Along the seemingly tiny stretch of Ránargata, people spill from bars into the street — dancing, chatting, and making out. Just a block away, in the community centre Herðubreið, others are getting tattoos and raving to the sound of gigantic speakers. Seyðisfjörður is in the final days of its annual LungA Art Festival week, which organisers have announced will be the last in its run.
A peculiar sound cuts through the Friday night.
“I can hear it,” a friend says. “Ísbíllin! It’s the ice cream truck.”
It appears out of nowhere, with the backdrop of a cotton candy sky and the iconic pastel blue church. Festival-goers start to line up, waiting with smiles for ice cream cones, ice lollies, or sorbets on a stick. This town is truly magical and so, it seems, is — or at least was — LungA.
End of the road
While most kids ask their parents for candy or toys, Seyðisfjörður local Björt Sigfinnsdóttir wished for something to happen in her small fishing town. That wish gave birth to LungA, giving the fifteen year old Björt and her peers from all over Iceland a chance to immerse themselves in progressive art, workshops, and cutting edge music performances.
For 25 years, the festival has been bringing together two distinct groups: those with the time and finances to join the week-long workshop programme and collaborate with artists on exciting projects, and those who came to party. For my first-ever LungA — the festival’s last, incidentally — I fall into the latter group, taking a really long ride east on Thursday.
I arrive in Seyðisfjörður to find possibly the prettiest town in Iceland, nestled behind mountains with waterfalls cascading down its slopes. Yet, the serenity of the scene is disturbed by thousands of disembarked cruise ship passengers, clicking their cameras at every corner. The campsite has doubled its prices just in time for the festival (4.500 ISK, or 32 USD per person per night for a place to pitch a tent or park a car — outrageous!), and the locals either look away, roll their eyes at any mention of LungA, or have left town completely.
Is LungA over, or is Seyðisfjörður over LungA? This thought lingers for the first few days, but then it slowly dawns on me that not everything has to go on forever. The festival has grown past its wild and rebellious teenage years and become something else. For the event’s original team, life seems to have moved on. They’ve chosen to let go rather than pushing harder, and LungA will continue to live on in the mosaic of memories it created for everyone it touched.
The final curtain
Not having participated in workshops, I feel a bit like a LungA outsider. The weekend barely allows enough time to truly embrace what the festival has to offer and the legacy it has built. I look for clues at the LungA Memories exhibition, which showcases the festival’s memorabilia over the years — wristbands, flags, and clippings from local newspapers. I wander through workshop presentations spread across town, from a beachside sauna at one end of Seyðisfjörður to a fishing factory at the other, I mingle with the campsite crowd, which feels more like a gathering of art school friends. We’re all awaiting the final big bang — the farewell concert.
This year, the music programme has been condensed into a single downtown concert, right in front of the church on the town’s rainbow road. Surprisingly, the organisers decided not to announce the schedule, making it nearly impossible to catch specific shows without spending the entire day camped out in front of the stage.
To my disappointment, I miss Virgin Orchestra by minutes, simply because I couldn’t predict they’d open the show. I arrive to see the band leaving the stage in front of a sparse crowd of just five people. They seem understandably dissatisfied with the turnout.
The same thing happens to Sunna Margrét. The artist delivers an intimate show featuring tracks from her debut album, but at its peak, the audience is just 24 people, a few of whom are members of Sunna’s family.
There’s something weirdly moving about watching a talented artist perform to a nearly empty venue. You feel bad for them, but at the same time, you know that those who aren’t here are truly missing out.
“I have a weird urge to say fuck like 60 times,” says LungA debutant Kristín Sesselja, referring to what seems to be a song about her romantic setbacks. But, like the preceding artists, she seems less than thrilled to be giving her all to such a tiny audience.
Kristín Sesselja is one of the few artists I haven’t seen perform before and am excited to watch at the festival — and she does not disappoint. Having launched her professional career after participating in a LungA workshop a few years ago, being invited to perform at the final LungA feels like a full-circle moment for Kristín, whose songwriting style sounds heavily inspired by Taylor Swift, though it’s hard to say if that’s a direct influence or simply the hallmark of contemporary songs about heartbreak.
In a few hours, the concert area livens up a bit as Sandrayati, Tara Mobee,Sóðaskapur, Flesh Machine, and others keep the spirits high as the programme approaches its finale. “The peace I see here is beautiful and I hope we can have it in Palestine and all over the world,” says Palestinian musician Bashar Murad, to loud cheers from the audience. It’s Bashar’s first time at LungA and he’s absolutely loving it.
The headliners, Hjaltalín, prove to be crowd favourites. The band were at their peak ten years ago, and haven’t performed much since. This is their first gig in five years, and to the band’s surprise the young-skewing 20-something crowd knows every word.
Even though I’m unfamiliar with the lyrics to “Þú komst við hjartað í mér,” I find myself swept up in the collective energy, singing along with frontman Högni’s distinctive deep voice.
A resting place
The concert seems to end too soon, leaving the crowd wanting more. Moments later, the gates of the fenced-off concert area open, and everyone is invited to join the festival’s final farewell procession.The organisers lead the way dressed in white robes, as a drum beat guides the crowd through the town.
The makeshift funeral takes place at a spot by the waterside. An urn is passed around, and attendees are invited to spit into it — preserving a part of themselves in this moment, to be buried along with LungA. Voices wail, “LungA er jarðað í dag” (“LungA is buried today”), with the mourners hugging, shedding tears, or looking towards the far horizon.
The festival is over, laid to rest. Yet for anyone here, or who has attended over the past 25 years, a part of it will always remain with them. It’s hard not to be touched by Seyðisfjörður’s spell.
R.I.P. LungA 2000-2024
Round trip: 1459 km
Charges: 7
A massive thanks to Tesla for furnishing some sweet wheels. Check them out at tesla.com/is_is.
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