Iceland
It’s Where A Picture Takes You
Ireland
As you wind your way toward Djúpavík—a tiny village tucked into the dramatic folds of Iceland’s Westfjords—you begin to feel your journey is carrying you through mountains and gently into Iceland’s timeless embrace. Dirt roads twist and dip, revealing jaw-dropping vistas with every turn, until finally, the buzzing static of city life fades into your rearview mirror like a dream you’re no longer chasing.
What started as a photographic endeavor morphed into something far more personal. There were days I lost myself—camera in hand, waist-deep in my black-and-white work for twelve hours. And yet, in those days, time both vanished and expanded. Two weeks somehow felt like both a breath and an eternity.
No deadlines. No buzzing phones. No dopamine hits from likes or replies. Just stillness—and me. And guess what? I survived. Actually, I felt liberated.
Djúpavík, Iceland
Friends: Eva Sigurbjörnsdóttir and American photographer Bill Schwab
After the four-hour drive from Reykjavík, one glance was all it took to take in the entire village: a few humble houses and the skeletal remains of a grand old herring factory from 1934. Eva Sigurbjörnsdóttir and her husband Ásbjörn Þorgilsson—the town’s only year-round residents since the mid-'80s—breathed new life into it, turning part of the building into Hotel Djúpavík. No stores. One abandoned gas pump. And a single road in or out. The landscape does the rest.
I couldn’t help but wonder: What am I going to do here for two weeks with nothing to do but eat, sleep, and take pictures? Especially in cold weather. I’m more of a “poolside with kids and roller coasters” kind of person than a “let’s chill in sub-zero solitude” type.
Cottage, Hotel Djúpavík overlooking Reykjarfjörður fjord
Cottage, Hotel Djúpavík overlooking Reykjarfjörður fjord
But there I was, my camera backpack heavier than anything I’ve ever lifted. Boots, gloves, jacket—check. High heels? They stayed in Brooklyn. My room was a charming nod to Nordic simplicity, tucked into a cozy summer cottage beside the hotel. Fun fact: the rusty old shipwreck I spotted as we drove in? That was the men’s quarters of the old factory. My digs felt like a palace by comparison—plus, the radiator gave me a nostalgic hug straight from my German childhood.
Then came lunch—yes, lunch, a sit-down affair with food made from scratch and served with care. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten something warm at midday that wasn’t unwrapped from foil or pulled from my purse. (Protein bars, anyone?)
Magnus, our host and Eva and Ásbjörn’s son-in-law, made us feel more like family than guests. He’d greet us with a grin, even when we were hours late for lunch after what was supposed to be a short stroll turned into a five-hour fjordside odyssey. My fellow photographer John and I weren’t lost—we were just spellbound. Sitting on a rock, watching the sun perform magic tricks with the landscape. Time didn’t matter. That was the point.
Photo credit: John Fontana @fonj
Trékyllisvík, Iceland
Life here moves slower. There’s no rush. No pressure to perform. Just the subtle luxury of being. But let’s be honest—silence takes getting used to. It forces you to face your thoughts, which can be scarier than any winding mountain road. But if you stick with it, silence eventually becomes a playground for imagination. You cut out the noise. And you begin to hear yourself again.
That said, some parts were scary—like those hairpin roads that cling a little too intimately to cliff edges. But around every bend, nature puts on another show. Iceland doesn’t care about your itinerary—it’s going to dazzle you on its own terms.
One of my favorite surprises was the Krossnes infinity pool, filled with geothermal spring water and surrounded by wild, untamed nature. A driftwood-strewn beach separates you from the icy Atlantic. An iceberg floated by as I soaked. It's like the universe dared me to relax—and I finally said yes.
My "aha" moment came one chilly afternoon, cocooned in my warm bed after hiking to Djúpavikurfoss waterfall. I emailed Magnus to ask what time dinner was. No reply. Later, he casually mentioned that he sometimes doesn’t check email for two or three days. Meanwhile, I had been waiting for that instant reply I am used to. It never even occurred to me to just… walk three steps to the hotel and ask in person. Wild.
Photo credit: Bill Schwab @bill_schwab
Northern Lights, Djúpavík
And the Northern Lights? Well, they don’t schedule appointments either. They come when they’re ready. I stopped checking the Aurora app after day three. Instead, I looked up—and got lucky. What I first mistook for a slow-moving cloud turned into a luminous green ballet across the sky. I forgot to focus on my first shot (oops!), but later, with the mountains sharp in the frame, I captured the magic for keeps.
Svavar Knútur and Magnús Karl Pétursson
And then there was Svavar Knútur - a friend of Magnus, part troubadour, part philosopher, part stand-up comedian. In the glow of the dining room, he stood just a heartbeat away, weaving stories and songs into the room like magic, somehow making you laugh and cry at the same time. A few weeks later, I found myself back home listening to his album “Brot (The Breaking),” smiling at the memory.
Now, nestled back in Brooklyn, I hold onto Djúpavík like a secret. It’s where I found stillness. Where silence taught me something. Where I learned that the best shots come when you stop chasing them—and let life come into focus.
Until next time,
