There’s a stillness to Iceland that isn’t really still at all. Beneath every glacier, through every valley, water moves — carving, softening, returning.

For years, I followed those traces: rivers winding through black sand, fog drifting across fjords, rain threading down cliffs until it became part of the sea again. Wherever I stood, I could feel it — that quiet persistence shaping everything.

Traces of Water was born from those moments. It’s a series about what endures — the memory of motion written into the landscape, the pulse that remains after the flow has passed. These photographs are less about what water looks like, and more about what it leaves behind: calm, form, and the faint echo of time moving through light.

I’ve spent more than a decade photographing Iceland’s most remote places — often alone, often for months at a time.

But this series feels different. It’s more than a record of landscapes; it’s a reflection on belonging, on how the rhythm of water mirrors our own. Sometimes steady, sometimes wild, always returning.

Each piece in Traces of Water was created slowly — in the field, and later in the print. From the first soft tone on cotton paper to the last pencil mark of my signature, every detail carries the same patience the landscape taught me. Because I believe the way something is made is part of what it says.

Here are the five artworks that form Traces of Water — five places where I found stillness within motion, silence within change.