Stina Johnson

The dead hands of the Icelandic Bishops lay heavily on the lives of people for many generations after the Bishops had died. Their stern, disapproving gaze touched lives half a world and centuries away.

Bishop after bishop declared his hostility to dancing. In Scandinavia the opposition to dancing was to doing so in churches or churchyards, after funerals. In Iceland, dancing was considered evil all the time, in every place. But the Icelandic bishops’ opposition went far beyond that. In the 18th C., Christian VI sent

Ludvig Harboe, a Danish priest to Iceland to check on the status of religion and church affairs. (Shades of Christianity Under the Glacier). Harboe and Jón þorkelsson wrote a report for the king. The king responded by issuing decrees in 1741 and 1746 that prohibited Icelanders from any type of amusement unless it was religious.
Culture arises out of  leisure activities. In an agricultural society those leisure activities are often connected to the seasons and harvest. Dancing, singing, feasting, playing games, courting, rituals, all normally play a part in the changing of the seasons. Given the short growing season in Iceland and the long, harsh winters, one would normally expect a great deal of ritual and traditional behaviour, the involvement in public folk lore. Iceland was locked in poverty for long periods of time. Sometimes, epidemics swept away twenty  percent of the population. Farms were isolated. Yet, all of these qualities would be expected to help create folk art, not suppress it. One would expect a rich folk art life.
Instead, Robert Burton says of Iceland in his book, Ultima Thule or, A Summer In Iceland, published in 1875:
“Art simply does not exist in Iceland and, to judge from the little museum of Reykjavik, it was always rude as that of Central Africa: the only attempt appears to be on the part of the goldsmith. There is a single painter at Reykjavik, and his career has been cramped by inability to study in lands where the sun shines. The sculptor and architect have no business here.”
When the Icelandic settlers came to Canada, they brought books. Most of those were, as the bishops had decreed many decades before, religious. Eventually, black Bibles filled boxes at the nursing home in Gimli. What they didn’t bring was art and, because of that, although the emigration is known in words, it is not known in drawings or paintings from that time. Poverty, illness, lack of materials, all would have contributed but other groups suffered privation, yet privation did not keep other groups from creating artwork.
My great great grandfather, Valgardur Jonsson and his son, Ketill Valgardsson, came to Canada in 1878. Valgardur died two years after arriving at Icelandic River. Ketill, although he was young and without resources, made a life for himself. He worked on the railway and fishing. He moved to Winnipeg, working for the city as a laborer and then as a foreman. In 1894, he started a dairy business. Later, he moved to Gimli and started a flour and feed mill.
He had three children, Swanee (my grandfather), Valentinus and Kristin. Swanee married Blanche Bristow. Blanche’s father was English and her mother,  Icelandic.
And here, the invisible hand of the bishops reached through time and space. Not in disapproval because my paternal great grandfather was English. But because of something Kristin did in 1916.  Five young people took a sailboat to go berry picking. They were caught in a storm and all five drowned. Blanche’s two brothers,  Alfred and Herbert, were two of the dead.
The drownings were a terrible blow to the community. This was a community that already had been devastated by the deaths of the small pox epidemic, a community that had been torn by religious strife. A community that had lost many people as they had moved away to farm better land.
At the funeral for Alfred and Herbert, Stina who was around sixteen and already an accomplished photographer, took pictures of the funeral procession and sold them to The Winnipeg Free Press. The community was outraged, in part at the idea of pictures being made of a funeral and, in part, that they would be sold. And, in part, that the photographer was a young woman.
But Stina Valgardsson Johnson (she married Mindi Johnson)was one of the women who were forcing their way out of the tight little box Canadian society and the Icelandic community had created for them.
She continued her photography. Today, her photographs are in the Manitoba archives. Some are famous. They hang in the National Library in Ottawa. They appear in books and on brochures. However, she didn’t just do photography. She did all those leisure activities the bishops would have so disapproved of. She sculpted and did ceramics. She practiced virtually every craft. At Icelandic events she was often found dressed in her Icelandic costume, making lace.
But it wasn’t easy. She could have stuck to just making pönnukökur. She wouldn’t have been mocked for making Icelandic pancakes. When she came to Gimli to take photographs, to draw or paint, to show her sculpture, she was mocked by many. As Burton said, there was no tradition of art in Iceland. There was no tradition to bring with the settlers. In 1878, when Jemima Blackwood, England’s beloved illustrator of animals and country life, came to Iceland, there were no artists to meet her or for her to meet. It was unlikely that anyone knew who she was. 
Stina, with her will of iron, kept producing art. She took photographs, not snapshots, photographs, and she sculpted, and she produced ceramics and crafts of all sorts. It was the world of Manitoba and Iceland that changed to catch up with her.
In Iceland, the change happened after the emigration. In Iceland it was like the people, freed to be creative, were determined to make up for all the years their creativity had been imprisoned. Nowadays, Iceland is a nation of musicians, dancers, artists, craftspeople. The dead hand of the bishops has been pried from the Icelandic soul.
And Stina? Her art has been forgotten but she has given us a legacy of photographs and when she finally quit photography, she gave me her darkroom equipment.
 Photo by Stina Valgardsson Johnson    Ketill Valgardsson and Soffia Sveinbjarnardottir ready to go to church.

One True Note, Laxness

 The Fish Can Sing (Vintage, 2008)

A genius of a book. A brilliant book. A book that grabbed my heart. 
How could I, coming from Gimli, with some Icelandic genes and a lot of Icelandic history and culture, not have read this book before now? It makes one wonder about the waving of flags and toasts to Iceland and speeches and Viking helmets and all that and just how meaningful it is when someone like me hasn’t read The Fish Can Sing by Halldor Laxness.
How many North Americans of Icelandic descent have read The Fish Can Sing? Raise your hands. I think I’m going to ask this question at next year’s Islindingadagurinn. That way I won’t feel quite so guilty. Guilt likes company.
I have excuses. I lived in Iowa, Missouri, British Columbia. None are hotbeds of Icelandic culture. But I’ve never missed an Icelandic Festival and never turned down a piece of vinarterta. Surely, part of that experience should have included reading stories by Laxness. He’s the only Nobel prize writer we’ve got. It’s not like Laxness’s books aren’t available. Tergesen’s always has them on sale and you now can buy them on Amazon. They’re not expensive.
This is an easy book to read. For one thing, it is a happy book. It’s about a little boy without a father and whose mother, when she leaves for America, hands him to an elderly couple. The couple at Brekkukot treat him in every way as a beloved son.
The narrator is that boy grown-up. He explains that since he has no father, his last name is Hansson which means ”His-son.” There is no man’s name, Arni or Baldur or Ragnar so that he could be called Arnis-son, Baldurs-son, or Ragnars-son.
The couple who take on the role of both parents and grandparents but are neither, they’re not even married to each other do not just feed and clothe him but provide him with a set of moral values, with security, with an education and, finally, with an opportunity to rise in the world.
Brekkukot is just a fisherman’s cot but it also is a place of refuge. People who need a place to stay come there, sometimes staying for years on end. These visitors help to provide the boy, Alfgrimur, with an education. People come to get well, others to die. The property lies beside a graveyard and it is here that Alfgrimur hears singing and eventually sings over the graves of those who cannot afford to pay someone to sing for them.
Nearby lives an elderly woman, younger than the woman he calls grandmother, but nearly blind and deaf. She has a son who has become famous as a singer in Europe and who has the stage name Gardar Holm. Many people assume that Alfgrimur and Gardur Holm are related but the relationship is never defined. Gardur Holm takes an interest in Alfgrimur, buys him cakes, gives him money, counsels him.
The book is about fishing for lumpfish, about eating cream cakes, but it is mostly about poor Icelanders who are presented in a way that is dignified, that makes them human, that allows them to be proud in spite of their poverty. These are people who are honorable and, who, in spite of a lack of formal education, ask profound questions.
Alfgrimur gives us a picture of his grandfather, Bjorn of Brekkukot, that brings him to life. Here was a man who was never heard referring to anything contained in the sermons but wouldn’t accept even a Bible without paying for it. When a neighbour steals precious peat from him then, with a guilty conscience, brings it back, Bjorn invites him in for coffee, discusses what has been done and ends up giving the peat to the thief.
Bjorn would not have been out of place in New Iceland. I recognize him. As a child I knew rough fishermen, usually stolid and silent, strong, even hard but they, too, seeing someone with less than them would have given the thief wood from their woodpile.
This book is a delight because of the sympathetic descriptions of the people with all their oddities and foibles. However, it also raises serious questions about the purpose of life and the way it is lived. Bjorn ignores the marketplace. He does not lower his price when there are fish in abundance, nor does he raise his price when there is a scarcity of fish. To him, fish have a value whether they are abundant or scarce.
 Gardur Home is presented as a world famous operatic singer. He appears and disappears, always with rumours of his success swirling around his visits. Gradually, though, the façade that he presents is shattered. 
At a dinner in his honour that ironically is really about the success of the merchant who has provided the money for Gardur Holm to go to Europe and to have a singing career, the merchant says that “it isn’t enough that Icelandic fish should have Danish ribbons and bows, it has to have the ribbon of international fame. In a word, we have to prove to the rest of the world that ‘the fish can sing like a bird’. And that is why we who sell the fish have made great efforts to improve the cultural life of the nation”.
But Gardur Holm in talking to Alfagrimur tells him a story that reveals what his life has really been like. The grant of money is seldom much and it often doesn’t arrive. It is the story of artists yesterday, today and tomorrow. It is the story of artists in a society that values fish and profits or aluminum smelting and profits or banking schemes and profits over all else. 
The artist, as Gardur Holm describes him, is a poor wretch desperately clinging to the small gifts given by the merchants of fish. (or, if you wish, the Canada Council)
At the beginning of the book, the narrator says, “I think that our own standard had its origins in my grandfather’s conviction that the money which people consider theirs by right was unlawfully accumulated, or counterfeit, if it exceeded the average income of a working man; and therefore that all great wealth was inconsistent with common sense. I can remember him saying often that he would never accept more money than he had earned.
“But what does a man earn, people will ask? How much does a man deserve to get? “
This book was first published in 1957. How more relevant could it be to a society that has been told that greed is good? A society where bankers steal a good deal of people’s money and lose the rest through incompetence, where bonuses are obscene and retirement packages beyond all reason? Where a small percentage of the population takes more and more of society’s wealth?
The questions and objections being raised by the Occupy movement and others, even the President of the United States and the Prime Minister of England, are all here. For those who are prepared to fight for social justice, a picture of Halldor Laxness on their flag would not be amiss. 
This is a book to enjoy but it is also a book to ponder.
Put it under your Christmas tree. Time is running short but you can still get a copy for someone who wants to be proud of his Icelandic background.