JPG

Destructive processes are at the root of all transformation. Art is a destructive process and so is life. So I guess we could conclude that life is art, whether or not we are conscious of it.

Why is it so hard to be conscious of it? And what would be the implications of being fully aware of continual death, decay and destruction? It is impossible to deny that there is nothing around, in or about you that isn't somewhere between birth and death, creation and destruction or in some form of evolution, and yet, a stubborn path to forget this key information prevails.

The rust covering every bit of iron in the herring factory is only one aspect of the crumbling well underway in this photo. The memories of this place and its original purpose are crumbling too, being replaced every day by the 1000 new ideas this place inspires in every person who sees it for the first time. I spent days here and it isn't until now that i even remembered that it had a fish stench or imagined it's first life in full force - all i could see were my plans for it - my story in it. I transformed every room again and again from a retired fish cannery into the playground for my imagination.

So what about my transformation? How does the death of one entity affect those around it? I'm not the same person I was before that building because I lost myself in there for days - bouncing like a rubber ball through infinite passages and never-ending rooms filled with gargantuan sculptures of metal upon concrete. Brand new ideas and the sproutlings of months of excitement and good decisions began there so that weeks of my life have unfolded out of this factory.

Maybe the factory is a metaphor for my transformation because in this place, i've started producing and burning a purposeful fuel just to churn out these cans of life sustaining morsels. When experiences like this begin to compound and build upon one another, there is a tuning in to a mysterious rhythm that opens and closes a set of wonderful, invisible doors.

Factories exist to transform materials into something new. Iceland was a factory, my relationship with Seanie Blue is a factory, taking photographs and writing about them is a factory and i swear that everything i reach for from now on will be a factory too.

In the Waking Up in Djupavik photo essay.