After a rigorous, early morning workout at our local gym, Charlotte and I headed to Söderåsens National Park – about an hour northeast of Malmö – for a 7.5k hike. Just as we were about to begin, this wonderful swan family appeared.

The park is popular, and we’ve both been there before. Fortunately, for most of this visit, we had the lush forest to ourselves and enjoyed our lunch with a symphony of birds and critters around the picnic table – a truly great way to start the week.

I’ll be having a book signing again today at our local supermarket, ICA MAXI VÄSTRA HAMNEN, from 4-6 pm. Come by, grab a signed copy of my new book “MALMÖ” and get a free poster for every book you buy. Posters are in A3 format and are part of a series with motifs from Västra Hamnen, the part of Malmö where we’ve been living for more than 20 years. Not time to come by? Well, you can order the book from Bokus, Adlibris, Akademibokhandlen, and even Amazon if you’re viewing this from the US or somewhere else outside the EU.

Meanwhile, in Longyearbyen, Svalbard.

I’ve wanted to visit Svalbard ever since I first heard about the Arctic archipelago back in the late 1980s.

During my time in Sweden’s Lapland at Hotel Riksgränsen, I went on a couple of memorable trips to the Lofoten Islands in Norway and twice made it all the way up to Tromsø, among other things, to eat the legendary monkfish served at the city’s classic Peppermøllen eatery.

I didn’t get any farther north — not until now.

A couple of months ago, when my buddy and fellow photographer Henry Arvidsson and I were having coffee in Malmö, we decided that Svalbard would be an awesome place to visit in the spring.

To experience the mighty, raw nature, visit abandoned mines, and maybe — just maybe — catch a glimpse of, and even photograph, a scruffy polar bear from a safe distance would be quite the feather in the cap.

We didn’t get any photos of a live bear, and the ongoing ice breakup threw wrenches into our excursion plans. But we still got to experience magically beautiful nature from the ground, the air, and the sea. We also ate some great food, including whale.

Longyearbyen is a former coal mining town where anyone from anywhere can move without a visa. Maybe that’s why the town is populated by people from all kinds of countries.

Our hotel is called Polarrigg and is owned by Greg, a Greek guy who otherwise runs a nightclub on the island of Mykonos. The front desk team comes from Bosnia, Australia, and Scotland. The restaurant staff is from Russia, the Philippines, Ukraine, and Romania. At the diner Kroa, most of the workers are from Thailand, and Vlad, the guy who drove the boat over the choppy Isfjorden today, was Russian, while the guide was from South Africa.

Wages are high, taxes are low — just 15%. Rents are said to be on par with apartments in Stockholm, yet here you’ll find most of the conveniences of any small town.

The local supermarket is huge and well-stocked and sits close to Nordpolet, the only place on the archipelago where you can buy alcoholic beverages.

There’s definitely a special spirit here — an atmosphere I recognize from my time at Hotel Riksgränsen, where I bartended and painted, and where almost everyone who worked there came from far beyond Kiruna, the nearest municipality.

People we’ve spoken with here talk about Svalbard’s special vibe and how it’s intimately connected to the distance from “civilization,” far away from the squeak of the hamster wheel.

They like living so close to nature and sharing the environment with Arctic foxes, wild reindeer, eiders, sea eagles, polar bears, walruses, and whales. I can understand their thinking.

I feel really happy having visited yet another exotic spot on my bucket list.

When I created these illustrations of artists that have somehow had a profound impact on my life and my creativity, I wanted them to look iconic, albeit scattered across time and artistic disciplines. These artists are not my heroes, but I do feel we are distant kin. Each wrestled with their addictions and/or creative obsessiveness, leaving behind a legacy defined by brilliance but also by their flaws and humanity.

I can’t compare myself to them in talent. That would be absurd. But I do relate to them in spirit. In the hunger. In their aches and ceaseless striving. In the need to make something – anything – that connects and feels real.

Anthony Bourdain – more than the others, I can easily relate to Bourdain as the restless nomad with a passport in one hand, a pen in the other, and always a glass of something soul-soothing nearby. His shows were never only about food – they were also about people, politics, and place. Like Bourdain, I cooked professionally for a while. I know the rhythm of a busy kitchen, the joy of a shared meal after a long shift, the pride in being able to plate beautifully amid utter chaos. The ugliness that goes on behind the scenes at most kitchens. The camaraderie.

I, too, have been to some pretty remote corners of the earth, and Tony’s way of seeing and experiencing the world–with curiosity, humility, humor, and a healthy dose of cynicism–resonates deeply with me. Especially in places and locations where meals are central to socializing and not just a meaningless pit stop to fill the belly while leaving the heart empty.

Charles Bukowski – raw, relentless. Brutally honest and opinionated. He wrote like he had no time to waste and didn’t give a shit what people thought of his lifestyle or writing. Bukowski’s prose cut through the bullshit, straight to the bone. I’m not nearly as nihilistic as he was, but I know what it feels like to write from a place of darkness and defiance, and to struggle to keep it real. I can easily relate to the exhaustion that comes from having unrealistic expectations.

Like Bukowski, I prefer dive bars over dinner parties.

To just let go and allow myself to sink deep into the trenches of debauchery, having prolonged periods of “I just don’t give a fuck.” Bukowski reminds me that imperfection is where the soul in art resides. That, oftentimes, the mess is the point. And that being vulnerable – unpolished, unfiltered – is far more powerful than playing it safe and producing the shiny, the expected.

Vincent van Gogh – the eternal outsider. Unappreciated in life, mythologized in death. Van Gogh painted not what he saw, but what he felt. That intensity – the compulsion to create in isolation, even through pain – is all too familiar. Even back then, in the late 1800s, I think Vincent understood the emotional cost of being hypersensitive in a hard, cynical world. When I paint, it’s not about pleasing anyone. It’s about quieting something inside my head and heart. Like him, I often feel too much, and I still don’t know how I could ever feel less.

Henri Cartier-Bresson – arguably the grand narrator of the “decisive moment.” He didn’t just take photos – he anticipated them. He moved through the world with patience, timing, and above all, intuition. As a photographer, I revere Henri’s eye and feel a kinship with his ability to identify and capture unique moments. I’ve chased light through alleyways, waited for the exact moment when a face turns, a shadow falls, a story unfolds into a frame. Cartier-Bresson reminds me that art can be silent and still, yet thunderously powerful. And that truth is often found in the serendipitously unscripted moments.

Joni Mitchell – has been with me for more than 45 years. As a multifaceted, uncompromising creative force, she paints her words like no other – vividly, intuitively, and always with blunt precision. Joni’s music – and her painting – are always emotionally honest but have never begged for anyone’s approval. They just are – layered, poetic, timeless, fearless. I haven’t played guitar in years, but I remember enough from when I did to appreciate how gifted she is at playing and writing music. And as if that wasn’t enough, she is a profoundly thoughtful lyricist. Her drive to create is always deeply personal, even if it alienates some along the way.

I’ve been many things: a chef, a writer, a painter, a tireless traveler. I don’t yearn for the fame, acclaim, or acumen these artists rightfully deserve. But I do share their drive. Their restlessness. The destructive tendencies. The fleeting highs and the cavernous lows. The joy of a finished piece – and the inevitable void that follows.

I feel the restlessness of Bourdain. The rawness of Bukowski. The emotional weight of van Gogh. The obsessiveness of Cartier-Bresson. The fearlessness of Mitchell. And so I keep going. Because creating is my way of making sense and adding meaning to our chaotic world. It’s my way of avoiding mundanity and insanity – and never doing nothing.

Yesterday, I delivered 30 copies of my new book, MALMÖ, to Pressbyrån – the well-known newspaper and convenience kiosk at Malmö Central Station. The store manager purchased the books for resale, adding yet another local retailer to the list of places where the book is now available.

So, if you’re planning on passing through Malmö C anytime soon, you can pick up a copy of MALMÖ right at the station. The book showcases the city’s highlights and is the perfect gift for visitors, locals, and anyone who loves Sweden.

#Malmö #Photobook #UrbanPhotography #MalmöCentral #Pressbyrån #SwedishDesign #CityPortrait #BookRelease #LocalCulture #MalmöC #DiscoverMalmö #pressbyrån #pressbyran_malmo_c

Meanwhile, in Stockholm…

Yesterday, Charlotte and I went to the Greek tavern Kamarina in Södermalm, where I met my cousin Björn for the very first time. It turns out that my aunt Lillian (now 86 years old) wasn’t as childless as we in the Andersson family had believed. On December 23, 1957, she gave birth to a baby boy in the maternity ward of what was then called the “cottage hospital” in Kungsbacka, south of Göteborg.

Apparently, you’re never too old for a family surprise.

We had a cozy and interesting evening where both Charlotte and I got to know my new cousin Björn, his wife Lisa, and their grown-up kids Malin and Hampus. After dinner, we walked together down to the small ferry that took us across to Hammarby Sjöstad, and then we strolled through the spring-beautiful Stockholm evening to our hotel in Sickla.

Speaking of the hotel…

We’re spending a few nights at the dog-friendly Home Hotel Tapetfabriken, in a gigantic corner room on the fourth floor.
Of all the Strawberry hotels I’ve stayed at (around 30), this is definitely one of the most spacious and charming in a post-industrial kind of way. What I assume was once the factory floor where rolls of tapestry were printed is now a huge lounge with an abundance of spaces to sit and work, have coffee, or eat. Breakfast, snacks, and dinner are included in the room price, and there’s also a gym and sauna. The whole shebang. Love it!

In addition to the Walpurgis Night bonfire on Sickla Meadow tonight, we’ll also make time for the cherry blossoms in Kungsträdgården, a visit to Fotografiska, a gallery stroll along Hornsgatspuckeln/Mariapuckeln, and some additions to my already fairly extensive photo archive of the Royal Capital.

Happy Walpurgis Night!

Here’s a photo from my book signing event for MALMÖ at Hansakompagniet, one of Malmö’s many shopping malls. I don’t know if it was because of the crazy-ass trade war, the threat of an escalation between Russia and Ukraine, or whatever other crisis going on in the world, but even though it was “Salary Saturday” yesterday, my signing pen was mostly unused. One of the employees at the bookstore told me that book signings are not what they used to be and that even famous Swedish authors don’t generate much interest these days. Still, it was a pleasant experience, and I got to chat with some interesting folks about Malmö.