Beautiful Photographs from the Tiny Icelandic Town of Grimsey

Drive north from Reykjavik, past the peaks of black rock thrusting from the lowlands. A dense wind comes off the coast, laced with salt, flowing over narrow coves and up empty streets. Hot springs pepper the country's center, the sharp musk of sulfur floating from their pocked surfaces. Wedged between mountains are lush strips of field dotted with small villages—Reykholt, Laugarbakki, Varmahlíð—and goats and horses wander behind homes eating grass or just staring off into the distance. Then you hit the northern coast, farms and fisheries lining its shores, up and up until you can't drive anymore. As the Arctic Ocean meets the country's northern front, waterfalls of glacial runoff pour over cliffs, crashing into the rocks below.

Then, once you've gone as far north as you can go, look 25 miles to the north of that, and that's while you'll find Grímsey, an the size of Central Park where roughly 90 people live, a lush patch of green encased in cliffs. Last May, as I boarded a ferry to the island with my close friend and photographer Cole Barash and our mutual friend and cinematographer Brandon Kuzma, I could almost make out its southern tip in the distance, a sliver of green set against the dense blue strip of the horizon.

During our week on Grímsey, Cole documented all aspects of the culture. We would take late-night hikes to all corners of the island, to the western cliffs and the lighthouse, down to the harbor and into homes of residents. We went on boats and attended Bingo night and school graduation. We played soccer with the children. We looked at photo albums and mementos. Cole shot the entire project on medium-format and 35mm film. He is patient and detailed when he makes a photograph. His lips purse and his eyes narrow. He stands on the balls of his feet, moving his head back and forth like a boxer, looking for the best way in. He was drawn into the small details of the island—a mirror on a wall, the shower of a bathroom, a hula hoop left on the ground. Muted tones of landscapes juxtaposed flash-driven and vibrant interiors. White, gold and blue flood the images chosen for the book. A subtle but uneasy feeling threads itself throughout the end product—a snapshot of what it means to live on Grímsey. It's abstract and subtle.

Now these photos have made their way into a book published by Silas Finch, so I took the chance to catch up with Cole about the project and his process.

VICE: How did your approach to this body of work differ from past projects?


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