Interview with Katrín Sigurðardóttir
Katrín Sigurðardóttir, born in Iceland 1967, currently lives in New York. The artist works with the perception of space, playing with the memories that her sculptures and installations generate within the viewer. She frequently creates miniatures that look like models or toys, such as in Chandelier, which she is showing at this exhibition. The miniatures make a theme out of an unbridgeable distance that is both physical and historical, dealing with personal memories and historical associations.
In Icelandic you have this interesting word ‘heimskur’ meaning ‘stupidity’. When translated literally it describes someone who has never left home. Is it more important for an Icelander to go and spend time abroad? Is it even necessary?
I don’t have an opinion on what is best for Icelanders or what they should do as a group.
But how about you? You were young when you left Iceland to live in the States, but in your work you frequently refer to your home country.
I live in both countries and have done so for about 20 years. My work refers to imaginary places that are neither Iceland nor any other place specifically, but which might take on an appearance that is seemingly familiar. I think it is usually those who are not from Iceland that think my work depicts or deals with Iceland. You only find in the work what you bring to it, which in many instances are fantasies about what an unknown, faraway place might be. I enjoy this trick in the work and I think the whole idea of a home country is a myth.
A myth? Why do you think so?
It is the myth that drives nationalism, the narrative that appeals to the most innate and sentimental parts of us. The place that you belong to and that belongs to you; one of inclusion and exclusion. In very basic language, it’s been used to fuck systematically with the psyche of millions of people through the centuries. You ask why I think this. I think this from having lived in two places my whole adult life and having had multiple opportunities to try out these ideals on my own life. Besides, the writings of many contemporary scholars that I respect do confirm these views. Benjamin Anderson’s Imagined Communities is one good example. Another book that I think speaks beautifully about this subject is Strangers to Ourselves by Julia Kristeva.
How would you define ‘home’?
I don’t define home. At least I am not really concerned with nationality or geographic identity at this point. I wrote my graduate thesis on it, but that was many years 29 ago. Today, these are secondary narratives to more overarching themes of memory and fiction — distance.
Your work examines the alternating effects and notions of place and site. You very often use the ‘miniature’ which confronts the viewer with a toylike effigy of the world.
You are right. I don’t have much to add to your statement, except what the work itself reveals. Memory, fiction, distance — from my point of view that has a lot to do with the idea or construction of ‘home’. What is your interest in broaching the issues of ‘distance’ and ‘memory’? One might say it is a narrative that drives at that which is unattainable, that which is rooted in a past and is heavily interpreted. A place that doesn’t exist.
In Icelandic you have this interesting word ‘heimskur’ meaning ‘stupidity’. When translated literally it describes someone who has never left home. Is it more important for an Icelander to go and spend time abroad? Is it even necessary?
I don’t have an opinion on what is best for Icelanders or what they should do as a group.
But how about you? You were young when you left Iceland to live in the States, but in your work you frequently refer to your home country.
I live in both countries and have done so for about 20 years. My work refers to imaginary places that are neither Iceland nor any other place specifically, but which might take on an appearance that is seemingly familiar. I think it is usually those who are not from Iceland that think my work depicts or deals with Iceland. You only find in the work what you bring to it, which in many instances are fantasies about what an unknown, faraway place might be. I enjoy this trick in the work and I think the whole idea of a home country is a myth.
A myth? Why do you think so?
It is the myth that drives nationalism, the narrative that appeals to the most innate and sentimental parts of us. The place that you belong to and that belongs to you; one of inclusion and exclusion. In very basic language, it’s been used to fuck systematically with the psyche of millions of people through the centuries. You ask why I think this. I think this from having lived in two places my whole adult life and having had multiple opportunities to try out these ideals on my own life. Besides, the writings of many contemporary scholars that I respect do confirm these views. Benjamin Anderson’s Imagined Communities is one good example. Another book that I think speaks beautifully about this subject is Strangers to Ourselves by Julia Kristeva.
How would you define ‘home’?
I don’t define home. At least I am not really concerned with nationality or geographic identity at this point. I wrote my graduate thesis on it, but that was many years 29 ago. Today, these are secondary narratives to more overarching themes of memory and fiction — distance.
Your work examines the alternating effects and notions of place and site. You very often use the ‘miniature’ which confronts the viewer with a toylike effigy of the world.
You are right. I don’t have much to add to your statement, except what the work itself reveals. Memory, fiction, distance — from my point of view that has a lot to do with the idea or construction of ‘home’. What is your interest in broaching the issues of ‘distance’ and ‘memory’? One might say it is a narrative that drives at that which is unattainable, that which is rooted in a past and is heavily interpreted. A place that doesn’t exist.
posted by November at 8:28 am
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