Mystic Fjord

Some evenings the wind in Iceland simply stops — and when it does, the fjords become mirrors. This was one of those evenings: a few minutes after eleven at night, late July, the water so still that the clouds had a second life on its surface.

I kept the wild grass in the foreground on purpose. Most photographs of Iceland are about spectacle; this one is about standing there — the grass at your knees, the rocks darkening in the shallows, the sun burning low behind the far ridge and no sound but water settling.

It is the gentlest work in the collection, and the one I would hang in a bedroom or a quiet study rather than above a sofa.