Could you introduce yourself?

My Icelandic name is Hrafnhildur Arnardóttir, but when I moved to New York in 1994, someone misheard it as "shoplifter," and it stuck as a joke so that's what I go by now. I studied painting in Iceland, then did my MFA at the School of Visual Arts in New York.

How has your Icelandic background influenced your work?

It influences everything. When you go to a new place, you don't leave your origin behind. The new place puts your background into perspective and highlights things you weren't aware of before. But it was never a conscious project to communicate my Icelandicness.

How did hair become your primary medium?

While working in an antique shop in Iceland, I discovered Victorian memory flowers: mourning jewelry made from human hair of deceased loved ones. Hair is one of the few things that outlive a person. I was also fascinated by my grandmother's braid, which she kept as a relic of her youth. When I cut my own hair, my identity felt shattered afterward. I briefly felt that my magic was gone and became aware of the sheer fragility of the ego.

Why artificial hair instead of human hair?

I discovered colorful hair extensions in dollar stores and was intuitively drawn to them. I switched to artificial hair because it offered longer fibers for larger wall murals. The colorful extensions connected to an unfulfilled desire from my youth in the 1980s, when I wanted Boy George-style extensions but couldn't get them in isolated Iceland.

Tell us about your collaboration with Björk.

After my first New York exhibition where I showed artwork made with brown braids, Björk invited me to collaborate and help create the persona for the cover of her album Medulla, recorded only with voices. She wanted to wear only something "of the body." I commissioned an Icelandic lady to create memorial flowers made from horse and human hair, and made weaves and sculptural hairpieces out of human hair which we attached to Björk’s hair and used in numerous photoshoots, music videos and performances, including her performance at the 2004 Olympics in Greece.

How did you develop your technique?

When Edda Guðmundsdottir and I were commissioned to create wearable  “grand finale” pieces for Victoria Bartlett and VPL at her New York Fashion Week runway show, I had to figure out how to translate my artwork’s hairy textures into actual fabric. I developed a technique using a crochet needle and mesh to pull hair through, inspired by 1980s highlighting caps and 1970s Rya tapestries. Through this collaboration I found a technique that later allowed me to create the smileys in my studio work.

How do you view the audience's role?

The audience becomes one of the artwork's ingredients. They activate the artwork. I stage situations where people journey into the piece and experience what happens to their emotional systems when absolutely surrounded by color and texture, sometimes also sounds and scent, like when being in a vast forest or caves. The audience’s role is to charge themselves with the energy created when they encounter the artwork.

Tell us about Nervescape and your immersive installations.

My first large-scale installation was at the Clocktower Gallery in New York. The title, Nervescape, references neurons, veins and other organic information pathways, reflecting my interest in neuroscience as well as artwork serving as an escape as a landscape for the viewer to enter into. I commissioned Icelandic musician and composer Kristín Anna Valtýsdóttir, founding member of Múm, who was living in NY at the time to create a live soundscape that brought time and breath to the piece, making it otherworldly and transportive for the visitors.

What impact does your work have on people?

Many find it extremely meditative, calming, and some feel euphoric. People visit Chromo Sapiens regularly to "charge their nervous system” with the colors for mental health benefits. I heard that one nonverbal autistic boy would frequently ask his mother to visit the work at Höfuðstöðin Culture Center, where it’s been on display in Reykjavík since 2022, and afterward he'd become more verbal and communicative with his mom and it had a tremendous positive benefit to their relationship, I was told. Science has proven that colors and light stimulate the brain to release what we call “the happy hormone” which is in fact a group of four key hormones and neurotransmitters: dopamine, serotonin, endorphins, and oxytocin. It's a factual phenomenon, not just an imagined feeling.

Why is the physical experience important than digital?

The magic is in the fact that it’s an analog, physical and banal reality. These are hyper-realistic, tangible places you can actually walk into. I've made something surreal into physical reality. It's the difference between going to a cave in person versus watching a video of an excursion.

Tell us about your emoji artwork

I started making fuzzy-looking round characters around 2008-2009 as a hybrid of smileys, emojis, and Muppets, possibly even before iPhone emoji culture. They're made from pop culture materials and reference endless mass production and phenomena of character creation. I am mesmerized by pop culture, by human behavior, and our collective consciousness while we navigate our time on this planet. Moods and digital communication are phenomenally inventive and it is tremendously inspiring to explore how symbols affect us emotionally.

What advice would you give to aspiring creatives?

It’s vital to learn early on to become comfortable with the constant and continuous uncertainty and insecurity. It's part of the process. Delegate what others can do equally well so you can so you can focus on what only you can do. First, make yourself happy with your work before worrying about others' reactions to it. And finally: take yourself seriously, but never, ever ceremoniously. That's why I use the name "shoplifter." I was never going to take myself too ceremoniously with that ridiculous name. Treasure your humor, stay grounded and loyal to your own bliss when creating your work, for me it’s a method of survival, meditative and healing, an antidote to boredom and stagnation because when things are going right in the studio I feel pure creative joy that I want to communicate through my work.