Streets of Reykjavik
The Artist at Work
We're going on the town to get drunk for the first time, to become men. Braveheart rattles on about his dad the artist, the writer, the poet.
The light from the artist's window penetrates the thick snowfall.
Braveheart rings the bell.
Snow covers our hair and shoulders. He buzzes again. Drunken laughter resonates from above while Braveheart bangs on the door.
Like lumbering snowmen we leave in silence.
Her statue has stood in the middle of the small park since I can remember. As a boy I would hurl snowballs between her thighs without remorse for my sacrilege.
These acts of desecration go unpunished until I turn seventeen.
My father reminds me of Mother's Day which I've forgotten as usual. A bouquet of roses in hand, I scurry through the park. As I pass the statue I find myself facing the girl.
Her face lights up at the sight of the flowers.
“These are for Mother's Day actually.”
I turn towards the statue, Pomona's face no longer that of the earthy Nordic model but the inscrutable Roman numen, a godhead scorned and avenged, answering hubris with nemesis.
streets 1 & 2 can be found here
words: Jónas Knútsson, Iceland (more)
photo: Christian Tuempling, NY (photographs)