What strikes me most about Iceland is the water. It’s ubiquitous. It rains, it mists, it freezes, it steams and it erupts. Iceland is home to earth’s second biggest glacier, and to bubbling cauldrons and spouting geysers. Ocean surrounds the island, rivers divide it, hot springs heat it. Every house, every building, is powered by geothermal electricity and heated by hot water that streams through pipes like blood pulsing through bodies. Reykjavik’s city hall seems to float on a lake, waterfalls run wild across the countryside, and the island’s iconic Blue Lagoon lures tourists to interrupt transatlantic flights just to loll in its eerie neon-blue waters.
Am I infatuated with water because I live in the arid Southwest? Probably.
A 5-minute downpour in our summer monsoon is an occasion to celebrate. In Iceland, I soaked up even the near constant drizzle with joy. My photographs reflect it. They’re all about water in all its forms, including the consequences of all that water, like the spongy spring-green moss that grows on the equally ubiquitous lava. A very young island, it seems to be in or near constant eruption. You sense the tectonic forces in almost all the sights you see.