Icelandic artist Þórdís Erla Zoëga transforms light into sculptural material; by using dichroic film and playing with its ever-changing reflections, she brings to her work the image of a country where the sun moves in extreme and unpredictable ways, and where each of its appearances becomes an event to be cherished.
You studied at the Gerrit Rietveld Academie in Amsterdam, in the audiovisual department, and then completed training in web development in Reykjavík. How have these two worlds—that of art and that of code—intertwined in shaping your approach to light and materials?
“I feel that technology and its digital interfaces have become part of the material language of my work, rather than just a tool I use. I decided to study web development to better understand the hidden systems that shape our daily lives—and to learn a new trade. During my training, however, I realized that I didn’t actually want to become a programmer, but I still feel that those studies have seeped into my practice, deepening my interest in technology and in the way our lives have almost slipped into science fiction.”
How much has living and working in Iceland influenced your perception of light as a creative material?
“Living in Iceland has made me almost obsessed with light and how it moves throughout the day. The weather here is very unpredictable, and sometimes we don’t see the sun for days, so when it does appear, I feel it’s something very precious. In the summer, we have endless daylight, but somehow it seems less powerful because the sun stays high in the sky, casting shorter shadows, and darkness never truly sets in. In winter, the real magic happens. When the sun appears, it’s only for a few hours, but it feels much more intense. It traverses the sky at a lower angle, creating long shadows and dramatic shifts in color. I think this constant awareness of light has deeply influenced my work and made me see light as a material.”
Dichroic film is the material that appears most frequently in your work: it changes color depending on the viewing angle, transforming ambient light into something almost physical. Why did you choose this medium for your art?
“I’ve been working with window films since my art school days. Back then, I mainly used classic gray/silversolar film and experimented with the optical illusions it creates when neutral light hits both sides. A few years later, dichroic film became available, and I realized that it behaved in many ways like the silver film I was already using, but with the added magic of changing color depending on the light and the viewer’s position. I used it for the first time in a public commission for the Konsulat Hotel in downtown Reykjavík. I created two large glass circles positioned on opposite sides of the building, one that captures the morning sun and the other the afternoon sun. The work, Daily Shift, became the starting point for a body of work that I am still developing today.”
Many of your works seem to aim to capture or replicate sunlight through industrial and synthetic materials…
“At first, it was mainly about capturing those magical moments when sunlight hits a surface and enhancing that experience. But in recent years, I’ve become increasingly interested in artificial light and how it affects us as human beings. We live in a strange reality, surrounded by synthetic materials and artificial light. Every day we stare at blue-light screens that mimic daylight and disrupt our circadian rhythm, one of our most fundamental biological processes. Then we use red-light therapy in an attempt to help us sleep again. I find this contradiction very interesting. For thousands of years, our bodies have evolved in response to the sun, and now we’re trying to technologically recreate those natural processes. We don’t yet fully understand what this will mean for future generations.”
Your research explicitly straddles post-humanism, science fiction, and the effects of artificial materials on human perception. Do you think technology is changing the way we view light?
“Absolutely. Technology is changing not only the way we view light, but also the way we physically experience it. Today, we spend much of our lives under artificial lighting and in front of blue-light-emitting screens, which directly affect our circadian rhythm. We are becoming increasingly disconnected from the natural cycles that have shaped human biology for thousands of years.”
In your work, light reveals, interacts, and shifts. Is it a medium, a subject, or both?
“It depends a lot on the work and the concept. In many of my works, light is both the subject and the medium. In several cases, it acts as a catalyst, activating the material and altering the work depending on the time of day, the weather, or the viewer’s movement. Some works rely on existing light, while others create their own light. For this reason, exhibiting my work can be quite complex, as each piece has very different lighting requirements. I also explore the activation of light through public art. I recently completed the facade of a 40-meter-tall water tower for Fortum in Espoo, Finland. The concept was to transform the tower into a gigantic wall of water. Although the facade is made of aluminum, the material interacts with light in ways surprisingly similar to the surface of water. As daylight and weather conditions change, ripples emerge and slowly dissipate on the facade, making the building appear to be in constant motion. Rather than being static, the artwork is completed by the light itself, giving the tower a different appearance every day.”
Your latest solo exhibition is titled Domestic Sci-fi (BERG Contemporary, April 2026). Stories of domestic science fiction: motorized venetian blinds, acrylic glass, 3D printing, AI. How does this tension between the everyday—that is, the domestic object—and the technological future arise?
“I’ve been interested in how our daily lives have become what once seemed like science fiction. We live with artificial intelligence, smart devices, and invisible networks without really questioning them anymore. I like to explore this shift through familiar household objects—things we encounter every day but rarely stop to think about. Using familiar objects creates an immediate point of connection and reduces some of the pressure people often feel when approaching contemporary art. There’s already an understanding of the object, so I can begin to shift or distort that understanding from within. They reflect the strange reality we already live in, rather than a distant future.”
In Everyday, a blue circle moves automatically within a space framed by aluminum venetian blinds. The installation has something hypnotic, almost ritualistic, about it. What interests you about the concept of repetition and routine as an artistic theme?
“I like it when viewers stop thinking for a moment and let themselves be carried away by the experience. In Everyday, a dichroic circle rotates slowly counterclockwise while a spotlight illuminates its surface, passing through it with light and reflecting its surroundings. Thanks to the film, the colors constantly change as the circle turns. The transmitted light remains blue, while the reflected light shifts from yellow to orange to red, creating a moving chromatic symphony that fills the space. The movement is repetitive and almost meditative.
The circle is enclosed in a room made of aluminum venetian blinds, which interact with the light in a truly interesting way, creating distorted shadows of the reflection that spread throughout the space.”
In your Forecast series—works that evoke meteorology but feature dates in Roman numerals that stretch forward through the centuries—there is a very particular sense of time. How do you interpret the future through the materials of the present?
“Forecast stems from my interest in how people relate to artificial intelligence. AI sounds so convincing that many treat it as an omniscient being, accepting its answers as truth without questioning the sources. I decided to address AI as an oracle, asking it what the view outside my window in Reykjavík will look like many years from now. The results varied enormously, but the only constant was the sky and the sun. I think it’s positive to focus on this. No matter how much technology changes our lives, some things remain constant. It’s important to stay grounded and remember that every generation believes it is living through an extraordinary change. The sky above us has already seen all of this, and it will still be there long after we’re gone.”
You’ve been selected to create a work by 2028 for the entrance of Iceland’s New National Hospital. How does your approach change when light must interact with a space as emotionally charged as a hospital?
“The starting point for Genesis was to create a space within the hospital’s entrance where visitors could pause, take a breath, and, hopefully, feel a little better. It’s a place of waiting—the beginning of something new, whether good or bad. The work consists of three semicircles: one forms an enclosed seating area inside the building, another surrounds a warm, reflective pool with seating outside the building, and the third rises from the water and is illuminated. I was inspired by the zygote—the very first cell created when two cells fuse into one. It represents the beginning of life and the possibility of renewal. In a hospital, light carries a different emotional weight. Rather than creating a spectacle, I wanted it to convey a sense of calm, warmth, and hope. The work is rendered in warm, organic colors, which contrast with the cooler, sterile colors typical of healthcare settings.”
You’ve also worked in theater. To what extent has the performative dimension shaped your approach to space and light in your installations?
“I particularly enjoy working with dancers because they view movement itself as an artistic material. The theater offers you a completely black canvas, so every light and every color becomes incredibly powerful. Since the audience views the stage from a fixed position, you can precisely control perspective and perception. I explored this aspect in She Dad, where I created a large white circle that spanned a flight of stairs. Viewed from the front, it appeared perfectly circular, while from the sides the illusion was broken, revealing its construction. The circle also became a surface that absorbed the projected light.”
You’ve collaborated with companies like Bio Effect and The Blue Lagoon, Icelandic brands with very strong visual identities. How do you balance your own artistic vision when working within an already established commercial identity?
“I really enjoy working within existing visual identities. Instead of seeing them as limitations, I view them as materials to work with. Often, having predefined rules makes it easier to create something interesting. For Bio Effect, for example, I took their iconic striped graphic language and animated a droplet moving through the lines, transforming the graphic into an abstract visualization of the layers of skin and the serum moving through them. For Blue Lagoon, I was commissioned to create a site-specific installation for DesignMarch in Iceland, where I focused on the white mist hovering above the surface of the lagoon.”
