Björk (b. Iceland, 1992) meets me at his Reykjavík loft overlooking Brúarfoss, one of Iceland's largest container ships, and next door to Sjávargrillið, whose Lobster Soup could reasonably become three meals a day.

The loft smells faintly of waxed skis, old wool, burnt coffee, and lobster. Björk grew up skiing competitively, obsessively, often at night, "drawn less to speed than to the quiet logic of moving through dark terrain by instinct alone."

Over cold Ölgerðins, we come around to the accident in his early twenties that ended his Olympic trajectory. The details drift, possibly the fault of four beers in two hours. What stays consistent is what happened after: a clandestine encounter on a night slope with what Björk maintains was an off-grid Sasquatch. Unaffiliated, untracked, and wholly uninterested in being believed. The event left no proof, only a recalibration. Björk stopped racing, enrolled in art school, and we are now the recipients of his work.

His practice resists explanation. Working across mixed media, found material, and structural repetition, Björk makes pieces that feel slightly misaligned, like something remembered incorrectly but with great confidence. The mountains are always there. Humor is too: skiers racing down snowy slopes among spring florals.

xo Leonie Jannoit