For the third and final in my recent mini series of Iceland photo book reviews, I’m looking at one that seems to have achieved some kind of contemporary classic status: “Iceland”, by Josef Hoflehner.

One thing really needs to be adressed up front. Anybody who decides to specialise in square format, monochrome, long exposure landscape shots is going to get compared with Michael Kenna, and that’s a scary prospect. So let’s leave that aside, for now.

I’d been dithering about buying this book for ages. Looking at Josef Hoflehner’s website though, I was never that blown away by the photos. But it seemed that my collection really would be incomplete without it, so finally I ordered it direct from the author. One thing I really have to comment on is that the packaging was amazing. So much bubble wrap that it would probably have survived a drop from several hundred feet. But unfortunately this caught the beady eyes of the Swiss Customs, who charged me the 2.6% import duty they normally waive - and a handling charge over half the cost of the book. Oh well. Anyway, after half an hour or so of unwrapping, I got the book open, and was immediately blown away by the print quality. It really is gorgeous, and makes the photos spring to life. So good you feel like you should wear cotton gloves to read it.

So, excellent first impressions. Josef Hoflehner’s style is clearly minimalist. There are a number of photos of poles sticking out of the sea, with or without bird perching on top. Seascapes tend to dominate, these being something of a primary material for long exposures. The locations will, by and large, be pretty familiar to anybody who has spent a few days or so in Iceland. And this is where things start to go a bit wrong, for me. It’s that I necessarily need to see new locations, but if I’m going to see the same locations that the world+dog snaps, then I’d like to see a personal interpretation, something that’s going to catch my attention. And, sorry, but using the Michael Kenna preset, in a fairly heavy handed way, doesn’t qualify.

I’m aware that this sounds very harsh. I’m also aware that Hoflehner is highly regarded by people who know what they’re talking about - after all, he was the IPA’s Nature Photographer of the Year 2007. But I find this collection strangely unengaging. It’s pretty telling that I’ve got 3 or 4 photos which are almost identical to his, apart from the 4:3 frame and the colour. And I know just how obvious they were. The “rocks in the sea”, and the telegraph poles in the sea (within urban Reykjavik, by the way), just don’t do much for me, in particular in the context of a book which is supposed to be about Iceland. Of course, it is entirely possible to put a very different twist on “about Iceland”. It doesn’t have to be pretty landscapes. It doesn’t have to be landscapes at all. In fact a book of photos of overweight people with badly fitting clothes stuffing hot dogs could easily be “about Iceland”. But for that to work, you’ve got to be consistent. And long exposures of rocks in the sea which could be anywhere in the world, and if anything resonate with a more Far Eastern visual ethos, don’t fit in comfortably.

It’s ironic that in the narrative that serves as an introduction, he describes a very different vision, albeit in the somewhat clichéd let’s-get-romantically-stuck-in-a-snowstorm pseudo-explorer style which seems to appeal to the Germanic contingent. But I searched in vain for any real photographic counterpoint to that tale.

There are some good photographs in this collection - there are even a couple of great ones (one of which is on the cover). But there’s also a lot of repetition, some dodgy compositions, and a fair of amount of humdrum which cranking up the contrast to 11 doesn’t rescue.  Josef Hoflehner is clearly a very good photographer, but I don’t think that “Iceland” is his best work.

Well, that’s my opinion. For what it’s worth.  You can make up your own mind by buying “Iceland” direct from the photographer, or from Beyond Words.

“The North begins and ends with Iceland” - Marco Paoluzzo

There are a lot of photography books on Iceland and Icelandic landscapes in particular. They’re split, pretty much, into several categories: books by Icelandic photographers that are never seen outside of Iceland, but are ubiquitous in their homeland. “Lost in Iceland” by Sigurgeir Sigurjonsson is a good example. Then we have books by foreign photographers, which are never seen in Iceland, but in some cases are quite ubiquitous outside of the country. Interestingly black & white Icelandic landscape photography books, are, as far as I know, a uniquely foreign category.

And then we have Iceland Landscapes by Daníel Bergmann.

Daníel is without a shadow of a doubt Icelandic, but thanks to time he spent outside of the country, he’s had something of the experience of discovering Iceland as a foreigner, and this gives him something of a mixed perspective. He is able to see the country at a remove, while at the same time knowing it extremely well, with the result that he’s able to bring something new to a rather over-crowded field.

Iceland Landscapes is, I think, his 5th published book, but it is the first that really focuses on the landscape. It’s beautifully printed and presented, and includes a foreword by British photographer David Ward. This is very appropriate, because Daníel’s approach is well in tune with Ward’s “Landscape Within” ethos, as well as his discrete but strong spiritual undertone.

One thing that stands out for me is his response to and treatment of light. He prefers the subtle approach, and often goes for quite muted light, and avoids the sometimes ghastly “Velvia tones” so characteristic of a sector of the landscape community, as well as the heavy-handed contrast treatments so beloved by the Flickr crowd.

In general he tends to avoid the more over-photographed locations in Iceland. In particular I’m think of the coastal area to the west of Vik, which has really been done to death - although he has included a couple of beautiful scenes from there. But the most successful shots tend to be from well off the beaten track, perhaps not so much because they’re unknown, but perhaps more because they communicate a stronger connection to the land.

There are many outstanding photos, but here’s a small selection of my current favourites (which I hope doesn’t break “Fair Use” copyright rules!).

Skaftafell © Daníel Bergmann

Leirur © Daníel Bergmann

Eyjafjallajökull © Daníel Bergmann

“Iceland Landscapes” is at completely the other end the spectrum to “Terra Borealis” by Marco Paoluzzo, which I reviewed last week. But they’ve one special thing in common: they avoid the hard sell, the dramatic-but-cheap shot, but instead slowly draw you in to the worlds they create.

I think it’s obvious that I highly recommend “Iceland Landscapes”. You can get your own copy directly from Daníel Bergmann, or apparently it’s available in Icelandic bookstores and tourist shops.

The North, as well as a lot of other things, does indeed begin and end in Iceland. For me it’s been too long…

Disclaimer: In fairness I should mention that I’m happy to count Daníel Bergmann as a good friend who I’ve spent too little time with. But I’d be as positive about this collection of photographs even if my worst enemy had published it.

A couple of years back, I reviewed Marco Paoluzzo’s book about the Faroe Islands, Føroyar. This followed on from his other “Arctic series” books, Iceland and North/Nord. Finally, he has put together his magnum opus, Terra Borealis, with photography from Iceland, Greenland, the Faroes, Svalbard and Norway.

Hvitserkur, Iceland: the cover photo of Terra Borealis. Photo © Marco Paoluzzo.

Terra Borealis has been out for about 6 months (and Marco was kind enough to send me a PDF proof over a year ago), so I’ve been a bit slow to write about it. Meanwhile it has been getting good reviews in various publications, and is currently being promoted on the site of the well recommended photo book retailer, Beyond Words. So this is old news.

Marco Paoluzzo is far from the typical landscape photographer - in fact I doubt he’d describe himself as that at all - even if landscapes figure large in his work. He has much more of a reportage view of the world, and is equally fascinated by the human presence in the landscape, or indeed shaping the landscape, as the place itself. He doesn’t photograph people very much, at least not in the Arctic, but he doesn’t shy away from the worst excesses of environmental damage, for example at Barentsburg, Svalbard. In this he reminds me a little of Edward Burtynsky, but less formal. He also shows a fascination with how man has managed to survive and prosper even in these harsh climates, not only in the more obvious Inuit communities, but also severe concrete constructions like those found in Kirkenes.

However, landscape, or perhaps better, “place”, figures very strongly. Since he uses only black and white, and generally avoids the heavy contrast, long exposure style of others such as Josef Hoflehner, this is almost a “decisive moment” approach. It’s certainly very individual, and may not appeal to the general landscape audience. It’s also in stark contrast (ha!) to the highly colorful Iceland “standard” style piled high in Keflavik airport - or indeed found all over Flickr. And it’s all the more refreshing for that.  Terra Borealis is a book that requires, and rewards, a certain degree of engagement and time.

Personally it has a style which resonates with me, even if I’m no black & white photographer. There are strong undercurrents of wonder mixed with ironic humour, and more than a degree of quiet romanticism. Paoluzzo’s photography doesn’t grab you by the throat, it just invites you to contemplate for a while.

My personal favourite is from the back of the dustjacket. It’s a shot taken from a ship cruising up the west coast of Svalbard, and typically, Marco has framed the wild, empty landscape using the ship’s structure, and as you look, you become aware of the coffee cup tucked away in a corner, and just become part of the scene.

Svalbard, observed. Photo © Marco Paoluzzo.

I don’t know where he can go from here with his Arctic series. Russia maybe ? But as you can see from his web site, he has plenty more tales to tell.

If you’ve got a bit of the Arctic in your soul, you need this book.

The Hasselblad XPan is not noted for it’s usefulness in wildlife photography, still less in birding. The longest lens is a 90mm f4, which equates roughly to a 50mm in “normal” 35mm terms. Arguably.

So when I was looking for something to scan today (it was raining), I came across a very untypical series of shots I took at Latrabjarg, Iceland, in 2004. That day - or rather night - I was photographing puffins using my Olympus E-1 with 50-200mm lens (that’s 400mm in 35mm terms), when the battery died. And I didn’t have a spare with me, and the spare was about 20km away. Bugger.

So,throwing convention to the wind, and to the amusement of my companions, I switched to the XPan. There can’t be many other places in the world you can get close enough to wildlife, even less birds, to get away with this, but these puffins have no predators on land, and really couldn’t give a damn about some strange animal crawling towards them waving a weird object.  Of course they didn’t really stand still long enough to get many shots - this is shot on ISO 100 Velvia 100F, at f4 I imagine. Maybe 5.6 at a push.

But still, it sort of works, and is vastly different from the standard DSLR shots I got once the battery was recharged.

p.s. Afterwards, I discovered that the E-1’s battery has a sort of “rebound” effect. Leave it off for a bit, switch in on again, and you’re good to go for another 50 shots or so. Same goes for the E-400, but not the E-3, which eats batteries like a pig in donut shop.  Anyway, in this case I’m glad I didn’t know, I’d never have even considered this otherwise!

I’ve been spending a lot of time recently wondering about what type of film to take to Svalbard next month. The arguments about the subjective qualities of different types rage across the internet (yes, still), with no end of “expert”, dogmatic opinions (as well as the odd voice of reason).

I won’t go into the arguments here, but I did remember an interesting experience from a few years back.

During a photographic trip around Iceland in March 2008 with Daniel Bergmann, we were driving towards the town of Vik while a storm front was approaching from the south, making a very dramatic contrast between thick, dense cloud reflect dark sand and sea, and snow covered dunes.

We stopped to take a few photos. I was using my XPan loaded with Fuji Velvia 100F, Daniel was using his Canon EOS 1Ds Mk whatever.

When I got the processed film, it looked like this:

uncorrected scan

Not at ALL what I remembered!  No, I remember a leaden gray sky and pure white snow, so after some fairly drastic Photoshoppery (the slide has very low contrast, which should have given me a clue) I ended up with this:

the Truth ... is out there ?

Daniel meanwhile worked on his RAW file, without any idea or sight of what I had done, and some later mailed me this (cropped by me from his 35mm FF format):

Daniel Bergmann’s view (© Daniel Bergmann)

Interestingly, he’s ended up with much more blue, pretty much as the Velvia 100F slide suggested, and a lot lower contrast: I think he’s believed the camera, as opposed to me trying to recreate whatever I could remember of my impression.

The point of all this is this: with such a range of subjectivity, which can give results which are neither “right” nor “wrong” (even removing a colour cast is subjective), what characteristics of film can really be so important ? In the digital age, the main issue surely is to capture a neutral image which will give as much latitude as possible for subjective interpretation.

Which pretty much rules out Velvia 50, the great favourite of landscape photographers since Noah launched the Ark…