All the Cozy is on the Inside
At the Phallological Museum
The Icelandic Phallological Museum is down a long staircase in a building behind the H&M in Reykjavik. The most surprising thing is how homey the cafe is, all cinnamon and baked goods and warmly lit tables. I had expected, I don't know, an acetic museum preservative smell and fluorescent bulbs, not... hygge.
As evidenced by the museum gift shop, bad jokes and double entendres abound when one sits down to write about a penis museum, but I find myself preferring the earnest tone of the museum's website. "Now, thanks to The Icelandic Phallological Museum, it is finally possible for individuals to undertake serious study into the field of phallology in an organized, scientific fashion." Grandiose, perhaps, but direct and proud of its purpose. Awkward humor distances us from discomfort, when in fact penises in all their variations are wonderful and deserve to be celebrated.
Upon first entering the museum proper, we're greeted by casts of the penises of the Icelandic National Handball team (no bad jokes, no bad jokes, no bad jokes), a celebratory display of work by Icelandic artist Þorgerður Sigurðardóttir. As we proceed, it's much more Natural History Museum than Mad Magazine, with specimens taken from animals ranging from field mice to black bears, seals to sperm whales. There is a clear prejudice in favor of mammals, so there's little insight into the reproductive organs of birds or fish. Descriptive plaques orient us to the nature of the animal in question and the relative size of the member. The immensity of the walrus exhibit is expected but still shocking, the wolf specimens surprisingly tiny. Other patrons wander the exhibits beside us, sipping white wine or beer.
The cumulative effect of the displays is disconcerting; specimen after specimen in variously sized plexiglass columns, detached and floating. I appreciate the scientific utility of actual specimens, but from a museum-goer's perspective, artist's renderings might feel more illuminating and less violent. I find the art most intriguing, seeing how the cock has been portrayed across time and cultures. Tiny amulets, penis gnomes carved from wood, all manner of paintings and sketches and sculptures, from the raunchy to the numinous.
As unique as the displays are, we work our way around the small museum pretty quickly and, after a quick survey of penis-shaped pasta and obvious puns in the gift store, we're ready to move on.
The rest of the evening we spend mostly wandering. First up to the Hallgrímskirkja church, which is stunning at night, then along neighborhood streets. We discuss the spare exteriors of the houses and apartments here; at night, it's easier to peek inside at cheerful, book-lined interiors, which contrast sharply with the featureless buildings. "All the cozy is on the inside," Carly observes, and per usual she has neatly summed up an experience I've been struggling to articulate for a week.
We end the night at 12 Tónar, a record store with a tiny bar. The place is bustling with the happiest crowd I've seen in ages, people sitting at tables and on couches having focused conversations, laughing, dancing spontaneously. A wiry DJ with early-90s long hair is spinning vinyl, greeting familiar faces with restrained enthusiasm, studying his record collection to find exactly the right next song. I look for a T-shirt to take to my friend Seth, who was an actual punk star and now writes gorgeous essays and memoir, but everything is either small or XXL or lipstick pink. I drink a truly fantastic Icelandic sour, improved further by the joyful vibe.
As I write this on Saturday morning, thick gray has settled over Reykjavik. The islands north of the city, which yesterday were dusted with white, have put on snowy coats overnight. The water has turned from arctic blue to a soothing gray-green. I'm about to pack up the car and drive us "home" to the cabin by way of Selfoss, leaving behind the mystifying shower and the contained bustle of the city for dark skies and silence and sheep.
