Stefán Erlendsson
Gunnar Örn: “Visual art is a spiritual realm …”
When I accepted a teaching position at Laugalandsskóli in Holt in the late nineteen
nineties it immediately caught my attention that a number of art pieces graced the
premises of the school and the local cultural centre. On the walls hung works by
renowned artists such as Örlygur Sigurðsson, Erró, Bragi Ásgeirsson, Gunnar Örn
Gunnarsson and Vignir Jóhannsson. This surprised me and I was told that most of the
works were there at the initiative of Gunnar Örn who had given many of them to the
school which also had bought one or two works from him.
Around this time, the only thing I knew about Gunnar Örn was that he had been a
prominent name on the Icelandic art scene. Local people spoke of him as the county’s
artist and encouraged me to visit him in his studio at Kambur farm. That is where our
acquaintance began.
On my first visit, Gunnar showed me a myriad of works from different periods,
many of which I found rather interesting. Among these were works he called meditative
paintings and several of them decorated his home. Not knowing much about art, I
hesitantly asked him why he had painted these pieces in abstract style. I only paint
figuratively, he promptly replied.
A few months later, I paid Gunnar a second visit at his studio. Now I bought two
works. These were rather small prints, made with mixed technique. He called them
monotypes. Ballpoint pen strokes are drawn onto the first print, which depicts strange
creatures and faces in different postures, and the paper had been specifically processed to
make it look old and worn. Oil paint is painted onto the second print, which designates a
male’s genitals, sperm cells and eggs – or alternatively souls of the dead going through
reincarnation. I was so impecunious that I had to finance the purchase with a bank loan.
From then on, I met Gunnar Örn only sporadically during my stay in Laugaland
and on those occasions we always took the time to talk. He once told me loosely about
questionable business he had done with art dealers, nouveau-riche business persons and
financial firms. I was then moving back to Reykjavik and had been entrusted with the
teaching of a course in business ethics at the University of Iceland. Parts of Gunnar’s
narration struck me as a text book example in that field of study, especially concerning
the important distinction between law and morality and the tension between these two
spheres. He agreed to meet me for a “formal” interview about this which I could use as a
case study material. Half a year later I made a trip east to Kambur with a Dictaphone in
my shoulder bag and asked him some pertinent questions.
***
Obviously, the better part of the interview revolved around the experience Gunnar Örn
had with the business side of being an artist. But other matters of interest came up in our
conversation as well. Gunnar’s answers, for example, neatly reflect his basic outlook on
life, which was first and foremost spiritual, grounded in his artistic experience. Likewise,
he openly expresses how he experienced conflicts between this spiritual realm of art and
the materialistic realm of business, money and toil. Finally, he mentions a changed
attitude towards the visual arts and their situation in the crucible of the present.
For my own purposes, I specifically utilised the aftermath of an exhibition Gunnar
Örn set up in the common dining room of two financial companies, whether they had
been obliged to buy an artwork from him in accordance with an informal practice in that
regard or pay him rent for the loan of his artworks even if this had not been formally
agreed upon beforehand. Here we have a clash between two “disparate” and
non-matching worlds, Gunnar observes. On the one hand is the business world, “with its
cold hard facts,” where “everything is tied down by rules,” and legally guaranteed. On the
other hand, is “some kind of lyrical world” in which he lives and thrives. Those involved
in creative work, like him, think “completely differently than hard core businesspeople.”
Find it unnecessary “to have everything in writing that has been said or implied.” People
should be able to “talk to each other and settle things that way.”
Although “a work of art may be seen as an object I don’t see it that way …,” Gunnar says.
“I don’t perceive artwork as an object which is like any other object for sale
even if it is being sold. This is in my view a spiritual realm and spiritual thought which is
being hung up,” he adds. “But you must get your share to be able to move on and live in
this society where nobody survives without money. It is of course disappointing that this
aspect is not considered.” In his opinion, we do not need formal rules, only good
morality. “Good morality should be enough.”
“But maybe this is somewhat my idiosyncrasy,” Gunnar admits. At the same time,
he emphasises that the zeitgeist has changed since he began his career as an artist around
1970. Then verbal agreements about down payment and monthly instalments for the
purchase of artworks were often sealed by a simple handshake and it held. Today it is
advisable to secure oneself by always making a written contract for such sales or other
transactions. “I regret that the handshake no longer suffices, the mutual trust underlying
informal trading of this sort.”
According to Gunnar Örn, a lot of other things have changed during his thirty five
years as a practicing artist. For example, it has “become a habitual attitude” that “visual
art is just part of the daily consumption,” he says. “And even that it only takes place in
the media.” You do not have to bring it to your home. “The attitude is starting to creep in
now that you are just a consumer and participating in media fun, revolving around
culture, and even that people no longer bother to go to art exhibitions,” let alone being
interested in having artwork “on their walls.”
“And it’s all well and good. This is perhaps a normal attitude considering what is
happening in our society or at present,” Gunnar continues. “But it is a bit primitive.” He
often drives from the countryside to Reykjavik to see art exhibitions and most often he is
“alone in the galleries.” Says he never attends openings because he “wants to see the
artwork” and usually goes in the middle of the week. “There are so few people at
exhibitions compared to what used to be in the past …”
“I am so old that I have experienced an incredible breadth in this field, in just 35
years. The speed has increased so much now that the consumption is instant, it is sort of
instant fed and things must not take too long …” Conversely, Gunnar emphasises that
even if “things” have been different “in the past” it does not mean that “they should
therefore remain” unaltered forever. “Our existence is ever-changing; every day is a new
day and …offers new thinking. But one finds the tendency that everything is afloat a bit
strange. And how people are against going deep into things.”
***
The interview with Gunnar Örn was conducted in late February 2002. At that time, I had
recently started teaching the course in business ethics at the University of Iceland but my
main occupation was Danish teaching in Varmárskóli in Mosfellsbær. On so-called
Theme Days in the latter school in the early spring this same year, which were devoted to
the 100th anniversary of Nobel laureate Halldór Laxness, I came across a poetry
collection by him entitled Unglingurinn í skóginum (The Adolescent in the Wood),
illustrated with artworks of leading Icelandic artists, including a work by Gunnar Örn.
It is still fresh in my memory when I browsed through the book and saw a
photograph of this piece for the first time. I was overwhelmingly amazed and hardly
thought about anything else for days afterwards. Nor could I sleep at night, if I remember
correctly. Finally, I dared to call Gunnar and asked him: Where is this painting? In my
studio, he answered immediately. Is it for sale? I continued. We can discuss that, he
replied. A fortnight later, I visited Gunnar in his studio where he had placed the painting
on an easel for display. Face to face with it I became completely spellbound. The work
looked much more magnificent than on a photograph.
As usual, I was short of cash and could not afford to buy the painting. It does not
matter, Gunnar said. You just pay for it when you can. And we confirmed the “deal” with
a handshake. I asked him to keep the painting until I was ready to start paying
instalments. Two years later he phoned me and asked whether I was still interested in the
painting. Slightly offended I replied that we had sealed the deal and I had no intention of
dishonouring our agreement. Two days later Gunnar brought the painting to my abode in
Reykjavik and handed it to me with the words that now it was home.
Gunnar had been entrusted with illustrating a poem in the collection named “You
kissed my hand.” The poem is about forbidden love, the abyssal gap that can be found
between people from different walks of life and the anguish of the one who is left behind
and feels betrayed. This is a relatively big oil painting. I asked Gunnar about the
connection between the illustrative material and the poem, why he had painted it the way
he did but not somehow otherwise. He told me that he had been profoundly inspired by
the poem, which he pondered deeply, and the illustrative material, the particular shapes
and colours had simply flowed from the brush and emerged on the canvas.
The painting is quite dark, but also painted with dashed colours, purple, orange
and light blue, and parts of the canvas are white or left unpainted, making it lighter. The
base form is cordate on an umber surface. Two heads lean towards each other, one faces
diagonally upwards to the left on the left half of the base form, but the other is top centre
and faces diagonally downwards to the left. The heads touch and lie in some kind of bag
which, on closer inspection, is the third and largest head, depicted in profile, and
constitutes the lower half of the base form. This is a portrait of the Nobel Laureate
himself, with three heads, from different times of his life – since he was just over twenty
years old, in his mid-thirties and well into his nineties.
Like all great works of art, the painting is balanced, there is nothing in it that
disturbs the spectator. Some perceive pain in it, grief or sadness.
***
At this point in time, I started coming more often to art exhibitions that Gunnar Örn
organised at Gallery Kambur, the old farmhouse he had furnished for exhibitions
displaying artworks by domestic and foreign artists alike, as well as exhibitions of his
own works there and elsewhere. Thereby, I gradually got to know Gunnar better. We
usually talked to one another on these occasions, about anything and everything, and
enjoyed each other’s company. It perhaps goes without saying, that the art and the works
on display were the first topic of discussion.
As mentioned, Gunnar’s outlook on life was primarily spiritual, shaped by the
experience of the artist. For a period of time, he also embarked on a spiritual journey to
explore the unfathomable dimensions of existence, which he then expressed through his
artistic creativity. In that quest he was authentic and true to himself. No wonder that he
thought I was “so immersed in thought,” as he once said to me, preoccupied with
conceptual thinking and worldly affairs like politics and society, notwithstanding my
genuine interest in visual arts.
But Gunnar was not only spiritually-minded, he was also a child of nature. Felt it
was important to protect intact nature, found it at once mystical and powerful, and an
inexhaustible source of ideas and artistic creation. To that extent he was worldly-minded,
political in the widest sense, stayed abreast of current issues and took a stand. Was
constructively critical. Had a strong sense of justice and called for an equitable society
that enabled all men to thrive, develop their ability to create and enjoy.
The account which Gunnar Örn gave of his various business dealings as an artist
also shows that he was honest and righteous and would “rather trust and regret than doubt
and regret” (Kirito). Got burned and took the pain. But kept going. Continued to have
faith in people, perhaps not everyone, but those who seemed trustworthy. And it was
always pleasant to meet Gunnar. He was sincere and a good communicator, brought out
unusual or unexpected aspects of the topic and often had something interesting to say.
Gunnar, for example, raised my awareness of the figurative dimension of nature.
He was consistently preoccupied with that side of nature, saw living forms and figures in
all landscape, and, among other things, painted landscapes in that style. We all see this, of
course, but to different degrees and each with his/her own eyes. I began watching more,
to take a closer look, and before long I saw faces, trolls and monsters everywhere I
looked. Not just in nature, but also in artworks, regardless of whether they are figurative
or abstract, and other kinds of objects.
This changed my nature experience on horse riding tours I have been guiding for
Eldhestar horse rental the past twenty years. It is an incomparable feeling to experience
nature from the back of a horse. As the horse obtains a firm footing in a barren landscape
the rider can look around and let his/her imagination run wild where the nature
transforms into strange figures, a face appears in a cliff or a pillar of rock, a giant frowns,
a bird sits on a stone, an elf queen sends a mysterious smile from inside a rock face.
Gunnar was a horseman and has no doubt seen something of this sort on his travels.
***
It is a bright and beautiful day. This is the summer of 2007. I am at Kambur farm where
Gunnar Örn held his last art exhibition. He had just finished enlarging the studio, adding
to it a considerable exhibition space in addition to what was already there in Kambur
Gallery – the only international gallery in the countryside of Iceland where renowned
foreign artists exhibited their works.
People come flocking. Friends and family, compatriots, fellow artists and other art
lovers enter the farmyard and step out of their cars with a smile on their face. Gunnar is in
high spirits. He has renewed himself as an artist, changed course in his artistic creation
once again. The exhibition crystallises this change. The artist is surrounded by family and
friends and he feels blessed. This is a harvest festival and joy alone reigns there, beyond
all demands.
I have arrived early and take the time to look at the exhibition and chat with
friends and acquaintances, and of course Gunnar himself. Actually, I spend the whole
afternoon at Kambur. No one in their right mind would leave early on a day like that.
Besides, I am determined to buy a painting. Browse through the exhibition a few more
times and eventually make up my mind. Then I approach Gunnar and ask him if he has
any objections to sealing the purchase with a handshake on similar terms as before. He
nods in agreement and adds: You made a good choice, this is a successful piece of art.
The work in question is a medium-sized oil painting in strong earth tones. The
background colour is bottle green. The upper part of a naked male, mostly painted in
white, fills the left side of the canvas. The head is greyish and empty, and given that the
soul resides in there, it appears to be leaving the body. A pattern or embellishment
constituting eye expressions or half-faces, possibly representing emotions, is painted on
the breast. On the right half is a free standing wall, primarily mossy green, which tapers
into the painting creating the appearance of three-dimensional space. A white-painted
gable wall glints deep inside. The floor is brown.
The name of the piece is “Emptiness.” When asked, Gunnar explains that he had
been trying to capture the feeling of being like a guest in one’s own existence, of not
recognising oneself in one’s immediate surroundings. I am myself in some kind of void in
my life and the piece, among other things, appeals to me for that reason. Besides, this
could easily be me in the painting. The body shape is not too dissimilar to mine.
***
When Gunnar and I shook hands on the purchase of the painting and said goodbye to
each other on this beautiful sunny day it did not occur to me that I would never see him
again. After that we only spoke on the phone. Eight months later Gunnar died.