Charlotte took this shot of me in a dive bar along the main drag of Lahaina on the Hawaiian island of Maui. Lahaina is the town devastated by a wildfire a few years back. I came across the photo while looking for the parrot image that the University of Cambridge licensed from me a couple of weeks ago. We rented a house there for about a week and loved Maui’s west coast.

I’m finally done with the gigabytes of photos that had to be curated ahead of launching the new website for my fine art photography. So today, I spent much of my time going through a trove of half-century-old photos from my childhood and teenage years in Los Angeles.

I suppose it is easy to think that I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about, dwelling on and analyzing my past. And yes, over these past four or five months, I have admittedly spent more time than usual discovering, sorting through and making sense of all kinds of crap from my childhood. It’s definitely been a process, but mostly a healthy one.

I guess you are never too old to go through a dysfunctional childhood. It’s always there, like a knotted neckless or a third eye that is constantly looking at your life through a totally different lens.

For the most part, my days are spent working on creative projects that have very little to do with the past. They are all about the future.

I photographed this parrot during a ten-day press trip through Guatemala several years ago. I believe it was taken near the Mayan pyramids of Tikal, or possibly around Lake Flores – both unforgettable places with an extraordinary mix of history, color and wildlife.

Anyway, I mention this because I recently licensed a completely different parrot image, taken on Maui, Hawaii, to a researcher in the Electrical Engineering Division at the Department of Engineering, University of Cambridge, UK.

Having my photography spread across the internet is, unfortunately, a necessary evil. Over the years, many of my images have been used without permission or proper licensing, often in commercial contexts.

On a few occasions, after threatening legal action, I have been fairly compensated and I should arguably probably spend more time tracking where and how my work is being used or misused.

But as a lawyer friend once told me a long, long time ago, I am probably better off being creative than chasing infringements.

At this stage of my life, creating new images and having honest people license or buy them matters far more than spending my time as an image-rights detective. I know there are services that do this, but you still need to put in a lot of effort to figure out who is in the right and who is stealing.

A long day’s journey home has begun. Packed and ready, but packing is definitely not one of my hidden talents.

You would think that after decades of traveling and thousands of hotel nights, I would have developed some kind of technique or knack for it. But not a chance.

When it comes to packing a suitcase, I am actually a disaster. There is simply no happy medium – either I pack like I’m moving abroad for good, or I realize too late that I’ve forgotten some of the most important things I wanted to bring.

But my biggest problem is still the total lack of structure. No matter what I do, it always ends up with everything sitting in one chaotic, unsorted mess.

I push down, squeeze, and close the lid with brute force, which results in me completely losing track of what’s inside. If I need to grab a specific sweater, I have to root around like a badger and pull everything out onto the hotel bed before I can find it.

But now, I’ve discovered vacuum-packed travel bags. They might not help me become more structured in my packing, but I seem to fit significantly more stuff.

The concept is ingenious in its simplicity: you just stuff the clothes into the bags and suck out the air with a pump (or, a vacuum). Suddenly, that huge, cumbersome mountain of socks, underwear, t-shirts, shorts, and everything else has shrunk into flat, rock-solid, and ridiculously easy-to-pack packages.

The best part isn’t even that you save about half the space in your bag – though that is a massive plus. Through the transparent bags, I can see exactly where my things ended up. “Neat and tidy” might be stretching it, but at least I get a decent overview.

Not since ABBA’s Waterloo have I been able to say, honestly, that I think the Eurovision Song Contest is anything other than a professional and slickly produced spectacle where bad taste continues to prevail.

I did, however, partake once, during the finale here in Malmö in 2013 – not by watching the show, but by documenting how Turning Torso was spectacularly and colourfully lit up for the occasion.

One of the places I’m happiest to have visited – twice – is Cuba. From a purely visual standpoint, I sometimes think spending at least a week in Havana should be mandatory for any serious photographer.

Few cities I have visited reward serendipitous wandering quite the same way. You can turn a corner expecting nothing and suddenly find a scene that feels less like reality and more like a film set that forgot to wrap decades ago.

I remain in awe of the city and its strange magnetism. Havana is undeniably beautiful, though obviously not in the polished or carefully curated sense. Its appeal often lives in the cracks. Buildings seem to peel and sag under the weight of time and rule.

Balconies lean with an almost philosophical indifference to gravity. The city wears its scars openly. There is decay, yes, but also dignity and character among people trying to live their lives within that decay. It rarely felt staged or manufactured for visitors. It simply existed on its own terms – take it or leave it.

What stayed with me as much as the visuals, though, were the people. During both visits I met Cubans whose warmth and openness felt spontaneous rather than transactional. Conversations had a way of appearing out of nowhere – on street corners, in cafés, outside homes, beside old American cars held together by equal parts ingenuity and stubbornness. And probably a few smuggled Japanese spare parts.

Like with all places where I’ve spent some time, I find myself thinking about the people there now.

Cuba is going through extraordinarily difficult times.

Many ordinary Cubans seem caught between forces largely outside their control – economic hardship, shortages, political realities and circumstances that leave little room to maneuver. Sandwiched between a rock and a hard place hardly begins to cover it.

Perhaps that is also why the place stays with me. Cuba was never simply about old cars and faded facades. It was, and is, about the people living behind them and the hopes and dreams they carry. Despite the havoc. Or, maybe their dreams have never been more important.

We spent last night in Österlen after meeting with buyers at bookstores and specialty shops scattered across a few villages in southeastern Sweden.

So far, both Årstider in Södra Mellby and Simrishamn Bokhandel have purchased my photography book, Österlen, and are now offering it to their esteemed customers.

This time of year, before the tourist season begins properly, is the best time to visit Österlen.

Speaking of which, pre-tourist season travel, anywhere in the world, is still the way to go, though that strategy is clearly becoming less strategic as more and more people are discovering the benefits of visiting places when prices are lower and crowds are smaller.

My worst fear is not death. Not really. It is losing my cognitive ability and perhaps not even fully realizing it. Worse still – sensing it vaguely, like a distant alarm bell muffled behind thick walls. Knowing something important to my life has slipped away but being unable to grasp what it was or where it disappeared to.

The concept of being trapped in the fog isn’t something I want to have to deal with. Living in a mental landscape where familiar thoughts no longer connect properly. Where memories dissolve mid-thought. Where language, logic and identity slowly loosen their grip while the world continues moving around you as if nothing happened.

And perhaps the cruelest part of all – never quite being able to find your way back out again.

That was more or less how I felt yesterday when I visited my father-in-law Allan, Charlotte’s father, at a dementia care facility in Göteborg.

All things considered, Allan was surprisingly perky. Every now and then flashes of his old humor surfaced – small reminders of the man who once occupied the space more fully.

At 88 he is frail now, physically diminished, with very little strength left. He needs assistance just to move around.

Watching him stirred thoughts I normally try to keep at arm’s length. I could not help but wonder whether this is also waiting somewhere ahead for me. Whether the gradual erosion of body and mind is simply part of the contract we all sign without reading carefully enough.

I hope not.

Not only for my own sake, but for Charlotte and for Elle. Because when cognition fades, it is not only the individual who disappears in fragments. The people who love them are forced to witness the slow unraveling too. And there is something uniquely brutal about watching someone still physically present while parts of the person you knew quietly vanish. Regress. From pampers to pampers.

While going through my increasingly receding photo archive, I come across images that I haven’t seen in ages. This one is from my very first solo exhibition in a garage adjacent to the house I was renting while attending art college in Visby on the island of Gotland in the Baltic Sea southeast of Stockholm.

I have no recollection of whether I sold anything, but I remember how enjoyable it was to share my creativity and to welcome people who happened to pass by. The house I rented had once been part of Gibsons Bryggeri, a 19th-century brewery near Norderport run by the Gibson family, who still owned the property. I lived in the house for two years.

There’s something subtly disorienting about seeing a place you think you know from an angle you’ve never experienced.

This image was part of my exhibition Malmö Upside Down in Slottsträdgården a few years ago. The premise was straightforward – take familiar places and shift the perspective enough that recognition is no longer immediate. Not to complicate things, but to interrupt the habit.

What you’re looking at is no longer just a place to walk, swim, or pass through. It becomes geometry. Lines, intersections, balance. A kind of unintended design that only reveals itself when you step away from ground level.

And then there’s the light.

I shot this from a plane when the sun set low enough to skim rather than flood, edges sharpened, and shadows stretched. The whole structure took on a slightly unreal quality, almost like an architect’s model – reduced, precise, detached from scale.

For those who recognise it, this is Kallbadhuset Kallis – one of Malmö’s more enduring landmarks. The tradition of cold bathing here dates back to the late 19th century, when seaside bathhouses were built as social and health institutions, often with strict gender separation and a certain sense of ritual. The current structure has been rebuilt and adapted over time, but the core idea remains intact: a place where architecture meets the sea directly, without mediation.

I think the historical layer adds something to the image. What looks almost abstract from above is, at ground level, a place shaped by routine – morning swims, winter plunges, quiet conversations in the sauna.

That was the idea behind Malmö Upside Down: not to show Malmö as it is, but to challenge how quickly or slowly we assume we recognise the familiar.

This collage is from last night when we celebrated Valborg in Västra Hamnen, Malmö – one of those rare evenings where everything just falls into place. This image captures the atmosphere along the waterfront, from the Ljudkullarna to the open spaces by the sea, where thousands gathered to welcome spring.

What stands out isn’t just the sheer number of people, but the calm, relaxed mood. Families, students, locals – all sharing the same space without rush or tension. The light stretched late into the evening, the air was mild, and the sunset over Öresund delivered one of those spectacular moments Malmö does so well. As I usually say this time of year, all is forgiven.

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I learned only recently that the plastic surgeon Jan B. Weislander passed away in December 2025. The news arrived quietly, almost in passing, which in itself felt strangely fitting.

For nearly a decade, he was a client of mine, though “client” never quite captured the relationship. I advised Dr. Weislander on how to refine his work as a photographer and photo editor – an unusual but, at least initially, productive collaboration. Much of his photographic work revolved around documenting before-and-after results from restorative surgery, material that formed a central part of his practice’s marketing. The photo above is from one of our many sessions.

In the early years, there was a certain chemistry between Jan and me. He confided many interesting aspects of his life and could be surprisingly candid about the inner workings of his practice. While he obviously brought a surgeon’s precision, I contributed technical know-how and an aesthetic framework. It was a functional exchange from which we both benefited.

Over time, however, the dynamic shifted. What began as dialogue became increasingly one-sided. This was not entirely surprising. In my experience, many physicians – particularly those operating at a high level – develop what might be described as a demigod complex.

Authority, exercised daily and rarely questioned, has a way of distorting proportion. Confidence hardens into unquestionable certainty.

With Jan, this manifested as both unwavering self-assurance and a distinctly holier-than-thou attitude that could, at times, be exhausting. It became harder to meet on equal footing, and eventually our professional paths diverged.

Still, there were other sides. When Charlotte and I were living in Mallorca, Jan and his partner Maria came to visit, and we shared a long, unhurried lunch in the hills above Palma. For a moment, professional edges softened.

A few years later, he generously invited us to his 60th birthday at Kalmar Slott, which he had rented outright. Opera singers, musicians, private chefs – an elaborate, theatrical extravaganza, entirely in character.

What ultimately distanced me, however, was the direction his practice appeared to take. There was a gradual drift away from the restraint one associates with the Hippocratic ethos, toward aesthetic procedures that seemed increasingly driven by financial incentive rather than medical necessity.

Cosmetic surgery occupies an inherently ambiguous terrain. But when the balance tips too far toward commerce, it takes on a more cynical tone – often at the expense of insecure patients persuaded that external “adjustments” will resolve internal discontent and discomfort.

That, I think, was where I lost alignment. Not because the field itself lacks merit or that everything Jan did was cynical – but because the field already operates at a delicate intersection of vanity, societal perception, and money.

And yet, looking back, it feels reductive to define a person solely by the arc of their later choices. People are rarely that linear. We are, all of us, shaped by our talents and our blind spots, our discipline and our excess. For a time, our paths ran parallel, and in that overlap, there was a genuine exchange of knowledge.

Perhaps that is what remains. Not a final judgment, but a recognition that even imperfect collaborations can leave something of value behind – if not in the work itself, then in the clarity they eventually bring.

This is Vadstena Castle, from my first visit to this part of Östergötland a few days ago. There’s no denying the scale or the design – it’s impressive. But standing here, it also feels almost oversized, out of proportion with the relatively small town around it.

I’ve read that this imbalance wasn’t accidental. When Swedish king Gustav Vasa ordered the construction in 1545, he wasn’t building a local stronghold for Vadstena. He was making a statement. Placing a fortress like this right next to the Birgittine monastery wasn’t subtle – it was a way of asserting royal power over the Church, marking a shift in who held control over the souls of this country.

Gustav Vasa wasn’t just consolidating power in stone. He also drove the Reformation in Sweden, breaking with Rome and commissioning the first full Swedish translation of the Bible in 1541 – a move that helped place both faith and authority more firmly under the crown.

Right beside this assertion of royal authority stood the legacy of Saint Bridget of Sweden, a 14th-century mystic, writer, and founder of the Birgittine Order. Her monastery in Vadstena had long been one of the most important religious centers in the country, drawing pilgrims from across Europe. The contrast between her spiritual influence and Vasa’s political ambition is hard to miss.

What began as a defensive structure, built to guard against Danish threats, was reshaped into something more refined under Vasa’s son Magnus. That transition is still visible – the heavy, uncompromising stone walls set against the more decorative, almost delicate upper details.

The castle was meant to feel like something much larger than its surroundings, a contained world of its own – built to house a court, soldiers, and the machinery of power near Lake Vättern. Not entirely unlike Göta kanal – a different kind of ambition, but driven by the same mix of vision, labor, and stubborn will.

Sunday. Morning. Fjällbacka.

It almost feels as if we have this quaint fishing village to ourselves, my buddy and fellow photographer Henry Arvidsson and I. Off-season travel is the name of the game.

Last year’s photo adventure took us to Svalbard. This year, we’re on a road trip through some of Sweden’s most beautiful places – Fjällbacka being just one.

Ingrid Bergman loved this archipelagic landscape, and her ashes were scattered in the sea here.

As I passed Ingrid’s memorial a little while ago, I found myself thinking of another Swedish woman with acting ambitions, someone who would have turned 95 today, April 26. Her name was Solveig Andersson and she was my mother.

While Ingrid rightfully became immortal, my mother didn’t. Not even close.

Solveig came from Dalsland, from the farm Moderud in a tiny village with the stark name Järn, outside the town of Mellerud.

It’s been said that you don’t grieve those you don’t love. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to figure out my conflicting emotions for my mother.

I would certainly have liked her to meet Elle, her granddaughter, and Charlotte. I would have wanted to show her that I turned out okay – that my life became better than the odds suggested. That I managed to build a decent life out of what she and my father left behind.

From what I’ve been told, when she was young, Solveig was bright, well liked, and a happy-go-lucky girl.

She was certainly adventurous to leave the relative safety of post-war Sweden to chase a career and life in Hollywood. It resulted in a few minor roles, a handful of television appearances, and not much more. But she tried.

How can I possibly not admire her adventurous nature and audacious goals?

I’m certain she would have understood my need to fill life with travel to places like this.

When she died in 1978, my mother was completely disillusioned, worn down by decades of hard luck, abandonment, and a series of hardships and disappointments.

Since I never got to experience her brighter, happier days, I don’t feel obligated to mourn on what would have been her ninety-fifth birthday.

I do feel gratitude that she existed. Without her dreams, there would be no me, and I would definitely not be standing here appreciating the beauty of Fjällbacka. Also, without Solveig “Sissi” Andersson, I wouldn’t have met Charlotte, and Elle wouldn’t exist.

So rather than mourn, I will celebrate my mother for giving me the gift of life.

Photo of me: Henry Arvidsson

I captured this fellow in Aix-en-Provence last week. I occasionally notice men like him, roughly my age, behind counters, pushing carts, stacking shelves, mopping floors that don’t really need it.

There’s a stillness about these men. Not defeat, exactly, but something adjacent. A kind of withdrawal. And I find myself wondering – not out of pity, but curiosity – what roads led there. Which turns mattered. Which opportunities never came, or came disguised and passed unnoticed. Or perhaps they were never part of the equation to begin with.

I don’t pity them. If anything, I recognize something familiar. As men, we don’t have the built-in structure that something like motherhood can provide. Much of our sense of meaning has to be constructed. It becomes about direction, about proving something – to ourselves, to those around us, to society at large. And when that framework isn’t clear, or never quite takes hold, a certain stillness can settle in.

If anything, I’ve come to understand that life is rarely a straight line. It’s not governed by effort alone. Lives bend under pressure, drift with circumstance, stall under weight that isn’t visible from the outside.

Reaching anything resembling an ambition requires more than will. It takes timing, conditions, and a certain level of self-trust – the belief that something beyond survival is even available, attainable, achievable.

My own trajectory didn’t start with direction. The first fifteen years were uneven, at times fractured. Then something shifted. A loss that opened a door. A move. A reset. From there, a different path began.

Luck is often dismissed, as if acknowledging it diminishes what follows. It doesn’t. It explains it. Opportunity means little if it isn’t recognized. Recognition means nothing without action. But without that initial opening, there is nothing to act on – unless you manage to force one into existence, which I’ve done repeatedly in my role as a freelancer.

So when I see men like the guy above, I don’t see failure. I see variation. Parallel lives shaped by different sequences. And the distance between those outcomes is smaller than it appears.