Sigur Rós concerts are memorable thanks in part to the band’s frontman and main vocalist Jónsi, whose voice is full of sorrow and hope all at once with an incredible range of high notes that sound like the violins that play behind him. Evoking bliss, childhood memories and the bracing Icelandic wind, his voice is reminiscent of the beginning segment of the film “Sans Soleil” by Chris Marker (1983), in which a narrator describes an image of three Icelandic children playing outside as her exact image of happiness. Yet living in Iceland also means enduring harsh winters full of darkness, where the sun is up for just four hours a day.
The exhibition “Jónsi: Flóð” (Flood), now on view at the Reykjavík Art Museum Hafnarhús, captures this dichotomy, translating what the musician typically does with sound into visual and, in some cases, olfactory input. In SAD (Skammdegisunglyndi / Seasonal Affective Disorder) (2024), an LED screen surrounds the viewer, mimicking the light therapy used to treat the malady. But as with the treatment, the light here does not necessarily feel equivalent to sunlight. It is a harsh white light that flickers, and soon its tempo starts to match the rhythm of Jónsi’s voice. It’s as if the artist himself lights the room, singing to soothe his soul.
Besides dark winters and cloudy days, Iceland has also been experiencing an unprecedented number of volcanic eruptions (during my visit, there was the threat of a sixth). In Jónsi’s REK (Plate Tectonics) (2024), rusted steel plates and transducers act as a metaphor for the seismic activity that is nearly constant here and has been for centuries. Sounds vibrate the steel plates, shaking them much as the earth’s core rattles during an eruption. There is also a faint smell of ash—scent is listed as one of the materials used in the work, and there are elements of olfactory art in the other pieces, as well.
I once heard from a cousin who knows Jónsi that the musician collects scents and is fond of capturing moments through olfaction using a library of perfumes that he tinkers with. In 2017, Jónsi and his three sisters started a family business making and selling perfumes inspired by Icelandic nature called Fischersund. In particular, their perfumes capture the elements that compose Icelandic nature: rain, grass, the faint smell of volcanic ash. One scent is named “Útilykt” which translates to “outdoor smell.” Some of the Fischersund perfumes evoke specific childhood memories, such as picking berries in autumn, swimming in the summer or even the smell of their grandfather’s pipe.
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The most immersive piece in the entire exhibition is Flóð (Flood) (2023), which engulfs you completely—first in darkness, and then the long stretch of LEDs on the ceiling flicker to the sound of crashing waves. It feels like being in the belly of a whale or deep underwater. There is the smell of something sweet, like the stem of a licorice root or crisp rain. The darkness is frightening at first but becomes soothing. Without sight, smells can guide us someplace in our minds. When the light is on, the black sand around the room is noticeable, a stand-in for the volcanic ash that surrounds homes after an eruption. When the lights turn off again, you are alone in your experience of smelling and listening and remembering.
Outside the museum, there is one more work by Jónsi, but I had to ask a museum guard for directions to find it. He pointed to the four cords hanging above us, near the entrance awning. “These are piano strings that make a sound when the wind blows. It sounds a bit like guitar strings, usually,” he said, as we stood together waiting for the wind to pick up.
