When travelling in Iceland, you may encounter piles of driftwood along the coast. In a country where no trees grow, the huge trunks washed up on the shore are like alien bodies: they come neither from a nearby forest or fjord, nor from a neighbouring country (there is none). Subjected to wind, tidal movement, drift ice, and waves, bleached by the sun and the ocean salt for up to fifteen years, most have made their way from Siberia, a few from North America, and some are even said to have come from South America, surfing the Gulf Stream.
These nomads, their surfaces chafed by water, ice, and shore friction, make no demands on their host country as they hover on its periphery. Unfamiliar and real at the same time, they tell a story of migration and of the natural forces that shaped their route. For me, they represent an emotional journey.
Spaces that might generate small frictional dialogues were found in Berlin; spaces where the trunks would be perceived as momentary thresholds, offering subtle resistance to our too pragmatic and automated relations with our surroundings. In this way, a small narrative was added to the multiple stories-so-far of the city.