Icelandic Artist Makes Loneliness Feel Like a Party (Sort Of)

Ragnar Kjartansson, the Icelandic performance artist who’s probably thinking about human connection more than your therapist, has a new survey show, "Ragnar Kjartansson: Politics of the Obvious," at the Buffalo AKG. And if the title sounds a bit like an academic paper, rest assured: his actual art is far more likely to make you snort-laugh than take notes.

Kjartansson’s whole deal is taking the most cliché, overused ideas — like motherly love, masculine angst, or the agonizing beauty of a breakup song — and then twisting them until they feel utterly fresh, and often, absurd. Take Me and My Mother (2000–25), for instance, where his actual mother spits on him. Because, you know, unconditional love.

Then there's Bangemand/Scaredman (2025), a live performance featuring a guy in a tux trying to scale a small ledge. Because nothing says "traditional masculinity" like a tiny, existential climb. He even takes a swing at the romantic ideals of the ridiculously wealthy in Scenes from Western Culture: The Boat (2015). Someone had to.

The Loneliness of a Drunken Icelander

Perhaps his most famous piece is The Visitors (2012), a nine-screen video installation that’s often hailed as one of the 21st century's best. It features a bunch of melancholic Icelandic musicians and friends playing a single song for over an hour. Kjartansson's own take? "A bunch of Icelandic White kids being drunk in some fancy mansion and playing mediocre country." Which, if you think about it, is both impressive and slightly terrifying.

Each musician gets their own screen, a perfect visual metaphor for feeling isolated yet still somehow part of the band. It builds to this huge, emotional crescendo, reminding us that even when we’re all stuck in our own heads (or screens), we’re still sharing this weird human experience.

Then there's Sunday Without Love (2025), a piece in the Buffalo exhibition where Kjartansson and a chorus of singers recreate a mid-century Italian postcard. They repeatedly sing a German comic song from 1996: "You must learn to live. Live without love. Love is not … good for you. Stop all this longing …"

As more voices and instruments join, the repetitive lyrics morph from a joke into a genuinely poignant exploration of both the agony of romantic longing and the shared experience of that very specific kind of loneliness. Because apparently, we all need a little help learning to live without love.

Kjartansson himself often appears in his work, like when he briefly disrobes in The Visitors to clean spilled champagne with a towel, reminding everyone he's just a "mere visitor" in this whole elaborate setup. He’s basically saying, yeah, I get it, life’s a bit messy, but let’s make some art about it anyway.

He blends art history's heavy hitters like Carolee Schneemann and Marina Abramović with the lighter fare of pop music and Hollywood. His work ultimately champions the idea of an "alternative family" — finding connection and making art with your friends, even if the results are imperfect and gloriously unconventional. Because in a world that often feels designed for isolation, sometimes the best response is furious, blind, and passionate creation.