Packing for the Arctic

I am somebody whose hands and feet become unusable below approximately 14°C. I own more blankets than is reasonable. I once complained about a breeze indoors.

My increasingly wonky path has me preparing for an 11-night art residency on a remote island in Arctic Norway.

I discovered this in Iceland. Underprepared cold is misery. Properly layered cold is strangely exhilarating. There’s something about standing in freezing air while completely wrapped up that makes you feel more awake somehow, like your senses have been sharpened.

So this week has largely involved me spreading increasingly niche objects around the house and asking: “Do I really need this?”

At present, the answer appears to be yes.

The practical pile contains:

• a big arse jacket

• thermal layers

• waterproofs

• thermal socks

• fingerless gloves in varying levels of seriousness

• hats

• emergency gloves in case the first gloves fail emotionally

• walking boots

• trusty camping slippers

• eye mask

• earplugs

• earphones

• enough medication to survive being stranded in the Arctic for a month

I’m a very light sleeper, which means I travel with the sort of nighttime setup normally associated with either long-haul flights or hostage negotiations.

I’ve also realised that Arctic Norway in May comes with the deeply unreasonable concept of “almost permanent daylight”, so the eye mask feels less optional and more medically advisable.

I’m staying on a small island with no shops and very little infrastructure, so packing feels less like preparing for a holiday and more like provisioning a tiny expedition.

I’m also travelling solo, which changes the equation slightly.

There’s nobody else to absorb the overflow. No partner carrying the “shared bag”. No magically appearing spare pocket for snacks, chargers or the heavy camera lens you insisted was essential.

Everything I pack, I carry.

I’ve travelled solo in China, Japan, India and parts of South East Asia, and I still approach packing with the same combination of optimism, panic and complete inability to judge what constitutes “too many clothes”. I should theoretically, be a packing ninja by now…. but I’m not'.

Instead, I continue to travel like somebody preparing for several entirely different realities simultaneously.

The residency provides pantry basics, but I’ve still somehow assembled a deeply specific collection of comfort items.

Current supplies include:

• Marmite

• sweeteners

• packet soups

• garlic granules

• salt

• teabags

• sugar

This apparently says a lot about me as a person.

I should clarify that the garlic granules are not part of some advanced culinary plan. I simply don’t like spicy food and have gradually become the sort of traveller who carries backup flavouring.

Some people travel with luxury skincare. I travel with emergency seasoning.

The art pile is more difficult.

Ordinarily, my instinct is to take everything. Every pen. Every paint. Every possible material in case inspiration strikes in an oddly specific format.

But I’m trying not to do that this time.

The landscape itself feels important here. The weather. The isolation. The sea. I don’t want to spend the residency managing equipment.

So instead I’m taking:

• a small watercolour kit

• waterproof sketchbooks

• ink pens

• pencils

• bulldog clips

• drawing pins

• tiny decanted bottles of ink that look mildly suspicious

• oil pastels for their water-fast stubbornness

• pre-made cyanotype paper

• a small selection of collage papers

• a mini tripod

• a waterproof phone case

• bulldog clips, drawing pins and wire

• scissors & craft knife

• mini pliers

• masking tape

• paint brushes, foam brush

• small lino pieces & cutting tools

• small inkroller

• lino inks

• tiny gelli plates

• a few select acrylics

• pitt pens

• watercolour pencils

• ipad

  

My current practice revolves around coastlines, folklore, unreliable navigation and imagined things hidden beneath the surface. I hope to find an interesting map en route, maybe in Bodo.

The cyanotype paper feels particularly appropriate too. I like the idea of making work directly with Arctic light rather than trying to control the outcome fully.

Also, resin is staying at home. Mainly because trying to cure resin in Arctic temperatures while transporting it between cabins in the wind feels like the beginning of a very specific disaster.

There is also, inevitably, the category of items packed for the person I hope to be.

Being an avid marine life fan, and qualified (in tepid tropical waters) diver. This includes:

• a wetsuit for “casual Arctic swimming”

• snorkel

• swimsuit

• diving socks

• waterproof phone case for documenting said optimism

• and the belief that I will calmly enter freezing Norwegian water like somebody in a wellness documentary

Realistically, there is every chance I will stand on the shoreline negotiating with myself for twenty minutes before retreating indoors for soup.

Still. The wetsuit has made it into the bag. It’s intention that matters, right?!

Then there are the things that apparently cannot be left behind:

• notebooks I probably won’t use

• books I definitely won’t finish

• approximately seventeen charging cables

• snacks “just in case”

• massage ball

Packing always reveals who you think you’re going to be.

The ambitious version of me believes she will sit quietly every evening writing profound observations while drinking tea and editing photographs.

The realistic version of me knows there’s a strong possibility I’ll simply stare at the sea in three jumpers, wondering where I put my gloves.

Probably both are fine.

I think that’s partly why I wanted to do this residency in the first place.

To get away from noise. To stop the digital deluge. To spend time noticing things properly again.

So this is the current state of affairs; half packed, slightly overwhelmed, very excited and cautiously optimistic that Norwegian wind and I can come to some sort of agreement.

Stay tuned! 🥶