Over the last twelve years I have studied light and its interdependent link with matter. Our bodily experience pegs light as a fleeting presence, and our colloquial references to light are bound to this perception: the sun rises and sets, a shadow appears, a beam of light enters the room; But science tells us that light is a constant, which makes us the variable. Placing emphasis on the transience of our world, I capture formations of flux, and use glass as a physical layer to harness light as a part of the work. Simply put, light and glass have been the materials of my work.

This past month, I had the privilege of participating in a residency Iceland for all of June, when the days are the longest. I stayed in a large refurbished building called Korpúlfssta∂ir and was one among twenty international artists who stayed in Reykjavík that month. During the Summer Solstice, Iceland’s corner of the earth only turns away from the sun enough to make the sky dusky for a couple hours. In that season and place, light as a constant takes on new meaning. Not only was I hyper aware of the earth’s position in relation to the sun, but I was in one of the most dynamic and varied terrains on the planet.

I went to Iceland with the intention of making cyanotypes that engage with the landscape. Cyanotypes are one the oldest and substantially nontoxic photographic processes. By chemically treating paper, I make it light sensitive, so that UV exposure turns the paper bright blue, and obstructions protect the paper’s original tone, creating an image. Rather than using light as one of my materials, as I’ve historically done, the cyanotype process has allowed me to use light as a tool. I hoped to find movable parts of the terrain that I could use as obstructions to make an image, but I never imagined how perfect my discoveries would be.

I spent about half my time traveling around the island and the other half working in my studio on the outskirts of Reykjavík. On the days I wasn’t traveling, I usually took a seven minute walk to the beach and walked along its rocky coast. One day, I walked a bit further and came to a flatter portion of the beach that was filled with rocks, shells, and seaweed. One of the rocks appeared to have a soft white glow to it, and when I bent down I realized it wasn’t a rock, but a piece of sea glass. After the first few pieces, I began to see it everywhere, and since I’m already fascinated with glass, I naturally began to collect it.

Bringing this sea glass back to my studio, I made cyanotypes with it. Herein was my delightful surprise: I was not only using light as an image making tool, but salvaged glass as well. Just like my found glass panels in Philadelphia, I was able to give this detritus new life. Placing the sea glass on the paper, I exposed it to the sun, and about halfway through exposure, I moved the pieces around to create a layered affect. I used these cyanotypes in works titled “Sjógler,” meaning sea glass. I later found out that this sea glass had originated from the very building where I was working, and I could sometimes identify remnants of the name Korpúlssta∂ir. As it turns out, Korpúlfssta∂ir used to be a milk factory, and the workers would discard excess glass bottles in the ocean.

As I traveled around the country, I was astounded by how many different types of geological forms can be made from lava, depending on how even the molten mixture is and how quickly it cools. However varied and surprising Iceland was, one of its enduring features is its waterfalls. Sometimes the waterfalls coming over a massive cliff were so incredible that I drove up to them, certain it was a national park, only to find it was just someone’s backyard (oops!). Thinking about the rushing movement of one deluge after another, I made a series of paintings on mylar which I then used as obstructions for cyanotypes. I used these cyanotypes in pieces titled “Skógafoss,” named after a huge waterfall on the southern coast.

Wanting something textural to interrupt my clean blue prints, I began to make mixed media works on paper that evoke my memory of the seaweed and moss. I layered a green seaweed piece with a blue cyanotype print, and making a single incision through both papers, I hand cut shapes that conveyed my meandering pathways, the lumpy moss covered lava fields, and curving gorges. After cutting through both pieces, I switched and reattached the shapes with tape, continuing this process until the two works became intertwined counterparts to each other. Some of the sets have an inverse effect, as they are exact opposites of one another, while other sets are trickier to identify. Throughout my process, I began to rotate one of the papers 180 degrees before the second cut, so the incisions were the same, but the overall compositions don’t quite match. During my residency, I made ten sets of two—twenty works on paper total. I hung them in a grid, and no two counterparts were in the same row.

I like to think of these counterparts as two autonomous works that are connected. My hope is that some will belong to pairs of friends or distant family members, some will stay together, and others will part ways forever. Ultimately letting go of where these works end up is a celebration of life itself. All connections, whether brief or permanent, pivotal or peripheral, lost or found—play a meaningful part.

This series of work is just one thread that I was able to extrapolate during my short time in Iceland. I have learned to trust the process of experiencing a place and seeing how it shows up in my work, both formally and conceptually, and I’m excited to see how these thoughts and memories continue to inform my studio practice.

When Materials Become Tools | Iceland Residency