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.

One of the greatest privileges of my life is not just being able to travel to some of our planet’s most remarkable places – which I’ve done for over 45 years – but also being able to document so many fleeting moments there.

Photography, for me, has never been just about aesthetics. It’s about witnessing something real, something transient, and translating my impressons into a visual memory that often outlives the moment itself (and my own fading ability to remember places vividly).

This past week, I had the good fortune to revisit one of the most naturally beautiful corners of Sweden: Kåseberga, a small fishing village perched along the southeastern coast in Österlen.

I was once again hosted by buddy and fellow visual artist, Henry Arvidsson – a generous soul with a great eye, sharp wit, and a passionate photographer bar none.

Historically known for its fishing heritage, the village of Kåseberga dates back to at least the late 17th century. Nestled between open farmland and the Baltic Sea it still retains the weathered charm of an authentic maritime community.

Though large-scale fishing has diminished, the essence remains – red-painted boathouses, sun-bleached ropes, and the quiet creak of wooden boats bobbing in the harbor.

During autumn storms, Kåseberga also draws a small crowd of enthused surfers. And while it may not be Hawaii’s North Shore, the waves rolling in off the Baltic offer just enough force for a short ride to the rocky shoreline. In younger years, I was one of those who waited patiently on the board, watching the horizon for the next break to arrive.

But Kåseberga’s allure goes beyond its seafaring soul. Rising high above the village stands Ales Stenar, an ancient megalithic monument made up of 59 massive stones arranged in the shape of what some think is a Viking ship.

Measuring roughly 67 meters in length, the formation dates back around 1,400 years, though theories about its actual purpose abound. Some think it functioned as a burial site, others suggest it was a solar calendar. Whatever the truth may be, it adds a sense of myth and mystery to the already cinematic setting.

The light in Österlen is its own kind of poetry. It can shift in a matter of minutes – fog lifting off the sea to reveal golden fields, or dark clouds drawing a curtain across the cliffs.

For a photographer, it’s a dream and a challenge. You have to stay alert, responsive, and willing to run uphill at a moment’s notice when the light breaks just right or a flock of birds slices across the horizon.

Having Henry there to share the experience was a gift. He once again opened his home and generously shared local insights that only someone with his visual sensibility and connection to the area could provide. which in no small way is evident in his new book, aptly titled Kåseberga.

We spent days with our cameras ready and our evenings reflecting on life and art over a responsible number of ice-filled glasses of bourbon.

In a world increasingly saturated with disposable images, it’s easy to overlook places like Kåseberga. It’s not loud or overly self-promoting.

It doesn’t scream for attention. It simply exists, quietly and confidently, shaped by centuries of wind, salt, and stories. And in doing so, it reminds me that beauty doesn’t always announce itself – it often lingers in silence, in the grain of weathered wood, or the rhythm of waves gently meeting the shore.

And I’m lucky – truly lucky – that I get to not only see these places but also capture them, preserve them, and share them.

So thank you, Kåseberga. And thank you, Henry. Hopefully, I’ll be back someday.

I took this view of Järntorget and Linné-området the other day from our hotel room on the 20th floor at Hotell Draken in Göteborg. It rained off and on for most of our stay there with the exception of this one sunny morning. At some point, possibly this fall, I will begin working on a book about Göteborg, or, as the city is so thoughtfully translated into English, Gothenburg.

Charlotte and I have just wrapped up a two-day, two-party graduation extravaganza in Gothenburg with dozens of old friends, delicious food, and — if we’re being totally honest — more than a few too many champagne flutes and other thirst-quenching but utterly unhealthy beverages. Wishing Theodor Johansson and Alice Lindahl a bright future and the best of luck in all their forthcoming endeavors.

This is from a press trip to Jordan that included scuba diving in the warm, crystalline waters of the Red Sea near Aqaba, traversing the surreal desertscapes of Wadi Rum, and hiking through Wadi Musa – the legendary Valley of Moses – where the ancient city of Petra lies etched into rose-hued cliffs.

Jordan revealed itself as a land of stark and stunning contrasts: silent deserts and noisy souks, pristine coral reefs and ancient ruins worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. But it was this quiet moment in Amman – a dusk-drenched scene – that lodged itself in my mind.

There, beneath the call to prayer and the fading evening light, I felt a flicker of something unexpected: hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, people of all faiths – and the godless, like me – might one day realize how absurdly self-destructive and potentially cataclysmic it is to keep tearing each other apart over whose version of the truth is the right one.

Then again, as Eisenhower so famously warned in his farewell address in 1961, just three days before John F. Kennedy was inaugurated as the 35th President of the United States, the military-industrial complex – that cozy little partnership between weapons manufacturers and the politicians they sponsor – has no interest in peace. Peace doesn’t sell. Peace doesn’t generate quarterly growth. Peace doesn’t get you re-elected – not with patriotic slogans, war parades, and ceremonial flyovers. That’s the war business for you. And business is booming.

From last night’s fantastic evening where we welcomed Cia Edström into the dubious 60-year club together with a group of fun folks. Great to reconnect with old friends – and get to know some new ones too!