
organise a strike. Far from being a set-
back, at 20 he was offered a store man-
ager position at a major company. His
response was to ask for a week to think
about it. During this time, he came
to the conclusion that retail manage-
ment—as well as it would have paid—
would not be for him. “I made a deci-
sion never to be what I'm not: to be true
to myself.” And so, to the surprise of his
family and the owners of the company,
he declined the offer.
But Hörður had larger issues to
grapple with around that time, namely
his sexuality.
“I knew I was gay,” he says. “I didn't
have the word for it, but I just knew it.
And according to many people around
me, it was wrong. I was a criminal. I
was told I was a paedophile. I didn't get
any information about the matter, and
everyone told me to be quiet about it.
I knew I was gay when I was about 15.
You know that you're different, but you
just hide it in the beginning. I never
accepted that I was some criminal, or
something very wrong, but just that
I was different. I was fine with being
who I am. But other people weren't.”
The role of the artist
While considering his path in life,
Hörður first turned his attention to act-
ing.
“I was very shy, so I decided to go
into a private acting school, to learn
how to, well, speak up.” Private school
lead to the National Theatre's school for
acting and, at 24, he graduated as an
actor. Hörður, always one to have more
than one iron in the fire, had contracts
for two LPs at the time.
He mentions this offhandedly, as
if being an actor, lyricist and a signed
musician went fairly naturally together.
So I asked what led him into music and,
specifically, how he came to be Ice-
land's first troubadour.
Folk music, he tells me, was pretty
popular at the time, and he was drawn
to it as well. But while most people were
forming trios, Hörður decided specifi-
cally to go solo, for largely pragmatic
reasons. “I don't want to spend my time
waiting for other people,” he says. “I
hate it when people are late for rehears-
al. So I decided I'll go on my own. And
that's the way I've always worked.”
And work he did, playing impas-
sioned songs about life, beauty and
struggle for people around the country
and at parties in Reykjavík.
Shortly thereafter, Hörður went to
Denmark, where he came to a realisa-
tion about art that would have a lasting
effect on his life's work.
“I came to the conclusion that the
role of the artist is to speak out, to fight
the misuse of power,” he tells me. “Be-
ing popular is not going to be a big part
of my life. That's not going to be my
job and it's never been. I just follow my
heart.”
Also around this time, he began to
see how fighting the misuse of power
applied to gay rights. Discovering the
gay movement in Scandinavia, he be-
gan to read up on history, from Magnus
Hirschfeld to F-48. And how did this
apply to his everyday life?
“I discovered that I could be famous
and get a lot of money if I shut up about
who I was, my nature. But at the same
time, I'd see gay people in Reykjavík be-
ing beaten up. I could not accept this.”
Unbeknownst to him at the time, he
would end up being the catalyst for pre-
cisely the sort of change he wanted to
see.
The ambush
In 1975, a journalist from the magazine
Samuel contacted Hörður to discuss
the gay scene in Reykjavík. He agreed
to meet him and they spoke at length
about some of the ways the gay scene
operated at the time.
“I thought he wanted to talk about
the issue. What I didn't know is that
he recorded it.” The journalist revealed
that he had recorded the conversation
at the end of the talk, adding the caveat
that he believed Hörður had agreed to
meet him out of a sexual interest.
Rather than exploding into a rage or
demanding the tape be burned, Hörður
offered to do another interview, even
more in depth than the one he had
just done. The journalist accepted, but
it wasn't to be—instead, the journalist
went on vacation, and Samuel's editors
decided to run the ambush interview.
Hörður's life changed literally over-
night. On the day that issue of Samuel
hit the stands Hörður was busy filming
a movie and he recalls that passersby
were giving him strange looks on the
street. It wasn't until a shop owner
pointed out the interview to him that
he understood why, and that's when
things got ugly.
“My telephone was filled with
threats. But people didn't believe this
when I told them. They had this at-
titude that this was such a good, nice
society. I was silenced, totally. The only
solution for me was to move away.”
Hörður once again went to Den-
mark and sank into a deep depression.
At 32, he decided to commit suicide.
“I was determined that I was going
to do this. But then I understood how
deeply I would hurt my parents and
family. I couldn't take that. So instead,
I went out and had a beer in the middle
of the day for the first time,” he says,
laughing. “I celebrated life doing that.”
Following his renewed love for life,
he decided to take the persecution he
had faced in Iceland and transform it:
he would form a gay rights organisa-
tion, which would come to be known as
Samtökin 78.
The Icelandic gay rights
movement begins
While today Samtökin 78 is well known
for being an active and vibrant lobby,
it certainly didn't start out that way.
While trying to start his gay rights club,
Hörður went into directing amateur
theatre, and played his guitar on week-
ends, although he says no one would
come to the shows.
Ironically, however, most of the re-
sistance he faced was from other gay
men, who were scared of exposure and
persecution. Others were for a long
time convinced that Hörður was actu-
ally trying to start a sex club.
Frustrated by the hesitance of oth-
ers, he penned letters to every gay man
he knew in Reykjavík, informing them
of the f ledgling group's first meeting,
in his home. “That upset most of them,
because they were concerned their par-
ents would open the letter. And I said,
Hörður Torfason—troubadour, songwriter, actor, director and hu-
man rights activist—is one of Iceland's living legends. In recent
memory, he was the organising force behind the Pots and Pans
Revolution of 2008–2009, and has been invited to bring his phi-
losophy on activism to Spain, Mexico, and further afield. However,
he also happens to be Iceland's first openly gay man. I met Hörður
over lunch to talk about the trials and triumphs that brought him to
where he is today.