
18” x 24”
Pönksafn Íslands or the Icelandic Punk Museum is the tiniest museum I have ever visited, and the one with the loudest welcome. A punk tune filled the air space over the stairs that lead you down to what used to be public bathrooms in the heart of Reykjavik, adding a throb that was hard to ignore. I just had to see what this site had to offer. The volume alone—as if from a giant boombox—had already put a wry smile on my face. The sign stating “Let the punx educate you about history,” amplified it.
A well-designed punkish logo reflecting both the venue’s subject and origins, graced the fence around the stairwell: an outline of a urinal, with drain cover, and the name PÖNKSAFN as if created with a DYMO label maker, slightly askew. I paid for admission, and with a friendly smile exuding “welcome to my place” the ticket seller told me where to start. A hallway with two doorless bathrooms had been transformed into a gallery plastered CBGB-style with photos of punk bands, portraits of punk musicians, t-shirts, posters, a banner with skull and crossbones, a leather jacket spiked with nuts and bolts, another with “Punk’s not dead. Disco died,” painted on its back, newspaper clippings, and a video monitor or two. A toilet and a urinal were taped off with black duct tape. No need for a “Don’t use” sign. A drum set with two guitars which didn’t need a label for visitors to understand they were invited to share their talents on those. “Do not touch the frikkin amps” though. A guitar mounted to the wall was for your eyes only as the “Don’t touch” label made clear. Anarchy’s A-in-a-circle appears like a punctuation mark among the displays that visualize the genre, throughout the museum.

With a career in developing, designing and curating exhibits behind me, this museum of irreverent punk reverence spoke to me on the level of this-is-so-wrong-and-yet-so-right… as its developers undoubtedly know. What is wrong in Pönksafn regarding museum logic, makes it right for its cultural expression. Text panels in fonts smaller than the universal legibility requirements prescribe, are pasted to the walls in any which angle, any height off the floor, ignoring eye level for easy reading, granted that some of the longer texts were more object than text. Labels in personalized graffiti script on corrugated cardboard are duct-taped to the front desk, or tagged graffiti-style straight onto the walls, anywhere there is room. Objects aren’t behind glass, in line with the preciousness of the collection on display, perceived or otherwise. With that comes an anarchistic trust in the visitorship to refrain from touching, a trust that must have been broken at least a few times however, as is suggested by the addition of a hand-lettered sign on the wall imploring guests to “Remember! This is a museum, do not tag our walls. Show some respect.”
Once a museum is founded, and the decision is made to not erect a building to house it, scouting for an existing home is essential—a venue that best supports presenting its topic. The founders of the punk museum did so successfully, and with a great sense of humor. If there was a downside to their decision is that it isn’t wheelchair accessible. Perhaps that’s why the public bathrooms were taken out of commission.
Once a building has been obtained, then the task for the exhibit designer or curator is to explore the given space, and prepare it to best serve the intended message, within the given budget, for its intended audience. I feel that that was a contextual success by and large.
When I turned left after having taken in the nook with R. Mutt’s taped-off cousin, I uttered a surprised “Jeez, this is it?!” I was back in the anteroom where I purchased my ticket. And the ticket seller/museum guard looked up from her/their phone responding with that smile I got to know earlier, saying “I love seeing the expression on people’s faces when they turn that corner.” I did understand that… in the punkish way of challenging expectations. I, too, smiled… again.
Seeing the headphones suspended from the ceiling brought it home for me: this is foremost an audio museum not needing to be larger than it is, a 3-dimensional playlist. The displays themselves provide the intro, the warm-up, the setting to prepare you for total headphone immersion to enjoy the culture that Icelandic punk is, two ears at a time. Pull down any of the headphones—labeled with band names—and hone in on a sampling from Iceland’s pönksafn or punk collection. Get to know the sound of They (Þeyr), the Seed Bubbles (Fræbbblarnir), the Christmas witches who live in the mountains, eating misbehaving children (Grýlurnar), No Problem (Ekkert mál), With the Naked (Með nöktum), Witchcraft (Kukl), Ego (Egó), Dreamgirl Goddess (Draumadis), or the Haters (Hatari), A Lot Cooler (Kælan Mikla), Outsiders (Utangarðsmenn), and the Disappointments (Vonbrigði). Someone identifying as ‘Black Elf’ created the “Icelandic Punk Museum Playlist” on Spotify for further exploration. Take a listen in the comfort of your personal space.
When I left this underground institution I noticed the hand-króted signs on the reception desk making sure to not ask the ticket seller/museum guard/gatekeeper and possibly the museum’s director any stupid questions… and that one knows that tips are accepted… with gratitude and a smile, I’m sure. I found all the answers to the questions that the museum evoked, and I didn’t tip. After scanning the capitalist sins punk is against, posted on a panel between sales counter and exit, I climbed up the steps and returned to the streets of Reykjavik, an unexpected and delightful exploration richer.
Back in Brooklyn, I checked their Facebook page to see plenty a selfie with visitors smiling… and making faces. This place indeed is punk af. On my next visit I’ll buy a mug.