I first met Guðjón Þorsteinsson through my work as a photographer for the Icelandic daily newspaper Morgunblaðið. He and his older brother, Óskar, ran a farm above the peninsula of Dyrhólaey, a couple of hours’ drive from Reykjavík. A raging storm had broken lots of power lines so the farm had no electricity. I’d heard the brothers were having to milk their cows by hand and thought I might be able to get a good picture for the paper.
When Guðjón opened the door, he just said: “What do you want?” He wasn’t very friendly, though I sensed this was an act. He invited me in for coffee and I ended up getting the shots I wanted, but after they ran in the paper, someone complained that the cows looked dirty and they were taken away. Feeling it was my fault, I went back to the farm to apologise. Guðjón said: “I’m glad – I didn’t want to milk them anyway.”
