海角大神

The boatman doesn鈥檛 speak English. Or maybe he just doesn鈥檛 want to. I ask him his name, hoping to follow up with a fusillade of questions about how long he鈥檚 been sailing this route, and whether he likes it here in the Arctic cold of northern Reykjavik; but my plan is foiled by his brusque reply: 鈥淭icket.鈥�

I can take a hint in any language, and take a seat at the back of the boat. I am the only passenger. We leave Sundah枚fn Harbor and set sail for Vi冒ey (pronounced veethey), a tiny, uninhabited island less than a mile off the coast of Iceland. It is, I鈥檝e been told, 400 acres of unspoiled greenery, rain-slick rocks, fluttering birdlife and ... modern art.

Yes, this is, possibly, The Hardest To Reach Art Gallery On Earth.

The boat rocks side to side, draped in sheets of rain. When we pull into Vi冒ey Harbor, there is not a single soul to welcome me to the island.

鈥淪o, you鈥檒l pick me up at 3:30?鈥� I ask the boatman. I think I hear him say 鈥淛谩,鈥� but the prospect of being alone on an uninhabited island plays tricks on my mind, and I wonder if really he said, 鈥淏ah,鈥� or even worse: 鈥淗a!鈥�

鈥� 鈥� 鈥�

Putting an art gallery on a remote edge of Europe is quite in line with the character of this island nation. Icelanders are proud of their isolation and the spirit of independence it engenders. The novel for which Halld贸r Laxness, the Icelandic writer, won the Nobel Prize in 1955 was called 鈥淚ndependent People.鈥�

In the tourist shops of 搁别测办箩补惫铆办 there are rows and rows of T-shirts that say, 鈥淟ost in Iceland鈥� on the front, and, 鈥淚s anybody out there?鈥� on the back. The cover of the current issue of The Iceland Review says: 鈥淣obody can hear you scream ...鈥� It鈥檚 the headline for a feature on Icelandic crime writing which is often set in dark, remote towns, but it could just as easily be the headline for a feature on Vi冒ey.

It dawns on me, as the boatman disappears into the distance, that if I trip off one of the cliff edges or tumble down a hill, no one will hear me scream. I don鈥檛 even have cellphone reception.

鈥� 鈥� 鈥�

In the distance, close to a cliff, I see what looks like a UFO 鈥� a weird-looking object with a gray circular base and a large, bright white tube rising from its middle. The true nature of this object is far more unexpected than a craft from outer space.

It鈥檚 the 鈥淚magine Peace Tower鈥� by Yoko Ono. Intended as a 鈥渂eacon to world peace,鈥� it is designed in the shape of a well with the words 鈥淚magine Peace鈥� inscribed on its walls in 24 languages, and it produces light, not water. Unveiled last October, the tower will emit a beam of white light every year from Oct. 9 (John Lennon鈥檚 birthday) to Dec. 8 (the date of his death).

Ms. Ono put the beacon in Iceland because it is a peaceful nation, the only European country with no standing army. And because it is a 鈥渦nique ecofriendly country鈥� 鈥� the tower鈥檚 electricity comes entirlely from the Hellisheidi Geothermal Power Plant on an active volcanic ridge in southwest Iceland. The tower is a collaboration between Ms. Ono, the City of 搁别测办箩补惫铆办, 搁别测办箩补惫铆办 Art Museum, and 搁别测办箩补惫铆办 Energy.

From Ono鈥檚 beacon, you can see another work of art in the distance 鈥� an anchor on a hilltop. Ironically, it鈥檚 a monument to 20 fishermen who died in 1906 when there was no beacon here, and their boat was smashed against Vi冒ey. I start to head over, but the skies have opened and I have to take shelter from the rain in an empty barbecue lodge.

鈥� 鈥� 鈥�

Even by Icelandic standards, Vi冒ey seems remote. It wasn鈥檛 always this way. There was a monastery here from 1225 until 1539. Farming and fishing flourished from 1901 until 1930, when Vi冒ey village reached a high of 138 residents.

But when these local industries declined, the islanders left. Since 1943, Vi冒ey has been uninhabited, and all that remains of the once small-but-bustling village are the foundations of the family homes and the still-intact schoolhouse.

There are two sections of the island 鈥� Home Island and West Island. They鈥檙e connected by a narrow isthmus of pebbles and sand that, in some weather conditions, is submerged, turning Vi冒ey into two islands once more. Yet there鈥檚 a sprawling work of art on West Island by one of America鈥檚 best-known sculptors that I desperately want to see.
I risk it and cross.

鈥� 鈥� 鈥�

Richard Serra鈥檚 鈥淢ilestones鈥� is visible immediately. It鈥檚 everywhere.
Mr. Serra is a minimalist sculptor best known for making imposing monuments using sheet metal. 鈥淢ilestones,鈥� consisting of nine pairs of pillars made from columnar basalt, dominate West Island.

A sign by the side of the path suddenly makes me feel like I鈥檓 in a trendy gallery: 鈥淢ilestones鈥� has 鈥渕any of the characteristics of minimal art: repetition of the same forms, symmetry, mathematical regularity and direct influence upon the environment.鈥� If it wasn鈥檛 for the wind turning my face red, I could imagine myself in the Tate Modern.

Serra鈥檚 pillars are intended to frame certain views of Vi冒ey and 搁别测办箩补惫铆办 in the distance. They invite visitors to venture around West Island and look between the pillars like frames, with the island itself as the art.

My Vi冒ey map, now soaked and crumbling, tells me that on the cliff edges near one pair of Serra鈥檚 pillars there are three rocks with carved inscriptions: 鈥淭hey may be hard to find ... and perhaps they were never meant to be discovered.鈥� Intriguing. More modern art? I search, but find nothing. A red flag with a skull and crossbones on it lets me know that I鈥檓 too close to the cliff.

鈥� 鈥� 鈥�

Heading back to Home Island, now so drenched and freezing that I take refuge for 20 minutes in a cabin-style toilet, I tackle Vi冒ey鈥檚 most demanding work of art. At the top of a steep, slippery hill, there鈥檚 a statue of the Virgin Mary encased in rainbow-colored glass. It was donated to Vi冒ey by the Catholic Church in 2000 to celebrate the 1,000th anniversary of Iceland鈥檚 conversion to 海角大神ity.

I end my visit at Vi冒ey House. Built in 1752, it鈥檚 one of the oldest buildings in Iceland and the first to have been constructed from stone. It has been the home of some of Iceland鈥檚 most powerful men over the past 250 years, but today it鈥檚 a cafe. And there I discover that there was one other person on the island with me: Gerdur Hanssen, manager of the house.
She lets me dry my hat, jacket, and sweatshirt near a heater and makes me a cup of hot chocolate.

鈥淒uring the summer, we鈥檙e much busier than this,鈥� she says.

I ask her about the mysterious rock inscriptions that I failed to find: Are they modern art, too?

鈥淥h no,鈥� she says. 鈥淪ome of the young people who lived here 100 or 150 years ago carved their initials into the rocks.鈥�

It鈥檚 a powerful reminder, I think, that others before Yoko Ono and Richard Serra sought to leave their mark on Vi冒ey, too.

The wonder of Vi冒ey is that it turns art into a lived experience, an outdoor hike surrounded by the unforgiving North Atlantic. And you get wet 鈥� and cold and exhausted and elated 鈥� as you peruse the works on display.
When my boatman arrives, we sail back to 搁别测办箩补惫铆办, in silence. Only this time, I鈥檓 glad of it, resting my rain-lashed head gently against the cabin wall.