Captured this view over the weekend. Today this small harbor is known as Lervik (clay bay), but back in 1562, there apparently was a rather large port and village here called Grytehamn where timber and firewood was shipped from.
Took the drone for a short flight yeasterday in an attempt to caputre the calm. clear and crisp day. Cows are gone. All that is left is their drying dung. I wonder about their fate.
Mr. Trump stands without any real rivals as the worst American president in modern history. In 2016, his bitter account of the nation’s ailments struck a chord with many voters. But the lesson of the last four years is that he cannot solve the nation’s pressing problems because he is the nation’s most pressing problem.
He is a racist demagogue presiding over an increasingly diverse country; an isolationist in an interconnected world; a showman forever boasting about things he has never done, and promising to do things he never will.
We’re back in “Vejby” again. Feels great. So peaceful. So few people. Beautiful fall hues and light. Instead of rigging all my gear, I raked leaves. Gonna hang around here for a while. Chill. Rise early. Help out with the renovations. Expand my Qigong and Yoga knowledge. Breath. Relax. Create. Think. Sleep.
From almost a year ago in and around Hoi An in central Vietnam where we’re staying at the time. The tour was exhilaratingly fun – especially when I got to drive, something I haven’t done since probably the early 1990s in Thailand. An electric version of the original BMW R71 (1938) or, the above ripoff, a Chinese Chang Jiang CJ750, would be a cool vehicle to drive around in. Here’s the video I shot of our tour.
Weeks after seeing in my official ballot, downloaded, printed, and signed according to the instructions, a new official ballot arrived. Confused, I felt I needed to reach out to the good folks in charge of the overseas voting process in L.A. to see what’s what.
I can’t believe it’s 2020 and my only two options for the presidential election is two white dudes in their 70s. That’s crazy and emblematic of how stale/rigid/reactionary the US political system is. Regardless really of whether you prefer a Donkey or an Elephant.
Here’s a film I produced about this time last year. It’s a montage/collage dedicated to Västra Hamnen in Malmö. There’s no plot or underlying theme other than it being entirely devoted to the sights and scenes in the neighborhood which we’ve called home since, well, depending on how you count, as far back as 2002.
I spent the better part of 15 years shooting stills and amassing footage from Västra Hamnen until one day, about two years ago, I realized that I couldn’t do it anymore. Bluntly put, the magic was gone. And so, a surprisingly long-lasting visual love affair had come to an end.
Several years ago, after completing yet another book (in a series of 10 about the area), I remember contemplating what it would be like if I did tire of documenting Västra Hamnen. I’d enjoyed some success and financial gain with my niche focus on the area. But what would it be like if I rode the wave too far? Would I run the risk of finding myself in such shallow water that I inevitably felt stranded creatively? Could I really get so fed up with my own enthusiasm, even though Västra Hamnen continued to expand and evolve, that I just plain quit?
When I published the film last year, we had just embarked on our odyssey to South East Asia where we ended up spending four months in Hoi An and Da Nang (Vietnam) and then two more in Malaga (Spain).
Neatly tucked away among all my camera equipment, clothes, shoes, toiletries, and containers with homemade ginger snus, was a mental list of important, yet ostensively unanswerable, existential questions:
What was the essential purpose of our trip? Would we find a different kind of happiness along the way now that the family unit was dispersed geographically? Could we redefine ourselves, our relationship, and maybe even our livelihoods at an entirely new place? Could we muster enough entrepreneurial spirit and have enough financial capacity to accomplish a relocation – without having to liquidate our assets or depleting our “rainy day” savings back home?
Today, those six months seem so, so distant. Above all, compounded with all that’s happened since the pandemic arrived on the scene, I realize now how carefree, despite the added existential layer, our trip was.
But truth be told, for me anyway, that half-year was also often tumultuous. Like a foreshadowing of things to come, i. e. the tsunami of chaos that began washing over us and the world in the spring of 2020. The irony here is that because of the immediate impact the virus had on our situation in Spain, we never needed to see how things played out or if we had answers to any of the aforementioned existential questions. In this sense, Covid-19 offered us (and many others) a way out of an existential predicament.
So, now we’re back where we started from about a year ago. And yeah… I’m having some readjustment issues. Bewilderment seems like an apt description of how I feel right now. Can I once again readjust to a location and a lifestyle that I felt had little more to offer me creatively and that while cushy and comfy, provided only the challenge of surviving everyday mundanities and trivialities? How do I avoid feeling like I’m stuck in the groove of an old scratchy record, doomed to loop eternally but with an increasingly audible, nagging noise?
We’ll see. I’m taking it day by day, knowing that from recent experiences, spread over the last few years, that it can take me a while to settle in on a new reality and work my way towards a harmonious existence. A subsistence where I can both appreciate what I have and self-generate enough creative challenges to keep me preoccupied and, ultimately, less focused on stuff that bores the hell out of me.
Looking forward to enjoying this view again. It’s not quite as timeless or soothing as what we have had here in Vejbystrand since early spring. But as long as I have a sea view, I’m a happy camper.
During the first few years of my life, up to about when I was five, my parents rented the bottom half of a beach house in Malibu, California. I suppose being in the water a lot and falling asleep/waking up to the sound of waves from the Pacific Ocean left a lasting impression on me. The fact is, of all my earliest childhood memories, the only real positives ones are from those first few years on the beach. I wish I could say I remember my mother and father being happy there together. I’m sure they were from time to time. I just can’t visualize it from any of my earliest memories. What I do recall, even if it’s more than 50 years ago, is how wonderful living on the beach in Malibu was. The inserted photo is of my (then apparently happy) mother (on the right) and Stella, the lady she and my father rented the house behind them from. Can’t grasp how I can remember Stella’s name.
From Malibu to Malmö. Who would have thought?
Charlotte and I will continue with our small and big house projects in Vejbystrand and be back on the weekends throughout the fall. There’s so much room for improvement and like all old houses, it both demands and deserves a lot of tender loving care and to be properly updated.
I shot this a couple of weeks ago using a 600mm lens. The visual reference to Pink Floyd’s paradigmatic record, “Dark Side of the Moon” is given. At least to me it is. Especially now as we’re at the frontend of this weird year’s darkest months – figuratively and literally.
Several countries around the world have recently begun imposing new lockdowns and travel restrictions. I presume that the sense of fatigue many of us already feel from the limitations the pandemic has caused will likely increase over the next few months while we hope/pray/beg for those sweet better times to return.
Close friends have recently been infected with the virus, but are, fortunately, at least this far, asymptomatic. Charlotte and I got an antibody test a few weeks ago. Both of our test results were negative which made me wonder if a) we may have been infected but the antibodies had already left our bodies, or, b) the test results were false negative. Either way, like billions of other Earthlings, we are still caught in a perpetual “Covid Limbo”.
I don’t remember who shot it, but this group photo was taken with one of my old Canon cameras in an underwater case during a press trip to Aqaba, the sleepy seaside dive resort by the Red Sea. We only had a day and a night in Aqaba before heading to the ancient Jordanian city of Petra, so I can’t say much about the city, even if there was much to say about it (which I doubt there is).
While I don’t remember the dive location being particularly spectacular, I clearly recall the merry band of journalists from Scandinavia I was there with being extraordinarily fun to travel with. From other photos from this part of the press trip, I know that we did get to see some rather large coral formations and schooling fish.
I can’t remember when I last went scuba diving. Might have been when the above photo was taken. Or, maybe it was in Thailand a few years ago or as far back as in the Bay of Pigs, off the coast of Cuba. Hm. If that’s the case, it’s been way too long, for sure.
I wonder if my old Thai buddy Saran Sudduen still goes diving. When we were both younger men and lived not far from each other on Phuket, he and I would dive for about an hour most Saturday mornings outside of Kata Beach. We’d gear up at a local dive shop on the main road, walk down to the beach, and then head out into the Andaman Sea. Scorpionfish were fairly abundant and once in a while, we’d catch a glimpse of a small reef shark. Once we swam out to Koh Gai (Chicken Island) and dove entirely around it before swimming back with depleted tanks. We’d always return to shore carrying plastic bags and other garbage we’d collected during the dive.
Just like in Aqaba, it must be eerily quiet on Phuket now. Which is both hard to imagine and sad to think about. I hope 2021 will see things turn around. Maybe I’ll even be able to go for a dive again. I really miss buoyancy.
Eddie van Halen recently passed away. And so, yet another of my former idols bites the dust. Seems like most of my old pop and rock idols have died and those few that are still around are no longer active in any (to me) meaningfully creative way. The eighteen-year-old version of me was a huge fan of Van Halen and while more musically gifted friends of mine successfully reverse-engineered his licks and solos, I spent many, many hours listening and playing air guitar to Eddie van Halen’s amazing music.
I think that thanks to being able to play at least a little guitar myself, I always felt that my miserly talent still let me appreciate Eddie van Halen’s virtuosity more than if I hadn’t played at all. I’ve had this mindset throughout much of my adult life. Thanks to having dabbled in so many different fields; designing, cooking, coding, painting, teaching, bartending, writing, filming, etc, I can empathize and be cognizant of both the talent and all the tremendous amount of work it takes to excel at anything you set out to do really well.
In 1981, while visiting Los Angeles with friend Jonas Jarhäll, I bought a used, velvet red, Gibson SG Junior, from 1963 or 1965 at an obscure guitar shop somewhere in the San Fernando Valley. I want to remember paying $400 for it. I brought the SG back with me to Sweden and both loved playing on it and having it hang so beautifully on the wall of my first small apartment.
After my only gig as an “axman” at Christmas party for our local scout troupe, my SG was stolen and I never again bought an electric guitar. Perhaps the bereavement initiated my waning interest in Van Halen and the hard rock genre. In any case, after a concert with Eddie van Halen, Alex van Halen, Michael Anthony, and David Lee Roth during the legendary Monsters of Rock in Stockholm in August of 1984, I eventually moved on to other, more challenging and interesting musical genres.
I certainly read about the departure of frontman David Lee Roth and his replacement Sammy Hagar. But I didn’t continue to buy the band’s records or go to their concerts. As I said, I had moved on. Like in times gone by, much of today’s rock music seems so predictable, stale even, and still caught in a web of clichés, myth-building, bad hairdos, and self-destructiveness.
Today, youngsters call groups like Van Halen “Hair Bands” and marvel at how much work went into their hairdos. Quite interesting how a lot of us men of that era, myself included, wanted to be perceived as masculine and bursting with fertility, yet we had no qualms about spending hours effeminately caring for our hair.
Late last night, I wrote the above comment below the New York Times’s obituary column about Eddie van Halen and now I’m wondering if I might actually still have that bootleg tape somewhere. That would certainly be a wondrous trip in the time machine.
I am genuinely proud that I voted in the presidential election of 2020. I sent off my ballot a couple of weeks ago and now I can only hope that more Americans than ever before will be voting so that we collectively can kick scary Donald J Trump out of office.
There are literally thousands of elections across the country on November 3rd. But as a permanent resident (and citizen of Sweden), I don’t feel informed or engaged enough to vote in anything other than the presidential election, which I’ve followed closely.
Like for many, many others, my vote for the Biden-Harris ticket is just as much a vote against the incumbent, incompetent douchebag president – clearly, an unapologetic, narcissistic megalomaniac of which the USA and the world have never before had to endure.
Not even now that he has been infected with the virus is he humbled or cautious about his fate and the millions of others that have succumbed to Covid-19. Worse yet, Trump is through his careless actions and bold but idiotic statements making it perfectly clear that he thinks that those poor souls that have become seriously sick, or even died, are just losers. I obviously don’t want anybody to get sick or die, but I have to admit to feeling a little schadenfreude should the virus keep him bedridden for the remainder of the campaigne.
The more I see of Trump and his tail-wagging, ass-kissing entourage, not to mention the flag-waving, gun-totting Fox News-watching degenerate fan base, the more I realize that President Trump is evil personified – a Beelzebub that has cast a powerful spell on his followers. Followers that have either been so hypnotized and dumbed-down by decades of multi-orifice ingested crap culture or, just spinelessly following someone they perceive to be a winner and hope to benefit from. What a bunch of fools.
Ate lunch at a beautiful old spinning mill yesterday on the way home from Göteborg. The main building that once housed the factory has been repurposed and is today occupied by an assemblage of small creative companies and a handful of interior design shops – none of which I felt offered anything to write about, or, be inspired by. Not that they didn’t sell nice and fancy stuff (at premium prices). There was plenty of that.
Before arriving, I read a little about the mill’s history, the decades of suffering that both women and children were forced to endure while laboring there. Yeah, I recognize that the mill’s horrific history cast an uncomfortable shadow over my ability to find pleasure in the experience. As far as I could see, there wasn’t a single square meter of wall space dedicated to the workers that lived out their miserable lives there.
After standing in line for a while at the adjacent café, we ordered our lunch and found comfortable seating in one of the larger rooms where I marveled at the meticulously coordinated furnishings and decor. Nothing was left to chance.
There we sat, eating our yummy avocado sandwiches together with a dozen other plump, middle class, mostly middle-aged, over-dressed guests, chewing, sipping, and chatting away as carefree as can be. No social distancing. No masks. No worries. Some surely awaiting a socially acceptable opportunity to take out their shiny phones and post about their pleasant cultural adventure at the old spinning mill.
Ghosts of women and children hovering silently, a few millimeters below the ceiling. Peering. Wondering.
I don’t know. Maybe there’s too much shit going on in the world right now. Maybe I’ve filled my quota of excursions to bourgeois sanctuaries that ultimately leave me feeling emptier than when I arrived. That said, the toast above was an undeniably delightful experience – at least for the palate.
Soon time to return to Skåneland after a couple of calming days among friends and family in Gothenburg. where I’ve been both doing some soul searching and collecting new textures and walls for my “Resurfaced” series.
This is the perfect time of year to visit one of my many old hometowns. The weather has been extraordinarily pleasant. Crisp, clear air, mostly sunny and comfortably warm.
Yesterday, I went for a 5-hour walk from Gothenburg’s Opera House, along the harbor to the Älvsborgs Bridge where I ate lunch at Röda Sten Konsthall (an art museum), and then I literally crisscrossed my way back to the hotel through the Majorna and Masthugget districts.
I lived in Majorna for a summer back in the early 1980s. The wooden building I rented a flat in was so old that the two apartments on my floor shared a common bathroom. I thought it was interesting at the time. At least for a while. The guy I rented the place from was the manager for a Swedish fusion jazz band named Hawk on Flight and much of the apartment was filled with stuff somehow related to the band. I think I paid SEK400/USD$40 a month in rent but I can’t remember how the heck I got a hold of the pad or why I needed a place to live that summer.
It’s a little scary when memories fade or vanish. Then again, it was only two, maybe three months of my life that played out almost 40 years ago.
I love the architecture and the somewhat edgy vibe of Majorna. It’s bohemian and authentic and the abundance of mom and pop shops, restaurants and cafés make it seem like a cozy place to live.
For better or worse, of the other areas I’ve lived at during younger years, including Kålltorp, Vasastan and Johanneberg, today, Majorna feels the least changed and the most genuine “old Göteborg”. Much more so than, say, Haga.
I shot the images above with my now 2-year-old iPhone. Apple has yet to announce its new lineup and I have yet to decide if I actually need a new phone. The camera in my phone is still phenomenal and though I carried the Fuji x100v in my pocket during my walk, I mostly used it for capturing surfaces on walls and utility boxes. Still, every time Charlotte whips out her 2019 iPhone with its ultra-wide 13mm lens, I feel I’m missing out a little. Like I’m not getting the big picture.
This is possibly the prettiest, most whimsically pedagogical explainer video I have ever seen. It brings forth and unpacks unskewed and uncontestable arguments in a beautiful way that only flat-earth devotees can deny. Crafted by a Munich based animation studio, the project was funded by the Gates Foundation.
I’m not a huge fan of Bill Gates, on the contrary, I think he’s been a terrible actor in the computer space, morally and aesthetically. He’s certainly compensated some of his past wrongdoings with admirably charitable activities. But I will never trust the guy to not have hidden motives behind everything he does. One could argue (conspiratorily) that the work of the Gates Foundation is part of Bill’s immortalization strategy. But I agree with Gates on one central point: that Trump is bad for the planet. The enemy of my enemy is my friend…
Yeah, I know. More cows. But I’ve always loved cows. Not only do they symbolize a kind of universal motherhood, but cows are also animals that radiate timeless serenity.
After an intense period of work and emotional turmoil, more than ever, I need serenity in my life right now.
I shot this about a week ago when a thick, coastal fog rolled in and settled over Vejbystrand for much of the morning.
I went for a long walk along the meadow with a camera at my side, hoping to capture something uniquely foggy.
The cows instinctively huddled together in an effort to feel safer. Even if it was completely windless and soundless on the meadow, the dense fog visually impaired the herd’s ability to see where potential threats would be coming from. They didn’t seem particularly nervous, but I did get a sense of heightened awareness as I passed them. While my trajectory was clearly unthreatening, most of the cows followed my every step, making sure I wasn’t going to leave my chosen path.
Time for some preaching.
It’s been five years since I stopped eating meat and poultry on the advice of our wise daughter Elle, who started the family’s boycott. This for three reasons:
Most animals raised for consumption are bred and treated in a horrific and completely unacceptable way. Millions of animals suffer for most of their short lives just so people can eat cheap, often unhealthy amounts of meat and chicken.
It’s utterly unreasonable to clear gigantic areas of primeval forest in the Amazon and elsewhere in the world just in order to acquire land to grow soy and corn on as feed for the animals. If we instead grew vegetables directly for our own consumption, we’d both save the earth’s resources and eat healthier!
In a few years, we will be 8 billion people on this blue planet. Since we know that climate change is already causing devastating problems today, it’s easy to see that we have enormous challenges ahead of us when additional billions of people in developing countries start demanding the same unsound habits we in the industrial world have had for decades. A simple approach (but of course not a solitary solution alone) is, for example, to stop eating meat and poultry.
Even though we in Sweden eat slightly less meat today than before, it’s still far more than what many researchers consider to be healthy. Eating meat and poultry, in whole or processed form, undoubtedly increases the risk of getting cancer.
So if you don’t give a hoot about how the animals you eat experience their lives and how the earth feels from raising them, maybe you can start thinking about how your body feels before you eat the next slice of ham, grilled chicken, or steak.
Münich. Home of Puma, BMW, and a bunch of other huge German conglomerates. Like in Stuttgart, everyone wears masks here too. At least in public spaces and until it’s time to eat. Germans don’t hesitate a second to give you a somewhat perturbed, reprimanding look if you don’t have a mask strapped on.
Arrived in the Bavarian capital kinda late last night after a full day of meetings in Stuttgart. No doubt that it’s “big boy business” down here. The niche, fringe, and edge-case stuff isn’t exactly frowned upon, but it’s still traditional, old school industry that rules the day here.
Traveling for a couple of hours along the busy Autobahn A8 yesterday evening, frequently passed by a slew of vehicles, most at well above 200km/h, it became perfectly clear why there are so many supercharged cars here. Makes much less sense to own an AMG GLC or a Lamborghini Urus in Sweden with its low-bar speed limitations.
Took an off-the-street taxi to a meeting today, a Mercedes S Class (6 cyl/300hp/2019) which according to the driver cost about €150k – including some extra bells and whistles. I can’t wrap my head around how much money that represents and, above all, how many passengers that taxi has to transport before getting some kind of ROI.
Last time this far south in Germany, I was in Eisenach, about 4 hours north of Stuttgart. I was there on a press event together with a few other journalists from Scandinavia to see how beautifully reunited Germany had become 20 years after the wall and fences had come tumbling down.
If memory serves me correctly, Eisenach is famous for two things; an automotive museum located adjacent to what used to be a BMW factory but was renamed EMW (Eisenacher Motorenwerk) as Eisenach was part of East Germany – and Wartburg Castle where Martin Luther (of the Protestant persuasion) was kept under house arrest and also where he translated the bible from Latin to German.
Both Wartburg Castle and the factory were interesting places to visit. But the most memorable takeaway was during the press dinner when our guide, a woman in her 60s, admitted how much she missed East Germany’s patriarch, Erich Honecker, and how the state “took care” of everything for its citizens.
I’m going to paraphrase her here, but the gist of this remarkable, wine-fueled confession was this:
“You know, we never had to worry about anything…where to live, where to study, what kind of work we would do, the food we could buy…it was the same for everyone. Now it’s chaos…capitalist chaos…”
Currently in Germany for meetings in Stuttgart and Münich. First time I’ve left Sweden in over 7 months. It’s possibly been 25 years since the last time I stayed domestic for that long.
Mandatory mask on from the moment we traversed the Danish side of the Öresund Bridge, throughout the airport, the SAS lounge, on the aircraft, at the airport in Stuttgart and everywhere but my room at the hotel. My N95 mask fits relatively comfortably over my face. Not being able to read facial expressions other than by looking at people’s eyes and eyebrows is certainly interesting.
Kastrup was far from empty, but most shops, cafés, and restaurants were closed. It felt like having a middle-of-the-night departure time – but during a sunny afternoon. Weird.
Here in Germany, I’ll be staying at an American owned hotel where, unlike most hotels in the US, a spectacular breakfast buffet is included in the room rate (a rate which is roughly half of what it would have been if the hotel was located in the States).
Over the years, I’ve been spoiled rotten by lavish hotel breakfasts in Asia and, to a slightly lesser degree, here in Europe. But today, for the very first time ever, they offered fresh pretzels over at the bread corner. A pretzel is a pretty good substitute for a bagel. Back to work now.