Reykjavík Grapevine - 02.08.2013, Qupperneq 32

32The Reykjavík Grapevine Issue 11 — 2013
THE NUMBER 1 MUSIC STORE
IN EUROPE ACCORDING TO
LONELY PLANET
SKÓLAVÖRÐUSTÍG 15, 101 REYKJAVÍK AND HARPA CONCERT HALL
Art
Spontaneous Combustion
Pólar festival and the town of Stöðvarfjörður
make something where others saw nothing
"Flott fjörd!" announced our driver as we pull into Stöðvarfjörður. It was the first exchange of words we had the whole
trip. He spoke no English, the only thread of communication tying us together was our own crinkled paper sign that
read "Stöðvarfjörður," and a matching label on a pack of newspapers sitting in his front seat.
To get there from the airport in Egilsstaðir one
relies on a series of ad hoc busses and the
generosity of strangers. Our route in particular
was made possible by two boys on break from
their rental car company, a small red bus shut-
tling long-haired sleepy men to a metal festival
a couple fjörds away, and the local newspaper
delivery man.
You don't need to know where you're
going in Stöðvarfjörður to find the festival.
Just follow the only road into town, and stop.
On the right side of the main drag there is a
community centre covered in fresh stripes of
teal and blue, a graffiti project taken up by the
local kids for the festival. Just across the road
a dim beige sign beckons passers-by with the
promise of hot food, groceries, and souvenirs.
And just beyond that rests the diamond-in-the-
rough old fish factory. The highest wall reads
"HERE" in neon orange letters, confirming your
arrival.
When we arrive in the early evening of July
12, it is as if the festival has awoken sleepy
Stöðvarfjörður from an eight-year long nap.
She shakes the scruff out of her hair and jumps
up, spry with potential. Before arriving I wor-
ried that importing the art and music scene
from Reykjavík to a town of 190 would be in-
vasive, and unwelcome. I could not have been
more wrong. It was clear from the moment we
pull back the creaky, sliding doors of the van
that collaboration was central to this festival.
Nourishment for the collaborative
spirit (aka horse meat sandwiches)
Two wooden tables and a grill were posted be-
side the community centre. On one sat a mixed
arrangement of pots, each filled with a differ-
ent soup. In tiny glass jars we sampled a salty
vegetable soup, fish soup, carrot soup, and
something having to do with sweet potatoes.
On the other table a tinfoil tray offered steam-
ing horsemeat sandwiches, fresh off the grill
and wrapped in triangular pita pockets. Topped
with cocktail sauce.
Feeling full and warm from the inside out I
started to work my way back to the campsite
for some comfy layers. Meanwhile, down at the
harbour, a performance art piece had begun
and a flood of faces urged me to turn the other
way. I obeyed and headed to the water just in
time to catch two women in a rowboat covered
in a mesh sheet float around the harbour for
about ten minutes. No one seemed to know if
this was the performance or not. The women
docked and everybody turned toward each
other, conversation continued casually. What
we had just witnessed was still unclear, but
no one minded as the weather was nice, beers
were plentiful, and a DJ had started blasting
some sounds in front of the
old fish factory.
De/Construction
My first genuine introduc-
tion to the fish factory came
from a graphic designer and
graffiti artist named Narfi.
Narfi was passing through
Stöðvarfjörður with a group of friends under
the collective name RWS. Aside from dous-
ing the plain walls with vibrant designs and
thoroughly enjoying themselves, the group was
in charge of leading the local kids in visually
renovating the community centre. Narfi was
eager to show off the factory's interior—thriv-
ing on creation as much as destruction. A 2,860
square-metre work in progress.
The entry room gives the impression of a
young museum, complete with houseplants
and a false snake. A "gift shop" welcomes visi-
tors with fluttering price tags and a full-length
mirror. Just
around the
corner, empty
doorways reveal
fluorescent
rooms full of
recycled and
reclaimed
supplies—drip-
ping and crusty paint buckets, brushes and
spray cans, tools and wooden cut outs. There
is no distinction between the deliberate and
the scrap in the fish factory. Everything has a
purpose.
Upstairs, a lounge area has been carved into
the room by the strategic placement of some
couches and an ashtray. A kitchen welcomes
visitors with a handcrafted jukebox and a cof-
fee maker. A man they call Smári walks up to
the jukebox contraption and throws on some
tunes. Smári made the jukebox himself. He is
the official un-official carpenter/handyman/
jukebox constructer of the factory.
A little too quiet
Just outside, beneath a massive mural of two
neon orange fish, there is a once-pink couch,
faded to nearly white by the sun. It's here that
I first meet Rosa and Zdenek, the couple who
ambitiously purchased the factory back in 2011.
Rosa pops up to introduce herself, bubbling
with pride and alcohol. They laugh and mingle
with the festivalgoers, youthful spirits with
mature aspirations.
Before they bought the fish factory, Rosa
and Zdenek lived quietly up the road in
Stöðvarfjörður. "We were running our own
company called MupiMup. We recycled things,
industrial waste and scraps and turned them
into art," Zdenek explains. "We had very sweet
lives," Rosa laughs, a spark appears within
them as they reminisce about the calm before
the factory. MupiMup lives on as both a com-
No one seemed to know
if this was the
performance or not.
By Parker Yamasaki
Magnús Andersen