No trees grow on Svalbard and the air is dry and cold. The absence of trees makes it hard to estimate the size of the mountains, while the dry air makes visibility possible over long distances. Half of the year the sun never sets on Svalbard. It circles its orbit without ever disappearing past the horizon. In winter, everything is in the shadow for months. What was visible is hard to see in the long night.

The environment—already in a state of slow collapse—is like a mirage: shapeshifting, hard to grasp. In my attempt to find a sense of safety in an environment that appeared elusive and prone to misinterpretation, film offered a means to structure narratives. Film’s ability to manipulate time, space, and perspective could mirror the fluid nature of narratives in such an unstable place.

Film became an excuse to approach the inhabitants and adjust my vision through their perception. Geopolitics, poetic memories from the sea ice, stories about the mountain having a female voice, time standing still in a ghost town, time running out as climate is destabilizing the place and the lack of a collective memory, are traces that introduce the viewer to different aspects of Svalbard.