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August 2026

- >Moments That Matter -

Life does not run in a straight line. It moves more like a series of waves across time – mostly with a gentle rhythm, but now and then with remarkable surges or true high points. These life lines are made up of many strands, one of them being family. It was Christmas Eve and, once again, my present to my husband and our children was a short trip with me. It would take place at some point during the following year, and each member of the family was free to choose a destination. That Christmas Eve, Xira suggested that, instead of travelling separately, we should all go away together. But where? Iceland! Everyone agreed at once: the family because none of them had ever been there, and I because I had visited the island once before, at the age of seventeen.

Klaus planned the route and took the wheel. Bruno and Joel were in charge of putting up and taking down the tents, Xira looked after breakfast, and I? Well, as I was the one who had invited everyone, I was free to paint to my heart's content – whenever and wherever I wished. Our little hire car was packed to the roof: two tents, five sleeping mats, sleeping bags, rucksacks, cooking gear and plenty of food, not to mention a generous supply of beer from the airport duty-free shop. It was a cosy squeeze; I sat in the middle of the back seat. Then we set off. With its harsh climate, its constant alternation of rain, wind and sunshine, its great white fleets of clouds, its rugged coastline and its mountains – some stark and bare, others softly cloaked in green – we fell in love with the island immediately. Vast plains strewn with dry riverbeds full of stones gave way to deep gorges and roaring torrents. Volcanic cones rose everywhere, standing alone or gathered in clusters. The landscape was at once strange and wonderful. Above all, we were captivated by the immense glacier in the south, covering a large part of the country and reaching almost to the sea.

Four decades leave their mark not only on people, but on landscapes too. The island had changed. Geysers, fissures and waterfalls had been tamed: fenced off, provided with paths, signs and information boards. Instead of driving along rough gravel tracks, we now travelled on tarmac roads from one attraction to the next. Only I noticed the difference. My family discovered Iceland with fresh eyes, full of wonder and delight. Every day was special, but two experiences stood out above all the others. We were in the far north of the island. At a remote campsite, almost deserted, we first witnessed a breathtaking sunset. The sky arched above the vast plateau like a glowing dome of colour. Then, late that evening, something completely unexpected happened. A neon-green aurora swept in over the horizon like a gigantic fluttering veil, raced above our heads, danced this way and that across the sky, and finally disappeared once more into the darkness beyond the horizon. It was only August, and none of us had expected such a spectacle of nature.

The following day we drove across a wide plain on a lonely, arrow-straight track towards the volcanic crater of Hverfjall. While my family climbed to the rim to look down into the crater lake, I stayed behind to paint the geothermal field with its bizarre formations of young lava. At times only delicate wisps of steam drifted from the earth; at others, great white columns billowed upwards. As we drove on, we laughed and joked in the car. We were still filled with the wonder of the previous evening and with the vastness and silence of this extraordinary landscape. The five of us were in such high spirits that Klaus put on a CD by The Doors. He turned up the volume, and we all sang along with Jim Morrison – though I can no longer remember exactly what we were singing. We swayed and danced in our seats as much as the cramped space allowed. Wasn't this an extraordinary island? Wasn't this a wonderful journey? We felt as wild and untamed as the landscape through which we were travelling.

Even today I often think back to that moment. It is not the Northern Lights or the volcano that stand out most in my memory, but that moment in the car: the five of us laughing, singing and simply happy. It was our last great journey together before our family grew, expanded, was enriched by new people, and, like life itself, kept moving forward.

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