Pressure Point: Between Compression and Colour

It all began with a painting by the artist Erró, seen at the Reykjavík Art Museum. The work bore the same title as this piece: Pressure Point—and it struck me with unexpected force. The feeling it evoked was visceral, almost personal, as though the painting had been created for me, or was quietly carrying a message meant to be received.

I moved rather quickly through that particular exhibition—Cyborg—as if to protect myself, and drifted into the others in an attempt to shift my state of mind. Yet the image stayed with me. More than stayed, really—it lodged itself somewhere deeper and has since been quietly asking questions about my life.

I don’t know about you, but travelling has always had that effect on me. It slows me down just enough to notice. Immersing oneself in a different language, a different rhythm, a different way of inhabiting time naturally pulls us into the present moment. And when we are truly present, we don’t just take in landscapes—we feel people. Their energy. Their pace. Their way of being.

Travel also disrupts the mental and emotional compartmentalization we often rely on in our day-to-day lives. And art—true art—does something similar. An artist’s emotions, observations, and inner tensions are captured in metaphor, in ways that often defy language. That is how I experience art, at least: not as something to be understood, but as something to be felt. Pressure Point did exactly that.

A Society Designed for Connection

Iceland, interestingly, is frequently cited as one of the world’s leading countries when it comes to drug and alcohol prevention. The government has implemented long-term policies designed to keep children engaged, supported, and connected to their families. Parents are encouraged—sometimes structurally required—to spend time with their children. Curfews exist. Sports and cultural activities are heavily subsidized, making them accessible to all, with the explicit intention of helping young people build serotonin naturally rather than through chemical shortcuts.

I witnessed the effects of this firsthand. Midday, early afternoon—on a Thursday—I saw families sledding, walking, visiting a zoo and family park together. Parents were present. Unrushed. Phones mostly absent. There was a palpable sense of togetherness that made me pause and wonder about their professional obligations. Were they on vacation? Was there a policy allowing extended lunch hours? I didn’t have the answers. But I knew I liked what I was seeing.

So where am I going with all of this—this reflection sparked by a painting?

Today, for instance, I chose to sit down and write instead of venturing out. (Don’t worry—I’ll be out later this evening with my husband.) My last blog post dates back to early December. A three-month gap. What once was a weekly discipline slowly slipped away. Around the same time, I had begun cross-fit training over the summer, only to stop abruptly after a significant flare-up of my occipital neuralgia in early November.

There seems to be a pattern here. The very things that nourish my body, mind, and soul are always the first to go when life’s pressures mount.

Sometimes, I imagine my life differently. I see myself at home, cooking healthy meals—unrushed, actually enjoying the process. I picture daily movement, steady rhythms. In that version of my life, I feel calm. Peaceful. Joyful. Digestive issues fade. Headaches quiet.

Fatigue loosens its grip.

And yet, that vision makes me uneasy. Because when I look closely, I don’t see my work in it. I don’t know what I do for a living in that imagined future. I only see myself in the kitchen, feeling well. Feeling whole.

Living Under Constant Demand

I’m often asked—by students, by younger professionals—how I manage work-life balance while holding leadership roles and raising a family. I usually say that I don’t love the term work-life balance. Instead, I try to carve moments differently, with a focus on quality rather than quantity. I’ll work while my daughter is at soccer practice, but when it’s game time, I’m fully present—mentally, emotionally.

My personal challenge is that I don’t always grant myself that same presence. When I neglect myself, I feel less like the vibrant burst of colour found in Chromo Sapiens, and much more like Pressure Point—compressed, tense, overstimulated.

Leading organizations, running businesses, raising children as two working parents—it is hard. I don’t know about my fellow Gen Xers, but some days it feels like an endless marathon. We grew up adapting to technology just as we entered the workforce, only to now trail behind our children—who navigate smartphones and social media with effortless fluency—just when we thought we had finally caught up.

We were raised on the “earn your stripes” mentality: work relentlessly, climb patiently, prove yourself step by step. And once you reach the upper rungs of that ladder, the rules shift again. Management styles must evolve. Leadership behaviours must be re-examined. Innovation becomes non-negotiable—not only for organizational survival, but for our own.

I’m not complaining. Truly. I’m simply naming a reality that many of us quietly carry.

The heart of this reflection—the real pressure point—is an invitation. An invitation to pause and to reflect, both individually and collectively. These are some of the questions that have been surfacing for me:

• If everyone had the opportunity to travel and experience other cultures, would it change how we see the world—and each other? Would we still fight about the same things?

• What becomes possible when we articulate a clear vision and work backward to achieve it? Iceland chose long-term health and connection for its children, and built policy around that choice. The results speak for themselves.

• What role does technology now play in our humanity? In Cyborg, Erró suggests we have already become cyborgs, whether we like it or not. At the Blue Lagoon, my husband and I were struck by how relentlessly people documented the moment—selfie after selfie, angle after angle. It was, at times, genuinely unsettling.

• Are we willing to accept short-term discomfort for long-term gain—designing systems and policies for the future, rather than the next four years?

  
  

And finally, out of simple curiosity: How does this painting make you feel?

Listening to the Point of Tension

Perhaps the real pressure point isn’t where life presses hardest, but where it asks us to listen.

Not to react. Not to fix. But to notice.

To notice what tightens in us. What drains us. What quietly asks for care before it demands it.

Maybe this painting didn’t come to offer answers at all—only to hold up a mirror, inviting each of us to consider where we are compressing ourselves, and at what cost.

Sometimes, awareness is the first release.

Pressure Point, by Erró — a visual meditation on compression, control, and the fragile space where humanity meets machinery.