The city is not perfect. The continuous flow of people and machines make it a landscape nervous packed with contrasts, between peripheries and edges. In the city, opulence and misery are looking to the side without shame. It is a random shrill territory, yet 54 percent of the world population lives in urban areas and the forecast is that by 2050 figure reached 66 percent.
The old hope that the metropolis is space opportunities confronted with a soulless reality. The individual, jaded, feel the need to own the streets hunting their particular hollowness, a hidden space, however, is available in abundance in other geographies.
The population density in Iceland does not exceed 3 per square kilometer. A small island in the middle of a dorsal, frost, storms whipped, almost deserted and volcanic, houses one of the most advanced societies in the world. Is a parenthesis between the fervent bustle of tar and smoke?
( ) is a pause, a break in the confusion, a plea to a forgotten peace, welfare blaming us. It is an oasis of silence through a raucous world, the space where the landscape has swallowed its inhabitants, where the medium has overcome the individual.
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