Beneath the Surface

Of Bonds We Cannot See

February | Grundarfjörður, Snæfellsnes, Iceland

Most of the time, when we look at the sea, we see only its surface. The colour of the water, the reflection of the sky, the waves that come and go. It seems as though an endless, almost empty space lies before us.

But beneath the surface, an entirely different world exists.

A world where life is constantly moving, where creatures communicate, search for food, follow one another, sometimes part ways and meet again. A world full of relationships we are only beginning to understand.

For the February painting in my collection The Icelandic Year, I chose orcas and the winter sea near Grundarfjörður on the Snæfellsnes Peninsula.

Not only because of their beauty, but also because of everything hidden beneath the surface.

Where the Mountains Meet the Sea

On the northern coast of the Snæfellsnes Peninsula lies the small fishing town of Grundarfjörður. Rising above the surrounding landscape is Kirkjufell, a mountain with an unmistakable shape that has become one of Iceland’s most recognisable landmarks.

Its name means Church Mountain.

Kirkjufell draws attention with its silhouette. Distinctive, easily recognised, and beautiful in every season. In winter, when snow settles on its slopes and the landscape takes on muted colours, its presence feels even more striking.

But when I was thinking about February, I wasn’t interested only in what rises above the sea.

I was also drawn to what happens beneath it.

During the winter months, orcas can be found in the waters around Snæfellsnes and Breiðafjörður, following schools of herring. Their presence depends on the movement of their prey, so seeing them is never guaranteed. Sometimes they come close to shore; at other times, they remain far from the places where we hope to find them.

And that is one of the reasons I chose this particular place for February.

Kirkjufell represents something steady, something we can recognise from a distance and return to. Yet beneath its silhouette stretches a sea where life is constantly changing.

A steady mountain and a restless ocean.

Two very different worlds that belong together.

An Encounter I Am Still Waiting For

I have not yet seen orcas in the wild.

Once, I went on a whale-watching trip, but the weather was not on our side. That day, the sea kept its secrets to itself.

Still, there is a place I love returning to, where I can feel a little closer to the world of whales.

It is Whales of Iceland in Reykjavík.

I love the moment I step inside and everything around me turns blue. It feels as though I am slowly descending beneath the surface of the sea. Life-sized whale models hang in the space around me, and suddenly I can begin to understand just how enormous these creatures really are.

Whales are beautiful in photographs. But standing beside models of them at their actual size is something entirely different.

You no longer experience their immense presence only with your eyes.

You feel it with your whole body.

I love stopping there and looking at them up close. Sometimes I feel as though we are looking into each other’s eyes. As though, for a moment, I have entered their world, even though I know perfectly well that I am still in a museum.

The sounds of whales fill the space. Everything is surrounded by blue, and there is a particular sense of peace that I find there every time.

It is that peacefulness I love so much.

Perhaps because everyday life rarely gives us the chance to stop and realise how vast the world beyond our own really is.

When I stand there, I don’t need to hurry anywhere. I can simply look, listen, and forget for a little while about everything I have left outside.

And wonder how little we truly know about life down there, beneath the surface.

The Stars Hidden in the Sea

As I was thinking about my February painting, another image came to mind.

Schools of herring.

Thousands of small, silvery bodies moving together through the water. Each fish catches the light a little differently. And when the entire school changes direction, the reflections dancing across their bodies change as well.

I imagine those tiny flashes of light appearing and disappearing.

Like stars.

In Iceland, the winter sky is often covered with clouds. We may know that thousands of stars are shining above us, and yet not see a single one.

But perhaps, at that very moment, another kind of starlit spectacle is taking place beneath the surface of the sea.

Somewhere our eyes cannot reach.

In the right light, the silvery bodies of herring can shimmer with tiny reflections. And their movement together reminds me of another Icelandic natural wonder.

The Northern Lights.

They, too, flow, twist, and change. Sometimes they resemble long curtains of light, sometimes waves moving across the sky.

A school of fish can move in a similar way. Thousands of individual bodies create one constantly changing form, turning, separating, and coming together again.

As though the Northern Lights had, for a moment, moved from the sky into the sea.

It is my own artistic imagination. I don’t know whether I would actually see a school of herring beneath the water in quite this way.

But I love the thought that even when we cannot see the stars above our heads, somewhere below us there may be a silvery constellation of their own.

And that this shimmering world is what draws the orcas near.

A Dance with a Purpose

What we might imagine as a beautiful dance has a far more serious meaning in nature.

Herring gather in schools partly to reduce the risk of becoming prey. Moving together can make it harder for predators to single out an individual fish.

But orcas are extraordinarily skilled hunters.

Icelandic orcas that feed on herring are capable of hunting cooperatively. They gather the fish into tighter groups and stun some of them with powerful strikes of their tail flukes.

They also use their own sounds while hunting. In a way, it is a language of the sea, one that we humans still cannot fully understand.

Their hunting methods involve complex behaviour.

Interestingly, not every orca plays the same role during a hunt. Some are more frequently involved in striking the fish with their tails, while others take advantage of the opportunity to feed.

Each of them is unique. And yet, together, they can achieve something they could not accomplish alone.

And this is where the story of the orcas begins to connect, for me, with something we know from our own lives.

The ability to live together.

Belonging Somewhere Without Losing Yourself

For a long time, we have associated the lives of orcas with the idea of closely bonded family groups.

And in many populations, remarkably strong and lasting family bonds do exist.

Research into Icelandic orcas, however, shows that their social lives can be much more changeable. Some relationships last, while others are temporary. Groups may separate and come together again. Their composition and interactions are also influenced by their environment and the availability of food.

I find it fascinating that even in the world of orcas, living in a group is not as simple as it might first appear.

And it made me think about ourselves.

Throughout our lives, we become part of many different groups. First our families, then friendships, school communities, workplaces, and other relationships that gradually enter our lives.

Some we choose. Others we are born into, or find ourselves in because of circumstances beyond our control.

And in each of them, we search for our place.

Living together means more than simply being beside one another.

It means learning to listen, to understand the needs of others, to accept differences, and to find ways of facing difficult situations together.

Sometimes life places something before us that we never imagined we would have to face.

Changes come, along with misunderstandings, disappointments, and moments when we have to reconsider what relationships really mean to us.

And still, we need somewhere to belong.

But not at the cost of losing ourselves.

Perhaps that is one of the hardest things we learn throughout our lives.

To be part of something greater while preserving our own identity, dignity, and space.

To know when to move closer, when to help someone, and when to allow them to follow their own path.

Because I don’t believe true closeness means that we must always be together.

And distance does not necessarily mean that we have lost our connection.

What It Means to Belong

When I think about this, I keep returning to one important distinction.

Belonging somewhere is not the same as belonging to someone.

No one should be another person’s possession. Not in a relationship, and not in a family.

To me, belonging means sharing.

Sharing joy, worries, responsibilities, experiences, and the ordinary moments of everyday life.

It means knowing that we have a place. That our voice matters. That we do not have to be the same as everyone else in order to be accepted.

And it also means understanding that relationships do not simply sustain themselves.

They need care.

Sometimes that means working together. At other times, admitting a mistake, changing our perspective, or accepting that another person sees the very same situation in a completely different way.

I often think about how many times in life we look at one event and yet each of us sees something different.

Just like a school of herring.

To us, its movement may be a beautiful sight, reminding us of stars and the Northern Lights.

To the orcas, it represents an opportunity to find food.

And to the herring, it may be a matter of survival.

One moment. Three entirely different perspectives.

Perhaps that is one reason why understanding others can be so difficult.

We never see their whole world.

Those Who Learn from Us

And yet, through our behaviour, we influence the world of those who watch us. Sometimes far more than we realise.

When I think about life within a group, I cannot stop at relationships between adults.

There are also the young.

Learning plays an important role in the lives of orcas. Calves grow up observing older individuals, their behaviour, their movements, and the ways they find food. Different orca populations pass down different hunting techniques and vocal traditions.

And this ability to pass experience from one generation to the next is something that deeply interests me.

Because human children, too, learn above all from what they hear and experience around them.

We can explain to them countless times how important it is to respect others, cooperate, show kindness, or admit when we are wrong.

But if what they see tells a different story, our words lose their meaning.

Children watch us even when we don’t realise it.

They notice how we speak to others, how we respond to conflict, how we treat those who are more vulnerable, and how we behave towards people with whom we disagree.

They learn from the decisions we make every day.

And one day, they will carry those experiences into their own lives.

Perhaps that is why I see one of the greatest responsibilities of adulthood as showing a child what it means to live well with others.

Not perfectly. Such a life probably doesn’t exist.

But in a way that allows everyone to have their place, where people can learn from their mistakes, and where closeness does not depend on giving up who we are.

And above all, where a child knows they are loved.

The Certainty We Carry With Us

I believe a child needs much more than simply knowing how to make their way in the world.

They need the certainty that they belong somewhere.

That they are loved not because of what they achieve, how well they do, or whether they meet every expectation.

But simply because they exist.

They need to know that they can learn, make mistakes, search, and gradually discover their own path.

And that when something goes wrong, they will not lose their place in the hearts of those who love them.

One day, every child begins to venture further into the world.

They will form their own friendships, relationships, perhaps even a family of their own. They will meet people who become close to them, and others with whom understanding will not come easily.

They will face challenges from which we cannot protect them.

And perhaps, in those moments, what matters most will be what we gave them long before.

A sense of their own worth.

The ability to recognise genuine closeness.

The courage to be themselves.

And the certainty that even as they walk their own path, there is someone standing behind them.

Not to direct their steps.

But so they know they are not alone.

Bonds That Never Disappear

When I think about what we pass from one generation to another, I also think of those who are no longer with us.

Our parents, grandparents, and the generations who came before them.

Some we knew well. Others we know only through photographs, stories, or small memories preserved within our families.

And yet, they can still be part of our lives.

In the values they passed on to us.

In the ordinary things we do just as they once did.

In our decisions, our memories, and the way we treat the generations that follow.

I like to think that those we can no longer hold in our arms are still standing behind us.

Like an invisible protection.

We don’t have to see it to feel it.

Perhaps it lives in the strength we find within ourselves when we need it most. Perhaps in the memory of someone’s voice, in words they once spoke to us, or in the feeling of safety we knew when we were near them.

And perhaps also in what we ourselves pass on.

Because those who loved us may leave this world, but that does not mean they have to leave us.

Their story continues in ours.

And one day, ours may continue in the stories of those who come after us.

What Remains Beneath the Surface

When I return to the image of the winter sea near Grundarfjörður, I see Kirkjufell once again.

Shadows stretch across the mountain, winter clouds hang above the sea, and the water reflects the subdued light.

Beneath it, I imagine schools of herring.

Silvery reflections moving like stars. Thousands of tiny bodies turning and spreading together, as though imitating the Northern Lights.

And somewhere nearby, the orcas.

Perhaps one of them rises to the surface for a moment. Its dorsal fin appears above the water, then disappears again.

Such a brief moment.

And yet, behind it lies an entire life.

Experiences, journeys, encounters, relationships, and sounds that we humans still do not fully understand.

That is why I chose this place and these animals for February.

I did not want to capture only the beauty of orcas in the Icelandic landscape.

I also wanted to touch upon the world that cannot be seen at first glance.

A world of connection, cooperation, changing relationships, and life that continues from one generation to the next.

And perhaps also to remind us that each of us carries far more within than another person can ever see.

Just like the sea.

On its surface, we see only a small part of its story.

But beneath it lies an entire universe.

And sometimes, even when clouds hide every star, the most beautiful ones may be shining in the very places our eyes cannot reach.

Kateřina Štěpánková | kate-list

The Icelandic Year — February