Elísabet Anna Kristjánsdóttir [annual-exhibition]

                                    DEAR JOHN
                                     A FILM
                                    1. DRAFT

                            ELÍSABET ANNA KRISTJÁNSDÓTTIR

She wonders if he remembers their walk.

Maybe she has chosen different memories than he has.

If it is a choice at all?

Maybe he has chosen to forget. Some things being too heavy to carry.

If it is a choice at all?

She sits on the boat, with a light breeze going through her hair.

She fiddles the letter in her pocket,

while passing the glacier.

Now more beautiful than ever.

She arrives on the island.

Have you seen him, she asks them.

He has just been here, they reply.

He went this way, one says.

I think it was that way, another says.

She wanders around, looking for the tower. 

Nothing seems to be like how she remembered it.

She tries to recall which way to go,

but memories can be hard to rely on.

Something looks familiar.

She moves closer, looks through.

And there it is.

The tower.

She walks around it.

Up the stairs.

To find his chair, still warm.

Has he just been here?

She looks up to the window,

sees a movement.

Calls his name: John!


The lights are on.

His blue shirt, just hanging there.

Like he had just taken it off.

Like he had just been here.

She observes the room.

The glasses, all three worn at the same time.

The notes.

The letter.

The photographs.

She stops.

He has seen her.

He has followed her.

He has photographed her.

She opens the book and reads out loud:

“Snow can burn your eyes,

but only people make you cry.”

She looks out the window,

to first notice now,

how much smaller the glacier has become.

Dear John, 2020