The place where Icelandic artist Ragnar Kjartansson (*1976) grew was the theatre. It was a place that had a decisive influence on him. When still just a young boy, he was able to peek backstage and even set foot on the stage itself. What in fact influenced him was not experimental, avant-garde theatre, but the stages of Iceland, both big and small, where theatre still communicates nostalgia and life’s less celebrated stories are told.

For his graduation show at the Academy of Arts in Reykjavík in 2001, Kjartansson transformed a small room into a rococo theatre. The for visitors unexpected encounter with this place of illusion was, however, only the most immediate aspect that shaped Kjartansson’s work. The Opera primarily comprised a performance played out by the artist for four hours a day, ten days in a row: singing, acting, stunting – the opera became an endurance marathon and an astonishing physical challenge. The repetitive is an element that always assumes a crucial role in Kjartansson’s performances and video works.

On another occasion, he had himself buried up to the waist in a park before proceeding to sing the same passage again and again for hours on end, accompanied by his guitar (Satan is Real (2004), Museum Dhondt-Dhaenens, Ghent). The repetitive aspect, with an inherent spiritual element, here likewise involved the exploration of physical extremes.

In artistic terms, says Ragnar Kjartansson, he is strongly influenced by the performances and videos in the 1970s that investigated the limits of the physical realm. For this purpose, he repeatedly employs an element familiar from the worlds of cinema and music: the loop. In Kjartansson’s case, however, the loop is not predefined technical trickery, but is in fact created live. This live element and the constantly recurring physical imagery have a grotesque character and place other demands on the viewer, than a video loop would. The bizarre, grotesque perspective is joined by a form of uneasiness.

In Kjartansson’s works the imaginary element, in this case performed theatrically, collides with the hard, physical reality. There is no doubt here; the artist loves to slip into a variety of roles, to live out his different identities, whether as the singer of Trabant – one of Iceland’s biggest Pop groups –, as travelling troubadour Rassi Prump or even other characters.

Kjartansson staged his contribution to this year’s Reykjavík Arts Festival in the countryside; some one and a half hours by car from the Icelandic capital in the ruin of the old Dagsbrún theatre. The same building that into the 1980s was the scene of socializing, laughter and dancing, now has its windows boarded up. Cars drive past on the nearby ring road without stopping, while sheep graze in peace on the slopes of the adjacent mountains. Kjartansson transformed this theatre, its architecture, its surroundings and its history into a single, integrated backdrop for his drama. It is a play on the place’s aura and – as the Icelander would say – on the ghosts that reside there. The spectacle can be seen from afar; the artist had obviously fake flames flickering out of the chimney and windows. Entering the little building as such confronts us with visible and audible clues: broken windows, traces of blood, and old tape recorders scattered across the floor, blaring out strangely monotonous Blues samples. This cacophony is joined by the voice of the artist, accompanied by monosyllabic chords on his guitar. Kjartansson sits on the theatre’s old stage, dressed as a knight and surrounded by props. The knight, the romantic hero of sagas of old, sings – or, rather hums and shouts – a wordless Blues. The Great Unrest is how Kjartansson terms his continuous theatrical performance, one of the most impressive works at the Reykjavík Arts Festival. It is a puzzling and at the same time unsettling picture to see how in this theatre ruin, nestled within the majestic Icelandic nature, a hero of history appears damned to regret the end of a great era. The monotonous Blues is used to express world-weariness in a world of emptiness. The drama, the disguise element, is so obvious here, however, that this nostalgic level is likewise broken. Visitors depart with a feeling of insecurity, leaving the artist alone in the building and his story.

Given this small, rugged country in the north Atlantic, one might ask what characteristic elements Iceland’s young art scene has to offer. Any search for “typical” features, however, is fruitless in terms of motifs or content. The landscape no longer comprises the central theme, as it did 50 years ago. Back then, modern art in Iceland was by nature poetic, and defined by literature. The new scene, on the other hand, is less literature-based, while artists display a refreshingly disrespectful approach to art history and art theories (“My favourite paintings are stage sets”, says Kjartansson). It is instead predominantly defined by contemporary, global music – more a case of a rocking, jazzy scene. Collaborative crossover projects are now completely normal, and can be found everywhere. And time and time again, it is music that provides the point of departure and the interface for collaboration. As with other artists of this generation such as Gabriela Friðriksdóttir, Egill Sæbjörnsson or Sigurður Guðjónsson, the interplay between music and the visual arts unleashes an astonishingly creative energy. This energy marks a new mood of change on the Icelandic art scene.

Ragnar Kjartansson is a musician, actor and an artist. As for his motivation, he says: “Art is for me like the Blues: I use it to purify my soul. Maybe I’m a romantic on a hungry pursuit for the ultimate art kick.” This is what distinguishes him: one who loves the show element, constantly slipping into new roles, changing his identities and realities, will basically always remain authentic. Wherever Kjartansson is at any one time, is also where his stage is.

This text is a shortened version of one which was commissioned and published by A Prior Magazine, Brussels 1/06.