Yesterday I learned that Fred Nicholas passed away on June 28, 2025, at the extraordinary age of 105. It’s difficult to describe a life that long and that full without sounding like I’m overstating it – but in Fred’s case, words almost fall short. His legacy stretches across continents, generations, and disciplines. He wasn’t just a witness to the 20th century – he helped shape it.

Fred and my father, Ernest Raboff, met while studying journalism at USC. They were young, ambitious, and curious – drawn to each other through an interest in storytelling beyond the university’s walls.

Then came World War II.

My father became a reporter for the U.S. Army newspaper Stars and Stripes, covering the war in France and Italy. Fred served as a U.S. Army officer and was deployed to North Africa, Sicily, Italy, Southern France, and later the Philippines.

Fred rose to the rank of Captain and was awarded the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart. Though their paths during the war were separate, my father and Fred shared its weight, and that bond never really faded. They reconnected in the 1950s and remained close friends until my father passed away in the fall of 1986.

What many people may not know is that my father also advised Fred on his early art investments. They talked often about emerging artists, new movements, and the transforming creative scene in post-war Los Angeles.

These conversations helped shape Fred’s lifelong commitment to the arts. He would go on to become one of the key figures behind the Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA) in Los Angeles and chaired the committee that selected Frank Gehry to design the Walt Disney Concert Hall. His quiet influence helped define the cultural identity of the city – without fanfare, without ego.

Fred was also the founding board chair of Public Counsel, now the largest pro bono law firm in the United States. It’s emblematic of who he was: someone who combined vision with action, power with principle, and who made room for others to rise.

Whenever I visited Los Angeles, Fred would insist we meet for lunch or dinner – sometimes at his country club, sometimes at that small Brazilian place on Washington Boulevard in Culver City that he loved.

Charlotte and Elle joined on several occasions, and every time we left feeling seen, appreciated, and lifted. Fred had a way of making you feel not just welcome, but worthy. He gave encouragement without pretense, and warmth without conditions.

I feel so fortunate to have known Fred – not just as a friend of my father’s, but as a man who lived with clarity, kindness, and conviction. His presence in our lives, however occasional, left an impression. A steady voice. A generous spirit. A brilliant mind rooted in humility. And now he’s gone, and the world feels a little quieter without him. I took the above photo of Fred when he and I had lunch in 2022. He was 102 years old, sharp as a knife and as witty as ever.

Rest well, Fred. And thank you for being a friend of the family.

Dear Tyko,

Today, you would have turned 58. And while I don’t believe in a heaven paved with light or an all-seeing deity tallying our deeds, somewhere deep inside, there’s still a hope – a quiet wish that you’re out there somewhere, beyond the reach of the pain that forced you to leave us.

You’re missed – deeply, daily – and the silence around how you left us is still heavy with unanswered questions.

Maybe the truth is buried too deep. Still, your absence speaks louder than any explanation ever could.

I often wonder how you would have handled today’s world – how fractured and tribal it’s all become. Even our own family – on Dad’s side – has drifted into separate camps, no longer talking or sharing our commonalities, but instead living in echo chambers and milking the tribal cows for all they’re worth.

You and I talked about stuff like this time and time again – how we should focus on what we have in common, not what sets us apart.

So yes, I miss you – today more than most – but maybe, in a way, it’s just as well that you don’t have to witness how little we’ve learned from history, how far we’ve strayed from kindness, from connection, from each other.

As always, I carry your memory quietly –
still warm, still glowing.

With love – always.

Kim

The storm arrived with much fanfare last night. No thunder, but boy did it rain throughout the night.

In 18 years, I’ll be 80. When I was 18, I drove a motorcycle at 80 around the Greek island of Corfu and then ate way too many slices of watermelon soaked in ouzo. Now everything’s in slow motion – except time. That still flies.

The upside of getting older? I care more about saying what I actually think and less about sugarcoating my opinions.

Because nothing’s like it used to be – and maybe that’s the conundrum. We pretend it is, then get chagrined when it’s not. Maybe better to carve new paths than drag myself through old disappointing ones. Maybe.

Today it’s back to writing. Next up: a chapter about the ten years I spent in the restaurant business – an important part of my collection of brutally honest stories from my soon-to-be 62-year-old life.

Speaking of which, next week, coincidentally on my own birthday, I’ll participate in celebrating the passing of someone wonderfully full of life. This feels strangely fitting. A reminder to both live fully while you can and to always salute a life well lived.

Nyköping. Sunday. Happy.

From yesterday’s beautiful baptism of Lukas at the ancient Råby Church — built some 800–900 years ago — followed by a wonderful gathering of cousins, second cousins, and third cousins in Råby/Aspåker at the idyllic summer residence of Jan and Kristina Starrsjö.

It also happened to be the 65th birthday of twins Jan and Per Starrsjö, which was modestly but joyfully celebrated.

We in the Andersson family don’t get together nearly as often as we’d like. But when we do, my heart always fills with love and joy. Especially happy that Elle joined us.

Yesterday’s occasion will be remembered for the delicious food, the summery countryside setting, and the heartfelt conversations about our shared history.

Thank you so much, Janne and Kina, for a warm and cozy get-together.

It’s that time again. Time to share a new book project I’ve just completed, titled “PHOBIAS & FEARS.” The new book explores a super-interesting topic that I think most people can relate to (whether they want to admit it or not). I started collecting information about various phobias last summer after a long dinner where the subject was passionately discussed, and I began to realize how common it is to have at least one phobia. Most of all, I understood how paralyzing it can be when a fear or phobia starts influencing your decisions and holds you back in different ways.

So, what are you afraid of?
Spiders? Elevators? Flying? Or maybe… that a snake will show up while you’re sitting on a hotel toilet? My new book offers a mix of humor, empathy, symptoms, and possible ways to deal with both the most common and the most unusual phobias.

As I see it, this book is for anyone who’s ever wondered: “Is it just me?” So, get ready to laugh – and maybe feel a little uneasy, especially when you discover new things you didn’t even know you were afraid of. The new book is available as a paperback, audiobook, and e-book.

I came across this image earlier today in the depths of my archives. As I’ve mentioned before, I usually have several book projects simmering at once, each in different stages of completion. That’s just how I roll. Ideas brew, evolve, and occasionally leap ahead of the pack.

Right now, I’m just about to launch a brand-new book (more on that very soon), and at the same time, I’ve just begun working on a fresh photography book — this one focusing on some of my absolute favorite places in the southern Swedish region of Österlen.

One of the great joys of this chapter in life is being able to sail freely between creative projects, without the burden of rigid deadlines. To work when inspiration strikes (which it does daily, believe me), to pause when needed, and to let each project unfold in its own rhythm. But also having the time and freedom to travel — both physically and creatively — wherever curiosity leads and whatever fills my sails.

Österlen, with its mix of sea, sky, forest, farmland, and small villages, continues to heal, inspire, and surprise me. It’s both cultivated and wild, still and ever-changing — and I can’t wait to share what I see through my lens and what I feel in my heart.

Stay tuned. More to come.

Back in Malmö.
My one-word takeaway from this trip? Melancholy. I recognize it from visits to other Eastern European cities: Gdańsk, Tbilisi, Sofia, Belgrade, Zagreb, Tirana, Vilnius, Tallinn.

The younger generation doesn’t carry the weight of nearly seventy years of political oppression and social tyranny as heavily as the older Latvians do. Yet the melancholy lingers in them too. It takes effort to coax out a smile. Public laughter is rare. Seriousness reigns.

Authoritarian rule has embedded itself in the DNA of society – clearly spanning generations. Suspicion and skepticism are ever-present – instinctive, almost reflexive.

Yet somehow, I’m drawn to this melancholy. It’s brutally honest – non-pandering and unvarnished. Just like many of the old buildings and houses in Riga. Including the old railway station, which provided me with a few interesting views.

As I grow older, I find myself more introspective and reserved, less interested in spending time as the outgoing and superficial individual of yesteryear. As Popeye once said, “I yam what I yam, and that’s all what I yam.”

Meanwhile, in Riga…

There’s something about coming back to a familiar city that flips a quiet switch in my brain — a concoction of curiosity, calm, and perhaps a bit too much trolley coffee. Travel, for me, has never been about box-ticking, but about absorbing a vibe and seeking the soul of a destination.

Some places I visit once and feel done with. Others, like Riga, keep calling me back. Maybe because I have a few drops of Baltic blood in me, on my paternal grandfather Bill’s side of the family.

I’ve printed over a dozen of my books here in Latvia, so the capital has long been woven into my creative process.

The streets, the cafés, the mix of Art Nouveau facades and Soviet leftovers — Riga has plenty of interesting layers. The past lingers here, but never smothers the present.

These days, with the world spinning off-axis — wars in the Middle East and in Eastern Europe — you’d think travel choices would feel limited. But that’s the paradox. Sometimes, the most eye-opening experiences are next door. From Sweden, cities like Riga offer a refreshing shift in perspective without the trepidation of long-haul journeys.

So here I am again — walking these streets, camera in hand — reminded that I don’t need to wander a great distance to feel like I’m far away.