Reykjavík Grapevine - Jun 2023, Page 17

17 Culture
into a gallery space; the contents of
the Art Crate – a literal box full of art
pieces set to travel the world – were
displayed on both gallery floors.
A massive sea of cables, cords,
pedals and instruments of all
shapes and sizes covered the inner-
most part of the space. The night
opened with a DJ set consisting
exclusively of 78 rpm vinyl records
played by Ingi Garðar Erlendsson.
Spooky voices of long-dead singers
reverberated off the gallery walls.

A MENGI VIBE IN
BROOKLYN CLIMATE
The performing artists showcasing
the Mengi talent were ASALAUS,
Ásta Fanney, Bára Gísladóttir, Benni
Hemm Hemm and the Melting
Diamond Band, Guðmundur Ari
Arnalds, Gyða Valtýsdóttir, Ingi
Garðar, Kristín Valtýsdóttir and Páll
Ivan Frá Eiðum. Each artist brought
their unique style and setlists, but
the happening was defined by the
fluidity of collaboration. Benni Hemm
Hemm assumed the role of a singer
with double bassist Bára Gísladóttir;
Ásta Fanney made throat noises on
top of ASALAUS’ dispersed guitar
playing.

This felt like the highlight of the show
and, in a way, evocative of Icelandic
music. People imbued their personal
skills and talents into their friends’
performances, making for a wholly
unique experience. The artists ex-
perimented and improvised. Nothing
was wrong, everything was allowed.
“It has a Mengi vibe,” remarked the
Grapevine’s photographer.
One unexpected difficulty arose:
the venue did not have a suitable
bass amp. “It’s ok though,” said
Guðmundur Ari, a Mengi curator
and member of Final Boss Type
Zero. “I’ll adjust my Ableton set.”
Which he did, roughly 30 minutes
before going onstage.

During Kristín Valtýsdóttir’s set,
screeching feedback erupted from
a guest’s phone. “It’s all right,” Kristín
remarked behind her keyboard – still
playing, “If you’ve been here tonight
you should know it’s ok. It’s an art
space, everything’s allowed.”

One highlight of the evening was
Ásta Fanney’s performance. A
poet and visual artist, Ásta Fanney
improvised most of her set, which
ranged from making strange rasping
sounds to delivering a hauntingly
beautiful ballad. “Everything sur-
prised me. Everything was impro-
vised, just done on the spot. No
one knows what happens until it
does,” said Ásta Fanney after her
per formance.

The crowd, which was comprised
of both local New Yorkers and Ice-
landers, was enchanted. The artists
were riding high after the show, but
jet lag soon took over, commanding
them to the refuge of their beds.

TEMPORARY LITERATURE
On Saturday morning, the troupe
met at their apartment to rehearse
for the evening. Ásta Fanney brought
matching grey flannel shirts for the
artists, who started stretching and
warming up for a rehearsal. There
was no way of knowing what the
evening had in store, neither for
the audience nor the artists. It was
Tunglið’s time to shine, debuting
three new English-language
literature pieces: “A Hyena Called
Yesterday” by Ásta Fanney, “My
Father’s Library” by Ragnar Helgi
(an English translation of an earlier
book), and “Raw Salon – Sitcom,”
by Canadian-born Icelandic citizen
Anne Carson.

Earlier on Saturday, both Ásta and
Ragnar had participated in a panel
discussion of their books and the
Icelandic literature scene. It was
at the panel the Icelandic authors
mentioned the ephemeral nature
of their work and of Tunglið’s entire
operation: The books are not meant
to be everlasting, catalogued and
kept in a library for the end of days.
They represent intense creative out-
bursts, which come and fade away.
Ásta read an excerpt from her book,
“Hyena Called Yesterday,” and the
morning’s rehearsal started to make
slightly more sense.

With a few welcoming sentiments
and a note on the nature of Tunglið,
Ásta was first to hit the stage.
Capturing the audience’s undivided
attention, Ásta’s set sprung to life.
As she read, the flannel-clad ‘hye-
nas’ took turns walking around the
room, shouting “I want what’s best
for me,” while a blow-up globe was
thrown around the pristinely white
gallery. A book reading like no other,
it brought a deep dimension to an
otherwise routine format.

It might have been right after a
chapter reading of Ragnar Helgi’s
book, or maybe before – everything
seemed blurry – when faint singing
could be heard from outside. Almost
angelic, the singing grew and grew,
reaching a peak when the sound’s
source came into view.

The audience grew silent. The
performers paused. Did Ragnar
Helgi plan for this? Before anyone
could voice their questions aloud,
a long line of people dressed in
white marched past the gallery
space. Led by what presumably was
a priest, four people carried a small
white ark, while the ecclesiastical
gathering sang hymns.

“How serendipitous for a chapter
about communicating with the dead
to be interrupted by a funeral pro-
cession,” remarked Ragnar after
the show.
The weekend was a success, at
least in the minds of the performers.
“An artistic triumph; a commercial
failure,” said Ragnar. Having con-
quered New York, The Singing Fish
Circus plans on taking on other
cities in the future.
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How serendipitous for a
chapter about communicating
with the dead to be interrupted
by a funeral procession.