Reykjavík Grapevine - 04.05.2018, Qupperneq 21

hair, and creatures that look like they
might have been washed ashore from
the depths of the ocean.
“Raw canvas was used to wrap
stockfish when it was dry, and they
would take a string, tie it, and pile
it up,” says Gabríela. “It’s something
specific to this little cultural spot
where I am from. I never questioned
the choice, really—I just used it a lot.
I never thought “why are you using
this?” But I feel that there’s something
essential about it, possibly because it
used to wrap that nutrition. It’s some-
thing root-connected.”
Periodic table
Gabríela did once try to define the
meanings of all her various materi-
als, like a personal periodic table of
elements. “I tried to map it, like a
nervous system,”
she says. “The
strings were the
mind, and the
hay bale was
the house; it
was strategic.
But it was too
rigid, and timid.”
She laughs. “It
seemed like a
great idea, but it
all leaked out in
other directions.”
I n s t e a d ,
Gabríela tries to
tease out mean-
ing through a
conversation with
each medium, to
find out what it
wants to become.
“That’s how it
works, for me,” she says. “You’re walk-
ing on a shore, or in a forest, and you
pick up a twig or a stone. That’s where
you start. It says “Hello, I’m here.” And
then you start to have a conversion,
and they politely ask you to continue.
And then they become something or
someone.”
The
inspiration well
An instinctive and curious mysti-
cism runs throughout Gabríela’s work.
From the questioning of her materials
through to the use of overtly mytho-
logical, philosophical, religious and
occult iconography, her work is rich
with symbolism and attains a certain
gravitas as a result.
“You have to build a universe around
an idea,” she explains. “Spirituality is a
source and a fountain, and you have to
look where that water comes from. It’s
about human behaviour, how people
create beliefs, and going back to the
roots. You have to understand your-
self—to use art as a mirror, in a way.
There are so many beautiful keys you
can use to open doors into spiritual
systems that mankind has been devel-
oping since the caves. You can delve
into, say, numerology; then everything
opens up, and you can see new aspects.
For me, this is a really visual process.
Spiritual systems around the world
are so similar, but they have different
imagery. I’ve gotten to know people
who use this the same way as me,
whether they’re musicians, or dancers,
or something else—they open doors,
and peek inside to find inspiration.”
Calls from
the universe
The task of actively learning, decoding
and expressing culture and spiritual-
ity is a big part of what Gabríela’s art
is about. She talks widely about her
world of influences, which includes
everything from Jungian philosophy
to Greek and Roman history, and from
Matisse’s musings on originality to
the surreal films of Armenian director
Sergei Parajanov.
“I think of an artist’s work like being
at a reception desk,” she says. “I feel
like we’re always receiving something,
and we take it inside and mix it with
something else, and then it comes out
as something else. It’s a mixture of the
outside with the inside. It’s like the
“móttaka” at a fish factory: the place
where you give and take. This is the
pure meaning of the art itself—to get
inspired, take something in, and put
something out. It’s like a dance or a
battle, and you end up with a video, or a
painting, or a sculpture, or whatever.”
Making
and doing
Gabríela’s art education took place at
the Icelandic Academy of the Arts in
the late nineties. She specialised in
sculpture, but often found herself rest-
lessly running between disciplines,
techniques and departments. After
starting to show her work in Reykjavík,
she considered furthering her studies
in the United States.
“I was thinking of enrolling in a
master’s degree,” she says. “I met the
dean of the School of Visual Arts in
New York, and I showed him all my
work and explained what I was doing.
He looked at me and said, “Gabríela,
why don’t you go home, and just make
art?” And so, that’s what I did.”
She never really stopped studying,
nonetheless. “I think I’m a bad scholar,
anyway,” she laughs. “I want to make
my own way through it all. When I was
reading art history, it was all about the
great white man of Europe, with only
tiny sections for African and Asian
art. I thought, “this is not true.” I had
to make my own way through history,
and make my own university. I made a
lot of effort to study, like an amateur
scholar.” She smiles. “I think I’m always
studying, actually.”
First, we take
Venice
In 2005, Gabríela represented Iceland
at the Venice Biennale. It helped to
bring her work to the attention of
European gallerists, critics, muse-
ums and art institutions. “I was lucky
that the European galleries were into
my work in Venice,” says Gabríela.
“It’s nice to have the opportunity to
work with museums as well as galler-
ies. Museums are more into scholarly
work, research, and the historical. I
love to work with museums—it’s the
best. Since then I’ve shown all over the
world. It’s quite nice.”
But still, she doesn’t like to get too
comfortable. “We’re a little spoilt here
in Iceland sometimes, with our clean
water, and healthy children, and no
war,” she says. “I’m showing some
work in Belgrade Biennale this fall—
it’s called the Oktobarski Salon. It used
to be very locally oriented, but the
curators, Danielle and Gunnar Kvaran,
are opening it out to be more interna-
tional. I like the title: “The Marvellous
Cacophony.” I’m interested to go there
and see how the effect war has had.”
The strange
world
In the meantime, she has plenty of time
to continue learning, dreaming—and
worrying. “The world is really strange,”
says Gabríela, furrowing her brow.
“We humans are stupid, and strange
in our dreams. I worry about a lot of
things, but I try to turn it into some-
thing creative, or I wouldn’t survive.
When you’re far away from the turbu-
lence, it’s so easy to close and pretend it
isn’t there. Then you think: “What am I
doing, just making my monkey paint-
ings?” And then you’re like: “No! That’s
my purpose.”
“You have to know where your place
is,” she finishes. “You cannot be a
doctor without borders when you’re a
painter—that’s not what you’re about.
You have to give out your message, and
that can perhaps help others’ souls.
Because when someone gets freedom
in their soul, then they’re halfway out
of misery. You have to continue, and
maybe break some boundaries and
make a certain thing that wasn’t there
before. You cannot be miserable when
you actually have the freedom. That
wouldn’t help anyone.”
“My grand-
mother would
make beautiful
things out of
nothing.
She’d collect
these plastic
milk bags from
the co-op store,
rinse them,
and weave
things.”
21The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 07 — 2018