Kristín Marja Baldursdóttir

^{Photo: Kristinn Ingvarsson}

“Equal rights were at the top of my mind when I began writing novels,” claims author Kristín Marja Baldursdóttir. Her works, popular both at home and abroad, highlight a mostly neglected part of Icelandic history: The lives of its women, and the disparity between their aspirations on one hand, and their predestined roles on the other.

There is evidently a demand for just such stories. In Germany, she has a devoted readership, and her German releases have sold tens of thousands of copies – yet she claims that her first work to be published in the country, Mávahlátur (Seagull's Laughter) made it into the market “practically by accident.” A few years later, the translation rights to Karitas án titils ( Karitas, Untitled) – a story describing a young woman's struggle to pursue an artistic career in the early twentieth century – were sold before the novel was published in the original Icelandic; a rare occurrance, and a sure sign of Baldursdóttir popularity in Germany. Indeed, all of her works have since been published in German, and her books have also appeared in Swedish, Danish, French and Dutch.

I used to dream of a housekeeper, now I dream of a secretary

How does it feels to have started out writing for a small population of islanders, and then seeing your readership expand dramatically after your work was translated?

Kristín: “It feels very good. Having your books read, however, means work –  more than I imagined. You don't get out of the office much. Good letters need to be answered. I used to dream of a housekeeper, now I dream of a secretary. But gaining a foothold as a foreign writer takes time – I've been toughing it out for the past twelve years. In the beginning, no one wanted my book. Then a German journalist got her hands on it, practically by accident, and recommended it. That started things off a bit.”

One of your books has also been “translated” into other mediums: Seagull's Laughter was staged and then filmed. What did you think of the transition?

Kristín: “I was a bundle of nerves while it was going on, but looking back, it was a fun period. I got to know the exotic world of filmmakers and actors. It was also interesting to see how my own internal images were translated into something everyone could see. I think they handled my story well – both Þórhildur Þorleifsdóttir, who directed the play, and Ágúst Guðmundsson, who made the film. I'm very grateful to them. Having good memories is important.”

The arts play an important role in your books. Where did your interest in paintings originate?

Kristín: “I became interested in the arts when I was a child. I would sit with my father while he painted, and he would talk to me about art. He would take me to exhibitions, at the Listamannaskálinn [the first specially built exhibition space in Iceland], and would talk to me about colors and technique as if I were an expert. Later, when I traveled abroad, I wasn't interested in anything but the art museums. Over the past thirty years, I must have seen over eighty of them in Europe. Looking back, I must have been a frightful bore as a travel companion. But maybe the reason for this addiction was that I would often have good ideas when I looked at art. Even if the canvas was just black. After I finished my two novels about the painter Karitas, the compulsion subsided a bit, as if those books had served as an outlet for certain emotions. On the other hand, I still go to concerts and operas. I don't have any ideas to speak of while I'm going to concerts, but music opens up certain dimensions. As does good literature.”

The illness must be diagnosed

Equal rights are a recurring theme in your work. For instance, your “big” books – Óreiða á striga (Chaos on Canvas) and Karitas, Untitled – highlighted the condition of women at the dawn of the 20^th century. Does your work consciously comment on the current state of affairs?

Kristín: “Equal rights were at the top of my mind when I began writing novels. However, I try to avoid preaching. Instead, I've striven to adapt the message to the art. Looking back, I'm not sure my world-saving did much good. I think that in the nineties, when I started writing, women weren't very interested in equal rights. They had other things – such as their appearance – on their minds. Maybe that's why I felt compelled to write about the woman artist Karitas, who has to work for everything she gets. I've often thought about female solidarity: on the surface, there seems to be a lot of it, but when push comes to shove it doesn't amount to much, except in a few isolated instances. As Karitas says: “In the patriarchy, the men make a fuss of each other. What's worse is that the women make a fuss of them too, because if they'd start making a fuss of each other, who would do the country's laundry?” But if my books have a place in the fight for equal rights, that's good. In my mind, equal rights are synonymous with human rights.”

Your latest book, Karlsvagninn (The Big Dipper) has been interpreted as a psychoanalysis of Iceland in the aftermath of the economic collapse. What role do literature and other art-forms play after the collapse, in your opinion?

Kristín: “The collapse was a benchmark of Icelandic history. Not only did it lay bare financial fraud and corruption in Icelandic society – it also revealed its inherent vulnerabilities, which can be compared to a latent disease. The illness must be diagnosed and treated if the people are to find a purpose in life here. The devil has to be talked down. Literature has a big role to play, there – few people are more adept at analyzing, interpreting and creating than writers. In the next few years we'll no doubt see countless artworks about the country's mental state appearing.”