Decentralising The Literary Scene

The first of its kind, Flateyri Literary Festival brought the scene to the Westfjords

“I am very risk-taking,” writer Helen Hafgnýr Cova tells me over the phone. “If I have an idea, I just go for it. I have never organised a festival, but I just decided that this was something that I wanted to see in my town.” We’re speaking ahead of the first Flateyri Literary Festival, held March 27th to 30th. Helen moved to Flateyri in 2021 and has since co-founded the Flateyri-based publishing house Karíba with her husband, Siggi Jökulsson.

“At that time, I noticed that there was a lack of variety in the literature world in Iceland, particularly when it came to Latin America,” she explains. Karíba publishes literature in English, Icelandic, and Spanish, and their first book from Helen’s native Venezuela will be published this year. “We’re just trying to make bridges and challenge a little bit what the world of literature looks like in Iceland,” she says.

Language isn’t the Flateyri Literary Festival’s only means of challenging the scene. “Decentralising the literary scene” is the theme of this year’s event. Helen explains that writers and artists from the Westfjords are often welcomed to participate in events and festivals in Reykjavík but frequently aren’t compensated for their travel or helped with accommodation. Yet, if a Reykjavík-based author is invited to the Westfjords, they expect this compensation. Helen wants to push back against this “by bringing authors here and by creating something, hopefully, of the quality of what you could find in Reykjavik or in big places. But accessible for the locals, so we also do not always have to go to Reykjavik to go to a literary event or a literary festival.”

The festival’s impressive bill spotlights authors who reside in the Westfjords, like Eiríkur Örn Norðdahl, Jarek Czechowicz, and Satu Rämö, as well as those who will trek from elsewhere, like Sjón, angela snæfellsjökuls rawlings, and Elías Knörr. In the troupe of those wayfaring from the big city, Grapevine photographer Joana Fontinha and I set off to experience words and art in the fjord.

Writing for all

We timed our trip to make it in time for the first talk of the programme between Eiríkur Örn and Sjón. But as we were wolfing down dinner, we learned that, in a stereotypically Icelandic happenstance, Sjón’s flight was cancelled due to weather. We were able to eat our burgers with a little less haste before making our way to a panel with Gerður Kristný, Maó Alheimsdóttir, and Elías Knörr.

Settling into Bryggjukaffi, my first observation was that I was not the only person with a pen and notebook; many around me would often whip to a page and scribble something (others were endearingly doodling, though). Within this conversation, the authors offered beautiful readings, with a particularly theatrical one from Elías Knörr. Immediately following them was a conversation between long-time collaborators angela and Poet Laureate of Vancouver Elee Kraljii Gardiner. The pair’s conversation flowed effortlessly without pause, and yet we learned within the conversation that it was the first time they had met and spoken in person.

Bókmenntahátið Flateyrar not only held standard events for a literary festival but also ran a full children’s programme. Helen’s most recent works are children’s books; her book Svona tala ég was nominated for the Reykjavík City Children’s Book Award. “It just felt natural to include the children as well,” Helen said, “or rather to not exclude them.”

Helen has often said her most important writing is for children. “We are having problems in Iceland where children are reading less and less,” she notes. “So, the more positive experiences we create around literature for children, the better the outcome will be in the future.” One enjoyable aspect of the festival was the exhibition “Mjallbíll,” a van parked outside the Flateyri Pool with a four-hour audiobook playing aloud three times a day. You could enter, cosy up with a blanket, and listen to various children’s stories. Additionally, there were children’s book readings, a discussion about diversity in Icelandic children’s books, a puppet-making workshop, and more within the Flateyri school.

Icelandic writers

Another aspect of the festival’s push against the grain was its trilingual bill: there was English, Icelandic and Polish programming. Helen explores her relationship and journey with the Icelandic language in her work. Her Svona tala ég is the narrative of a child who speaks Icelandic with an accent, and her book of poetry Ljóðið fyrir klofið hjárta presents two columns, with her first attempt at writing in Icelandic on one and an edited final version on the other. The festival featured Icelandic-born authors, Icelandic authors who live here and write in Icelandic but were not born here, authors who are learning the language and don’t write in it, plus an author visiting Iceland.

Another surreal moment — and my favourite of the festival — was Saturday’s “Að synda ljóðið” performance put on by Elee Kraljii Gardiner and sound artist Eduardo Abrantes. To swim the poem? What would that entail? I saw on Facebook that Elee was searching for volunteers, so, in an act she later called “some gonzo journalism” I decided to partake.

In the small, hot, Flateyri pool, we were each handed a laminated poem. We were told that each line came from preexisting work from each author at the festival and were given one line to commit to memory. We would repeat this line as we completed four lengths of the pool, however we chose. I whispered, screamed, gurgled, swam, walked, dove, kicked, all as I recited “something stuck in kelp.” Eduardo positioned microphones to capture all sounds made, both in and out of the water. With the sanctity of an Icelandic pool and the poem’s special origins, the event was an encapsulating end to the weekend of literature intertwined with its Icelandic setting. Following the performance, it was especially serendipitous to relax in the hot pool amidst chatting authors.

Later that day was the festival’s closing party at storied Flateyri bar, Vagninn. Helen gave a touching and sincere speech, sharing thanks and admitting how proud she was of the successful endeavor. Humbly, she echoed something she told me in our first conversation before the festival. “I am maybe not a professional organiser of literary festivals,” Helen said, “but I’m putting a lot of love and a lot of care into it, and I think that’s what matters.” Moved and glad, festival-goers conversed into the night before retiring after a satiating weekend of literature.