Where did Sarah L Glabman photograph in Iceland?

The Iceland work comes from a multi-day photography workshop that began in Reykjavik (including blue hour at Harpa concert hall and the Sun Voyager) and traveled across the island's coastline, waterfalls, and volcanic and geothermal landscapes, including the Fjallabak Highlands near Landmannalaugar, in fall 2026.

Who is Serge Ramelli?

Serge Ramelli is a Paris-based landscape and architectural photographer whose work is showcased in museums and galleries all over the world. He is an author and photography educator known for his workshops, Lightroom teaching, and fine art work.

Are the Iceland images composites?

No. Each is straight photography, a real moment captured in the field (many by drone), edited for tonal fidelity to the scene.

When will the Iceland prints be available?

The first Iceland listings are being released now. Each will be offered in museum-quality acrylic, with editions and sizes stated on its print page.

Behind the Lens: Iceland | SLG Masterworks

Some trips give you photographs. Iceland gave me a verdict.

This fall I traveled to Iceland for a workshop with Serge Ramelli, the Paris-based photographer, educator, and one of the most respected names in landscape photography today. Fourteen photographers, three coaches, one local driver who knew the island like the back of his hand, and a new hotel almost every night. I came home sore from head to toe, with a camera bag full of work I'm proud of, and with something I didn't expect to find out there: certainty.

Behind the Lens: Iceland. A short film from the workshop.

Three quiet days in Reykjavik

I flew in a few days early on purpose. No agenda, no shot list. Just time to walk the city, settle into the time change, get used to weather that changes its mind every twenty minutes, and let the place sink in before I tried to photograph it.

I've learned that the best work rarely comes from arriving and immediately shooting. You have to feel a place first.

"Definitely advanced"

On the first evening the whole group met in the hotel lobby. Serge went around the room: who are you, what do you shoot with, where are you as a photographer?

When it got to me, I honestly didn't know what to say. After almost twenty years behind the camera, most of them in fitness and portrait work, and a few years now fully devoted to wildlife and landscape, I still go back and forth. Some days I feel intermediate. Some days I feel like I'm killing it. So I said what my friend Steve had just told me across the table: "I'm told I'm advanced."

Serge stopped me right there. "Advanced? I've been seeing your work, and you are definitely advanced."

I was very glad I had a glass of wine in front of me. That moment, having my work recognized by someone whose work I've studied for years, is one I'll carry for a long time.

Blue hour, and a lesson in patience

That same night we walked out to two of Reykjavik's most famous landmarks, Harpa concert hall and a striking sculpture on the waterfront called the Sun Voyager, for a blue hour shoot. Blue hour is that short window after sunset and before dark, when the sky turns a deep, glowing cobalt and city lights start to hold their own against it.

Harpa concert hall glowing at night in Reykjavik, its glass facade mirrored in still water — Harpa concert hall. Reykjavik, Iceland.

I'd admired blue hour images for years but had never really made them myself. With Serge's guidance and the right glass on the camera, I came away with frames of Harpa and the Sun Voyager I'm genuinely excited to print.

The Sun Voyager steel sculpture on the Reykjavik waterfront under a deep blue hour sky — The Sun Voyager at blue hour. Reykjavik, Iceland.

Fifty-mile-an-hour wind and a full rainbow

Then we hit the road. I won't embarrass myself trying to pronounce where we went (some of those names are twenty characters long), but I can tell you what it looked like: black volcanic ground, geothermal steam, waterfalls that shake the air around them, and sea stacks rising out of mist along the North Atlantic coast.

One day we stood on a headland overlooking the ocean with winds I'd guess were close to 50 miles an hour. Someone in our group got knocked right off their feet. Tripods were useless. I planted my feet, held my camera tight, and got creative. And then, right in the middle of all that chaos, a full rainbow arched over the valley, right where the land met the water.

Sea stacks on an Icelandic headland half hidden in wind-driven spray and mist — Fifty-mile-an-hour winds on the headland.

A full rainbow arching over an Icelandic valley and the road beneath dark storm clouds — The full rainbow, arched over the valley.

The view from above

Here's something that might surprise you: most of the Iceland work you'll see from me was captured by drone. I flew in the rain. I flew in the wind. I pushed my drone to places the lighter models in our group simply couldn't reach, and the island opened up in a way you can't see from the ground. Braided rivers, lava fields, coastlines that read like abstract paintings from above.

The Secret Path: aerial view of Gjáin in the Þjórsárdalur Valley, South Iceland, blue water spilling through moss-covered lava rock and autumn color — The Secret Path. Gjáin, Þjórsárdalur Valley, South Iceland.

Skógafoss waterfall in South Iceland with a rainbow rising from the spray — Skógafoss, South Iceland.

The frame at the top of this page, Fireborn, is one of them: a line of volcanic craters in the Fjallabak Highlands, near Hnausapollur and Landmannalaugar, rimmed in red and violet against black sand.

Somewhere along the way Serge, a drone pilot himself, asked if he could fly mine for a bit. Absolutely. If I can learn something from watching a master fly, that's a win.

What the gallery taught me

In Reykjavik we spent time walking through the galleries of one of Iceland's most successful fine art photographers, Lurie Belegurschi, who is a good friend of Serge's. Gallery walls, carefully chosen work, nothing that doesn't belong. I bought a small book of his work and it now sits on my desk as a reference for the standard I'm holding myself to.

It connected to the biggest lesson Serge shared with me: edit like you're editing for your own gallery. A professional collection is curated. Every image should be a ten. Color and black and white each deserve their own space. If a piece isn't your absolute best, it doesn't go on the wall.

So I'm taking that home with me. You'll see the collections here get tighter, cleaner, and stronger over the coming weeks, with a dedicated black and white collection and a few older pieces quietly retiring to make room for the best work I've ever made.

Why this trip mattered

This trip wasn't only about waterfalls and volcanic landscapes. It was about someone at the top of this craft looking at my work and saying, without hesitation, you belong here. Serge encouraged me to go all in on fine art: large-format pieces made for collectors, designers, and beautiful spaces. That's exactly what SLG Masterworks was built for, and I'm continuing to learn from him as I build it.

A friend told me something after I shared this story, a mantra he's lived by for years: wherever you are is where you're supposed to be. I was supposed to be in Iceland. I'm sure of it.

From the field to the wall

The Iceland collection is on its way. Each piece will be proofed and produced as a museum-quality acrylic print, the kind of surface that gives an image like this back its light: the glow of blue hour, the depth of a glacial river seen from above, the color of a rainbow arched over an Icelandic valley.

If you'd like first look when the new work releases, reach out through the contact page or visit the Scottsdale showroom by appointment.