One unusually warm afternoon this past April, I found myself in a long line outside a building in downtown Reykjavík, Iceland. Ostensibly, I was waiting for pizza. Through the windows I could see menus, containers full of toppings, stacks of cardboard boxes, and cheerful workers in matching uniforms. The process was simple enough, and one that most of us have done a thousand times before. Step up to the counter, put in your order, then wait to hear your name called, meaning your food is ready.

Open the box at Pizza Time, and there will be a beautiful pie — albeit one that is completely inedible. Made from scrap and remnant yarn collected from Iceland’s wool industry, the felted pizzas are whimsical, toy-like, and absolutely delightful. The brainchild of Icelandic design duo Studio Flétta and textile artist Ýrúrarí, Pizza Time was a wildly popular event at Hönnunarmars, or DesignMarch, the annual design festival that takes place at dozens of venues throughout the country’s capital each spring. I was attending my second DesignMarch, and as I learned in my two brief visits to Reykjavík, where pop-ups like this are not unusual, the city boasts a young, fearless, and thriving creative scene.

“I think the Icelandic creative community is raw and experimental,” says Hrefna Sigurðardóttir, one half of Studio Flétta, which she formed in 2018 with Birta Rós Brynjólfsdóttir. “We live on a pretty remote island and most of the materials we use in Iceland are imported and then exported again for recycling — if it does not go into landfills. So, we often need to be creative with the material that is available. Because of that, I think maybe it is a bit more material-driven and playful.”

Such was the origin of Pizza Time. Noticing the immense amount of waste in the Icelandic wool industry, Sigurðardóttir, Brynjólfsdóttir, and Ýrúrarí decided to utilize the leftover material in an irreverent and eye-catching project to raise awareness of how our everyday choices can influence the environment. This ingrained ingenuity, this out-of-the-box solution, wasn’t unique to Studio Flétta. It’s something I saw over and over again during DesignMarch: Theodóra Alfreðsdóttir partnered with local chocolate company Omnom to create tablescape sculptures from husk, the fibrous outer shells of the cacao bean that are discarded during the chocolate production process; Ýrúrarí released a collaboration with outerwear company 66°North, giving new life to defective sweaters (minor imperfections make them unsellable); and an exhibition from Studio Erindrekar and natural textile designer Sigmundur Páll Freysteinsson investigated uses for second-class eiderdown, a super-warm, ultra-lightweight material harvested from the nests of eider ducks. Each project was smart, inventive, and problem-solving in a concrete way. Although there are designers who work in conceptual spaces, most of those I met in Reykjavík were applying their skills to tangibly address issues in the here and now.

“In Iceland, pursuing a creative career has never really been about making a lot of money, and this has created a unique atmosphere where there’s less competition and more support,” says photographer and artist Lilja Birgisdóttir, who founded Reykjavík-based perfumery Fischersund with her siblings Sigurrós, Inga Birgism, and Jónsi. Yes, that Jónsi: the vocalist and multi-instrumentalist behind the band Sigur Rós. This November, the siblings are opening an immersive, multimedia exhibition, Fischersund: Faux Flora, at Seattle’s National Nordic Museum. Using scent, sound, sculpture, 3D graphics, and photography, the installations will illustrate the five life cycles of a plant, with a twist — the plants are born from human memories and experiences rather than seed and earth. “In Iceland, everyone helps each other out,” Birgisdóttir adds, “and it’s common to see musicians playing in multiple bands or artists working together on different projects. This sense of community and our shared drive to innovate and create is what makes Iceland’s creative scene so special.”

The more time I spent in Iceland, the more similarities I noticed between its capital and Seattle. The two are sister cities, a fact many people are unaware of (the sister city agreement was signed in 1986, the year of Reykjavik’s bicentennial anniversary). According to the city of Seattle’s website, it has the largest Icelandic community in the United States. But aside from the ceremonial connection, the two cities also share a love of nature, and a comparable pioneering spirit underscored by ingenuity and creativity that are perhaps fueled by isolation.

Until the tech boom and grunge music explosion of the 1990s, Seattle was barely a blip outside the Pacific Northwest, seen as a far-flung, rough-around-the-edges locale. With this reputation, the Emerald City attracted a slew of misfits, artists, and musicians who felt the freedom to experiment with their mediums without much judgment, and often found true support from the burgeoning creative community. Both cities have a strong music scene (Seattle’s beloved independent radio station, KEXP, launched Iceland Airwaves, an immersive, multi-genre music festival, in 1999) and a gritty, DIY undercurrent that manifests in guerilla art shows, fashion pop-ups, and a collective sense that getting things done is more important than trying to perfect them.

“DesignMarch was started in the dramatic atmosphere of the financial crash, but with a lot of optimism from a young and emerging design scene,” says Halla Helgadóttir, the managing director at the office of Iceland Design and Architecture, a government-funded organization that supports the promotion and advancement of Icelandic design. She is one of the creative forces
behind DesignMarch, which launched in 2008 and draws thousands of attendees (hundreds from outside the country) each year with its city-wide installations, TED Talk-style speaker symposium, and dozens of parties, performances, exhibitions, and interactive events. “It was actually a very good time to start a project like that. That atmosphere, although gloomy, was one of entrepreneurship and bringing all types of design — industrial, architecture, fashion, graphic, and product — together. It was a very Icelandic approach. We just all jumped in.”

This collective attitude is pervasive around Reykjavík, where one cannot help but notice that everyone knows everyone: the consequence of a population less than one-fifth of Seattle’s and a society that, according to Helgadóttir, “has very little hierarchy.” In 2022, during my first trip to Iceland, I met Arnar Ingi and Valdis Steinars, industrial designers who, after two brief meetings, insisted on taking me around the city to experience their favorite spots: isbúð Vesturbæjar for authentic, old-fashioned ice cream; a neighborhood pool where locals gather every day to sit in hot tubs and saunas to unwind and socialize; a drive-by to see where the singer Björk lives. In fact, it is not uncommon to see Björk in public. This year, at the DesignMarch opening party held at the Reykjavík Art Museum, I looked up from viewing a piece of work in an exhibition, and she was standing right next to me.

Designer Darin Montgomery of Seattle-based furniture brand Fin recalls a similar experience. “The first year I went I was alone,” he says. “People would see me standing on the street consulting my guide, they would come up and start talking to me, and the next thing I knew I was getting in cabs with strangers.”

In 2022, Montgomery launched Hae/Hi, a collaborative project featuring a rotating cast of Icelandic and Seattle design studios that create objects based on various prompts or ideas: friendship, well-being, togetherness, the home. The group has shown its work at multiple DesignMarches as well as in New York, Seattle, and most recently at Copenhagen’s 3 Days of Design festival. Hae/Hi will return to Seattle this fall, as part of the annual Taste of Iceland festival, with its third iteration, Welcome, featuring work related to the home’s entry and the acts that happen there — arriving and departing, greetings and goodbyes.

“The idea centers around what happens in the threshold of your home,” Montgomery says. “We looked at it as more of an experience rather than just a transitional space to drop your shoes.”

Of course, one can’t talk about Iceland without mentioning its world-class natural attractions. From glaciers, volcanos, and geysers to the northern lights, hot springs, and endless summer light, it’s easy to see why the “Land of Fire and Ice” is a top draw for thrill-seekers, wanderers, and nature buffs, none of which I would classify myself as. Still, on one trip, I bundled up in a gigantic waterproof thermal suit like a puffy, red-and-black Michelin Man and rode in an open-topped boat, the freezing Arctic wind whipping in my face, to a small, rocky island just outside the harbor in Reykjavík. Here, from the boat, I had the opportunity to see a colony of puffins, their tiny orange-beaked bodies darting and diving in water and air with surprising speed.

I visited the infamous Blue Lagoon (it’s true what they say, it’s overrun with rowdy tourists), and took a day-long tour around the Golden Circle on a loop that took me to see the Strokkur, Iceland’s famous active geyser, the Goðafoss waterfall, and Thingvellir National Park, the site of the oldest parliament in the world, dating back to 930 C.E. Almost every Icelander I talked to spoke of escaping to distant parts of the country — from cabins in the woods to remote, smaller islands and fjords — for vacation, and engaging in myriad outdoor activities, from kayaking to biking to skiing on the regular. Designers, architects, and artists mentioned again and again drawing inspiration from the landscape around them. It sounded incredibly familiar.

“Seattle and Reykjavík share a passion for creativity and a deep love for nature. Perhaps partly because we both experience similar weather patterns,” says Birgisdóttir, whose scents for Fischersund each have a poetic and tantalizing description, such as the brand’s inaugural and bestselling fragrance, No. 23: smoke in the air and tarred telephone poles, tall freshly mowed grass, and tobacco leaves. Dead flowers bow to the ground. She gives credit to her brother, Jónsi, for being the family’s main nose. “Seattle is nestled between mountains and the sea,” she adds, “and while it may have more trees than Reykjavík, both cities are deeply connected to nature. This connection seems to inspire and inform our artistic communities in profound ways.”

Rooted in that connection, Iceland is both familiar and wildly foreign, which makes it a thrilling place to visit whether your itinerary is camping around the country or lounging for hours at a spa. Spend at least a day or two in Reykjavík, where stores like Rammagerðin, Kiosk, Hildur Yeoman, and Epal sell clothing, accessories, housewares, and jewelry from local designers. Check out the Hafnarfjörður Centre of Culture and Fine Art, get inspired by Ásmundarsafn (the former home and studio of late sculptor Ásmundur Sveinsson), and learn about the history of Icelandic design at the Museum of Design and Applied Art. Tucked away at the top of the Marshall House cultural center is the satellite studio of Danish-Icelandic artist Olafur Eliasson, one of the country’s most famous citizens.

Eliasson designed the facades of the Harpa Reykjavík Concert Hall and Conference Centre, which sits along the water where fishing vessels and tourist boats go in and out of the harbor. The stacked, geometric glass-and-steel forms were fashioned with Icelandic light in mind, and like the artists and designers that have emerged from the city over the past two decades and beyond, they reflect the resilience, depth, and creativity of Reykjavík — a tiny, can-do city making a name for itself just a few degrees below the arctic circle.