Gnarr (11 page)

Another role you played was what I would call “energy conductor,” helping to monitor the energy during the campaign—when to go full force, when to pull back, when to rest
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I’m like the bird. I have the view. Maybe it’s needed when people are in a new situation, as all of them were at the time. Each and every one had their role. But it’s difficult to have the view at the same time. So I was the one with the view.

Did you find yourself more having to tell them to pull back or to charge forward?

Go. More “go, go, go, go.” Just a few times, I had to say to pull back and rest and not go into the dirty wrestling of politics. Get ready for when our opening was there to squeeze in—to walk in, not squeeze even—an opening of energy to go, go, go.

Someone who knows you very well said, “People instantly trust Jóga. They would jump off cliffs for her.” But if this were so, I think you would jump first
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People trust me. I don’t have a bad direction for people. I have a good heart.

If people are jumping off cliffs for you, then I would think they are jumping into a sea of love
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Well, they’re jumping into something very interesting at least.

It might be a little choppy at times—

And fun, it’s got to be fun. And something they probably thought they needed to do for a long time. I’m not pushing people. I’m more following and supporting the directions they want to go.

And that’s certainly true of Jón and the campaign. You knew better probably than him that he needed to do this, that people needed for him to do this. I think one reason people may trust you so much is that you have this very powerful trust in instinct. You put it beautifully when you called it “loyalty to the force.”

Yes, that’s how I feel. You must have “loyalty to the force,” the energy.

I was interested to know that your father was a sailor, and you traveled with him a lot
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He was on container ships, sailing from Iceland through all Europe. I went with him on many, many trips, from the time I was about six years old. This had a lot to do with shaping who I am, learning probably more than I know from all of these sailors, and being sometimes the only girl on board—seven years old, eight years old—and being allowed to work with my dad for two weeks. I was always doing something—helping the guys out painting, or helping the cook, or doing dishes. To be part of the crew. I was very young, but I was part of the crew.

And here, years later, you were part of the crew with the Best Party, but maybe your role was also serving as the compass—making sure that it was headed the right way
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Yes, helping to direct the ship. Plus you learn from sailing that sometimes there are forces out of your control, like the weather, things that you can’t control.

Were there moments during the campaign when you felt forces out of your control, and you just had to ride with it?

At one point, yes, when it was out of our hands, it was the brutality of politics. I think only once I said, “Now we have to stop, we are not going to go into the mud.” Brutal mud-slinging: Jón was “the Clown,” and didn’t deserve to be there, and so on. I didn’t want hurt for my people. So I said we had to stop, to pull back.

Why do you think people responded so positively to Jón?

Jón is simply a good man. What makes a good man is good intentions for all, and that he has always had. Also, he had been on the radio for many years, he was known. People see when there is a great stand-up comedian and recognize the intellect; it’s the very
intellectual people who can make fun and look deep, deep, deep. Also, Jón wrote articles in the paper about life and various topics, these were collected in a book, and he gave lectures. One thing he would say, which was great, was, “Service is the highest love.” So people got to know him. And none of the politicians were really aware of how well known he was, other than being a clown. They saw the clown as a silly person, not an intellectual.

So people recognized that Jón had that sincere side to him
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Iceland is so small, so even if you were not at the lecture or didn’t know him, then perhaps the third person from you had been and would tell you how sincere he was.

While the name of the party, the Best Party, was in fun, there was also truth to it, and a real desire to make things the best they could be
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Still we use the word every day: “This is bad, but that is best.” It’s just simple. If we have to make a decision—should we go for the bad, or should we go for the best? There’s your answer.

He has said that the campaign was about politics, but that being mayor is about common sense
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Common sense, communication, wanting the best. No one has left the Best Party—we’re all still part of it. Like in a good band, we’re used to everyone having a say, to ping-pong an idea between the drummer, for instance, and the other band members, anyone having something to say about the song. Everyone has a voice.

So, being in City Hall is almost like being in a band
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Yes, to get the best idea out of it. In the end, where does it come from? You can’t really tell—it comes from the band as a whole.

It seems that this sense of play is an important part of the campaign, and an important part of you. I especially notice how often you use the word “giggle”—

It’s so needed. Life is too serious. And for me, it’s light—when there’s a giggle, or compassion, tears, there is light. And that’s what I count on. There were so many giggles during the campaign, it was constant giggling bursting out again and again and again.

That must have been infectious—were people throughout Reykjavík enjoying the giggle too?

Yes, they giggled with us, and they were willing at least to have a giggle for the next four years. Just at least
have a giggle. We don’t have money. Everything had been boring. People love to giggle. I mean, what is better than having a good laugh? A spontaneous laugh. Nothing feels better—when you laugh so hard that you’re crying. Then you’re on top—the light is shining. And I have a theory also about the light and the dark. The dark, for me, is confusion; darkness is confusion. So when there’s laughter and moving forward, little steps, running—at least you’re going forward. You’re in light. That’s what everybody deserves.

I imagine you have learned many unexpected things over the past three years
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It has been a university for me. It has been great, and difficult at times. It will leave us worn out, that’s for sure, but it has given more—given to all of us. It will leave us with a free education, a surprise education—on human behavior, on how cities run. For example, when it’s snowing we start thinking about money. The snowflake was always beautiful for me. I have always loved the snow. But now, when it’s snowing, I’m thinking, “It’s going to cost so much to clear the streets.” So we have a different view, which is healthy and so much fun. No matter where we are in our lives, whatever city we’re in, from now on we will always have this view from City Hall.

Interview by Bill Hayes

Ever since I discovered it for myself, the Internet has fascinated me. It is, in my view, the most decisive invention in human history since the discovery of fire. I’m actually always on the Net, always surfing, from here to there and back again. I was one of the first IRC users in Iceland. And I love Facebook. It’s just such fun to share stuff on Facebook with people, or follow their activities. I’ve also used Facebook to spread my views.

But since I’ve been mayor, Facebook has lost its entertainment value for me. My contacts with my Facebook friends are not the same as before, though I can’t say exactly why that is so. Maybe the others have suddenly gotten self-conscious. In any case, this break can’t be denied, and I think that’s a crying shame. It’s as if an invisible wall has slid between me and other people. Only now and then do I get a private message, sometimes even from old friends—who were probably sitting slumped in front of their computer with a bottle of red wine and suddenly felt the need to tell me something.

My real Facebook profile runs under a pseudonym and is accessible to only my very best friends. In addition, I have five fictitious identities. For example,
I’m an older woman who comes off as pretty open-minded and positive. Then I’m an Icelandic captain who works for the North Korean airline Air Koryo, a British guy living alone in Kingston-upon-Hull, and a dim, untalented but avid hobby photographer. And finally, I’m a bitter gay man who has retired from society and bunkered down in a summer house somewhere in the country where he wants to live in harmony with nature; he hangs around all day on news portals and dating forums. All of these people also have masses of Facebook friends, who of course also do not exist. Only a few know who is behind all the imaginary figures.

It’s still a lot of fun to have my say through these people. For example, if someone sends me a link to some caustic comment about me, then the lively, open-minded lady immediately arrives on the scene and defends me and my position.

Apart from these fake identities I run two regular Facebook pages: The one, called “Diary of a Mayor,” is mostly about the City of Reykjavík and urban issues. And then there is the homepage of the public person Jón Gnarr. This site is entirely in English and serves to spread my thoughts and views beyond the borders of Iceland.

Soon after I took office, the dark forces of the Icelandic political scene began to sharpen their claws. Much of what I’ve done in office has been the focus of criticism; my person and every word that came out of my mouth was derided and mocked. When I refused to receive the officers of a German warship, this was interpreted not as the statement of a committed pacifist, but as an insult to a friendly nation.

I have fought all my life to be allowed to change my name. There are various personal reasons for this. I was born Jón Gunnar Kristinsson, but not since my childhood have I actually been called by that name. My early years are associated with painful memories. Since I was fourteen I’ve called myself Jón Gnarr. Jón Gunnar Kristinsson was a neglected little boy who was thought to be backward. Jón Gnarr, on the other hand, is an optimistic, creative, sincere, and courageous adult. Due to the rigid Icelandic laws on individuals’ names, I could never succeed in getting my name officially changed. This too has been exploited by my political adversaries, who, as a matter of principle, call me Jón Gunnar Kristinsson or Jón G. Kristinsson.

At first I was afraid that this group would pounce on my family and take apart my private life—an extremely disturbing idea. But strangely enough, that never happened. At most indirectly. Of course, it still hurts my family when nasty stories are spread about me.

An example: In the third year of my term in office, I spent my summer holidays in Norway. I was there for two weeks visiting my sister who lives with her husband and children there. I get to see her all too seldom. Meanwhile, back home in Iceland, the SUS, the youth organization of the Independents, had started a manhunt for me, and the Conservative mouthpiece
Morgunblaðið
printed the same message on its front page, declared that I was missing, and also started searching for me. It was all pure harassment, of course. They knew very well that I was just on holiday. I didn’t think I owed anyone an explanation.

My job keeps me on the go right round the clock, such that I can hardly find the time to see my own children and close relatives. I’m already out of the house when my youngest gets up and starts getting ready for school, and when I come home in the evening he’s already getting ready for bed.

When my father died, my mother moved into a nursing home. Shortly before Christmas 2010, when I’d been in office for just seven months, she got pneumonia, and then went downhill fast. She died on the
first day of the Christmas holiday. At this moment my whole life imploded. I was chronically exhausted, worn out and worn down by the constant hostility. I felt as if I was falling to pieces inside. I would like to have simply vamoosed, crawled into some hole, pulled the earth over me, and disappeared.

What came next was sadness, pain, and depression. Nevertheless, I somehow managed not to show it outwardly. In reality, I was constantly on the verge of collapse, but this was one favor I didn’t want to do for my enemies, and that idea kept me afloat. I threw myself into my work with zeal, and took each day as it came. When I was overcome with longing for my mother, I took her make-up things out, put on her lipstick, and painted my fingernails with her nail polish.

It was clear from the beginning that this job would in the long run ruin my health. Constant strain, stress, and lack of sleep can all permanently weaken the immune system. I’ve ended up in the hospital twice, and my migraines aren’t getting any better. For social contacts outside of work, in any case, I have little time and energy, and the few hours’ free time that remain mine, I spend with my family. Still, so far I’ve never been unhappy, just tired. Boundlessly tired, not to say pretty much at the end of my tether.

The world of television fascinated me from an early age. Even as a child I was completely familiar with it and have always raved about certain movies and
series. But since I’ve been mayor, this has completely vanished from my life. Since then, TV has been more or less a no-no, as I simply lack the time to watch it.

Also, I sometimes begin to wonder whether, after all these complex tasks and responsible decisions, after all the deaths in the family, the smear campaigns and permanent hostility, I’ll ever be able to do comedy again.

I’m often asked where and how I actually chill out, how I recharge my batteries. The answer: I spend an hour every day just by myself. This time is sacred to me. Then I take the dog for a walk and listen to something relaxing.

I’ve gotten involved in a complicated project and I’m still in the thick of it. At the moment I can’t look back and assess the overall picture, the scope of the whole. But I’m working on it day by day, and if I’m honest, I know I’ve been counting the days right from the start.