Iceland

Reykjavik greets you gently. For a city set on an island of fire and ice, it carries a calm, laid-back rhythm. This was my second visit, and I had more time to explore before heading inland for a shoot.

Hunger took me first to Braud & Co., the bakery that has become almost a ritual for visitors. I remembered my first visit in 2016, the line curling around the corner, cinnamon rolls vanishing in minutes. This time, no wait—just a warm pastry, a rite of passage for anyone who cares about bread. From there, Reykjavik Roasters for hot chocolate, as good as memory promised.

I spent the morning between landmarks—the stark beauty of Hallgrimskirkja, the sharp lines of Harpa—and plates of Arctic Char and Atlantic Wolffish. Later, I met Anders Vange, a glassblower who works entirely with recycled glass powered by renewable energy. We spoke of Iceland, of glass, and of his grandfather’s sailor life on Aeroe Island in Denmark. I had walked there myself in 2019. Suddenly two different journeys felt connected, woven together through memory and place.

What strikes me about Reykjavik is how unforced it feels. The weather was unusually sunny, the city unhurried, each moment unfolding on its own terms. Early in my work as a photographer, I always reached for the big views—the mountains, the churches, the landmarks. Now, I’m more drawn to details. The way light hits a wall, the texture of lava rock, the curve of glass. In those fragments, whole stories can live.

That is the magic of photography. A waterfall, a black sand beach, a glacier—yes, they’re powerful. But sometimes a single detail says more. It gives space for others to imagine, to build their own narrative.

Reykjavik reminded me: every journey has layers. It’s not always the wide shot that matters. Sometimes it’s the quiet detail that holds everything together.

Church Light