The relationship of man and nature can rarely be manifested as clearly as in art; the landscape tradition is constantly proposing new perspectives, evidence of our untiring quest to understand our place in the world. Every generation, every era, leaves behind its own testimony of its world view, which enables us to trace the evolution of ideas about ourselves and nature at different periods. Landscape has a history which is based on myths, magic, science, religion and art, a history which has affected our view and understanding of nature. Formerly, our view was formed by close contact with nature, but progress in science and technology has gradually distanced us from it. The telescope, the microscope, the speed of the car, height of the airplane's flight, the satellite and the live broadcast have fundamentally altered out perception and formed our current attitudes towards nature.

The Tour d'Horizon risks of becoming an exact replica to the next Grand Tour on offer; tours that have become like any other – in a hall of mirrors – where the disillusion of travel brings you to horizons that have already been seen and experienced. Slowly, the difference between nature and landscape is disappearing; our world has given way behind the omni-present renderings and impressive availability of our Google-maps, Web-cams and General Position Systems. In front of us horizons that are completely devoid of variety and inspiration. Sites that have already been marked in a pre-existing catalogue. Dots on maps, an imaginary trip that will leave no arousing; the script was handed in long time ago, we are on stage, but we also paid the ticket. We live in the time of the world image, which isn't only the persistent siege of the image of the world coming down our wires, but the world it self, conceived and grasped as picture. [1] The world is at bay, its elements beyond our reaching, and our landscapes are accessible to us, only in as much as they have been packaged for consumption. Our horizon's have been changed in to a by-product of the circulation of commodities, where the economic organization of travelling to different places guarantees their equivalence. [2]

Within art history, the landscape is essentially our perception of nature. In Icelandic, as in English and other languages, the use of the word landscape (landslag) in this sense is a modern innovation, while the word itself has a much longer history, referring to the land and its forms and administration. From ancient times, through the early Christian era and the middle ages, we occasionally see representations of nature in art. But these were exceptions, which did not give rise to any direct followings, and it was not until the late Renaissance period that the concept of landscape first acquired its aesthetic connotations.

A landscape, is fundamentally the meeting point of man and nature, it is the very site where the observer and nature come together; for without nature or the observer there would be no landscape. [3] Heuristically speaking, landscape has always been there; that is, its inception closer to discovery rather than pure invention. One of it's modern fundamentals is the vantage point; and in this context Petrarch’s ascent of Mont Ventoux is often cited as an important step towards the discovery of the landscape as a fully independent subject matter. [4] His account describes how a medieval man breaks away from the theological definition of his existence, to rise to a higher plane by climbing to the summit. The mountain peak lifts him above the usual visible range, and thus he attains a quasi-godly view over the landscape below. The image drawn up by Petrarch is of great importance to us, as it describes a man who is experiencing his freedom as an individual in the world. He gains a consciousness of his power and might, regardless of tradition and custom. His ascent of the mountain thus marks a stage on the way to modern times: it is in a sense a “point zero,” from which there is no turning back.

This mythological account establishes an interesting commonality between Petrarch and Grimur Geitskor, who was sent out in the early 10th century on a quest to find a suitable site for the Icelandic Althingi or the general assembly. The figure of Grimur looking out over the plains which would become Thingvellir is not unlike Petrarch’s account, some centuries later, of his view from Mont Ventoux. The elevated point of view places them on a higher plane; they see the land with the eyes of the gods, and overcome the fear of nature. Their curiosity about the composition of the world is awakened; distanced from the their gods, they begin their own investigation of the structure of the world, sketching out their very own image of the world. [5]

If we assume that such an encounter between man and nature is what gives rise to the landscape, the corollary is that Grimur’s view over the plains of Thingvellir is Iceland's very first landscape image. It is an historical moment which gives the eye a privileged position; when man, created in the image of God, takes on the bold task of recreating nature according to his own image. [6] Thus the Icelandic landscape is somewhat older than it may appear at first sight. It's invention is a culturally-founded presentation of the nature which surrounds us; but however old its history, it is clear that the image of nature is not a simple one, and that it is constantly being reshaped according to the perception of every new generation. [7]
Until the 19th century, it is hardly possible to say that the genre of landscape existed in Iceland at all. [8] The circumstances and conditions prevailing provided no basis for any such interpretation: “The attitude was entirely that of a primitive farming society in a harsh environment, which drew no distinction between natural beauty and flourishing vegetation.” [9] With the advent of the Enlightenment, however, attitudes gradually started to change: Icelandic intellectuals began to study and travel abroad, which brought them into contact with an urban mindset and culture, and at around the same time foreigners began to visit Iceland. Many of them were drawn by their interest in science, or in literature; they wanted to explore the settings in which the Icelandic sagas took place, and learn about the exotic and extreme natural environment of the island. [10] Such visits to the saga-steads of Old Iceland by the European social elite may be likened to the Grand Tour, in which the education of young gentlemen and aristocrats was rounded off by an extended tours of the principal historical sites of European antiquity.
The most valuable contribution made by those early tourists to Iceland was that they drew pictures of what they saw on their travels. Parties often included trained artists, whose task was to make a visual record of the historical and natural sites they visited. [11] The legacy of their approach to Icelandic nature has shaped a certain kind of art – a modern vision – that has in it's own turn formed a certain kind of nature. When Icelanders finally started to make pictures of nature, they soon discovered that the landscape could be used to convey subtle and powerful messages. The glaciers, waterfalls and volcano's were quickly adopted to construct a national identity – using the particular idiosyncrasies of Icelandic nature – to create a common battleground in the fight for national independence.

After Iceland had gained its independence as an autonomous republic, conventional representation gave way to more diverse styles and interpretations. The images of Icelandic landscape ceased to be a unifying symbol for Iceland as it had been; its symbolism had lost its relevance, and seemed only to be serving as an obstacle in the way of progress, by its constant harping on the past. Non the less, it is safe to say that the images of Icelandic nature have shaped the attitudes and – at the same time – the cultural self-image of the people, who appear to have found in them an affirmation of their perception of nature.
Such images may be likened to the language we have learned from infancy. They are endowed with never-ending riches which reside in us and colour all our ideas, long before we are aware of them. Their iconic stature has had a seminal influence on the evolution of Icelandic art, while also providing us with enhanced understanding and awareness of our prized relationship with nature. We take these images for granted, adapt them and use them, just as we use our language. Future generations will also see their own reflections in them; they will analyse our contemporary ideas, and take new and unforeseeable views of them. But gradually, the Icelandic landscape has been slipping in to an empty myth, with which the nation as a whole can no longer identify.

The problem is that our landscapes are shaped increasingly by economic and political interests: land use plans are made, vantage platforms are designed, tours are sold, national parks are opened, and sites are inscribed on the World Heritage List. And now it is lifestyle magazines, websites, advertisements and brochures that guide us through this new landscape. Nature is packaged for us, and we perceive it as consumers, rather than explorers: today it is greed and idleness that paint our new landscapes. Our connection with nature has lost its ground, we hover in helicopters over active volcano's, we turn their eruptive-plums and running lava in to Luna Parks and Fairground attraction. We observe nature through a windscreen, or on a guided walk or 4WD tour, and the package tour serves up to us a world that is completely illusory. [12]

Until yesterday this majestic nature merited a detour; it was real, full of adventures and unexpected experiences, but not anymore! Now it stands for nothing but faint memories, hidden behind replicas of reality, which it has ceased to resemble. As such the modern landscape belongs to the world of the past, it has nothing to offer us about the future; their points of view are always the same, the depiction of nature a mere imitation of itself. A pale image stored on the memory card of art history, and that of the tourist industry vantage point. Images upon images, where nothing is invented: You are here! This is your lost horizon! Do not walk on the grass! Pay here! Please don't touch the objects! Take your picture from here! Clik!

Footnotes:

[1] Martin Heidegger, Off the Beaten Track, La Nuova Italia, Florence, 1986, p. 71-101. [2] Guy Debord, The Society of the Spectacle, Baldini & Castoldi, Milan, 2001, p. 152. [3] Michael Jakob, The Landscape, Il Mulino, Bologna, 2009, p. 30-31. [4] Francesco Petrarca, Selections from the Book of Songs and Other Works, New York, 1985. [5] Alain Roger, Short Account on Landscape, Gallimard, Paris, 1997, p. 83. [6] Regis Debray, Life and Death of the Image, Il Castoro, Milan, 1999, p. 163. [7] Anne Cauquelin, The Invention of Landscape, PUF, Paris, 2000, p. 127. [8] Thora Kristjansdottir, Painting on Panel - Icelandic Art in the 16th, 17th and 18th Century, JPV - National Museum, Reykjavik, 2005, p. 119. [9] Bjorn Th. Bjornsson, Icelandic Art in the 19th and 20th Century, Vol. I., Helgafell, Reykjavik, 1964, p. 34. [10] Frank Ponzi, 19th Century Iceland: Artists and Odissey's, AB Publishing, Reykjavik, 1986, p. 14. [11] Sumarlidi Isleifsson, Images of Iceland through the Ages, M&M, Reykjavik, 1996, p. 151. [12] Einar Garibaldi Eiriksson, The Last Landscape Painting, The Reykjavik Art Museum, Reykjavik, 2006. Fetched 02.05.11 from: http://einar_garibaldi.lhi.is/sidasta
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