On my last day of my first trip to Iceland, I wandered the Reykjavik Art Museum. I had already noticed an Icelandic tendency to treat words as both ideas and art (a recording studio with text wallpaper, decoupaged newspapers ornamenting hostel bathroom stalls). But this temporary exhibit, in which a foreign artist (I’m sorry I’ve lost his name – someone please fill me in) had scribbled messages in black marker all over the gallery walls. I was sad to be leaving Iceland, and the quirky designs cheered me up. The messages themselves felt like answers to an unspoken question.