finding something in endless nothing.
Skeiðarársandur (Icelandic) – “Sky—ther—our—san—duhr”: A 1,300 square kilometre desert of black glacial sand, the largest outwash plain in the world.
As part of my first year at university, I was tasked with writing, designing and later making a book cataloguing a single story or event from my life. After wading through a great deal of largely insignificant rose-tinted memories of childhood holidays and ice cream, I settled on an event in my more recent history. Back in 2014, whilst driving through Iceland, I came upon a strange phenomenon midway across the Skeiðarársandur, a huge volcanic plain in the south of the country. As we crossed, fog from the Atlantic drifted in, eventually becoming so dense as to entirely obscure the outside world. We briefly stopped the car, and I stepped out onto the black sand – then, after walking no more than ten metres, I could see nothing at all but the pale grey fog and the dark grey ground.
Translating this utter bleakness into the form of a book, without losing its counterintuitive and ineffable complexity, was a delightfully difficult feat. Eventually, the progression of the pages became a slow upwards pan through my vision of the desert: rough-printed grey fading to pure white. The story itself is of my almost epiphanic lightening of mood, as I came to terms with the imagined possibility that the rest of the world might not exist at all. I like to think that this is somehow captured in the simultaneous lightening of the pages themselves.
The book is printed on 160 gsm Daler-Rowney Murano paper in two colours, and perfect-bound by hand. It is set in Robert Green’s facsimile of the Doves type. Skeiðarársandur was printed as an edition of one copy at Falmouth in March 2016.