Sabine Mirlesse's love of Icelandic volcano Eldfell

I’m in Heimaey. “Home island,” as it is translated into English. The site of the 1973 eruption of Eldfell. I’ve been here before. This is the place that inspired my first body of work. Photographs, canvases, imprints, drawings, and a book. And now, a decade-long passion for all things volcanic. The town that was covered in ashes and survived. The only time on record that humans have been able to direct the molten flow and save themselves. My first volcano, I’ve come back to visit. The walk up the slope begins with charcoal-colored stones, the new lava, as they call it on the island. The stone slowly turns more purple the higher I go, and it is rougher to the touch. Lighter in weight, as it had been full of air bubbles. The ground is now magenta, then red. I’m nearly at the summit. There is orange and a few striking yellow sulfur rocks that have landed in between. Peppering the rainbow of warm hues, as it fades lighter and lighter in color. Someone tells me, you can still bake bread up in the earth there. It’s still warm enough, more than 40 years on. It is windy and wild and cold. The earth is pinkish now, with scattered golden accents. And I look for a place where it’s not even cream colored, but completely white, and sit down in what almost looks like a minuscule crater. A slight concavity at the top. It’s warm and a bit humid from tiny steam vents, and the air is still and protected there. I am bundled in wool layers, and in the distance I can see the surrounding blue that makes this an island. This is the place that even the whales take sanctuary.