Here’s the blurb for a new book I’ve worked on for about three months. I completed the project last week and the book should be published in just a few weeks.

Update: The fires raging through L.A. and Ventura counties are a tragedy beyond belief. My heart goes out to all those affected and all the brave firefighters and first responders.

Los Angeles: A Photographic Journey by Joakim Lloyd Raboff

Los Angeles is a city like no other – vast, vibrant, and endlessly contradictory. For Joakim Lloyd Raboff, born and raised in L.A., this city is a living, breathing being that never stops inspiring. Joakim Lloyd Raboff has captured the geographical, architectural and social contrasts that define Los Angeles’s eclectic appeal. Through his lens, Raboff invites you to see the city’s many layers: its glittering promise, its gritty reality, and the magnetic energy that continues to draw dreamers, creators, and fortune seekers from around the globe. Every image tells a story, every contrast sparks curiosity – this is L.A., up close and personal.

Back in Malmö, where the weather mirrors Göteborg’s dreary gray, as if conspiring to keep the sun and smiles permanently at bay. This corner of Europe seems cursed with an inordinate share of clouds, rain, and fog – a dull, meteorological monotony that feels less like nature’s whim and more of a psychological assault.

I’ve yet to dive into the climatological explanation, which I am certain there is, so when I say I don’t understand, I mean less the science and more the injustice of the many weeks of sunless days. Acceptance, even now, remains elusive. Yet, I suppose there should be room for gratitude – this winter has been mild so far and the storms here by the sea have been manageably few. That is apparently going to change next week when colder weather arrives here in southern Scandinavia.

I’ve never been much for forecasts. The element of surprise – the raw immediacy of experiencing life, including weather, unmediated by prophecies – seems far more appealing to me than hedging on predictions and probabilities.

After days of indulgence – the typically rich Swedish Christmas foods and the decadent excess from two hotel breakfast buffets – it’s a relief to return to something leaner, something simpler. Yesterday, I put together the bowl you see above: black rice, cauliflower, soybeans, sweet corn, salsa, guacamole, raw tuna with wasabi mayo, and garlic-fried cashews – a balance of flavors, textures and colors – and a quiet act of restoration.

Now, I find myself contemplating the year ahead, shaping an approach to health and revival. The autumn was a trial – the discomfort from a herniated disc, relentless pain from sciatica, and the cascade of medications (and tequila) required to endure the elongated healing process. Recovery was if nothing else, humbling, but it also taught me this: my body is owed an extensive detox, a return to equilibrium. A fresh start is no longer just an aspiration – it’s a necessity. So if I paradoxically do make a prediction for 2025, it’s going to be a healthier and more productive year.

Now that Christmas is almost over—Sweden celebrates Christmas Eve more than Christmas Day—I find myself once again reflecting on a paradox that grows harder to ignore each year. While Christmas is marketed as a season of joy and generosity, its rampant commercialization often breeds stress, debt, and a hollow sense of obligation, leaving me feeling soulless and empty especially as there is an increasing amount of suffering in the world.

The focus of Christmas has shifted from sharing intangible treasures like love, kindness, and time to a relentless emphasis on what we can buy and give away. Gifts become tools in a personal PR campaign, aimed at earning love, forgiveness, or, perhaps, mitigating resentment.

Shiny, wrapped presents may glitter under the tree, but they cannot fill the deeper voids—the absence of genuine respect, the weight of unhealed wrongs, or the pain we’ve caused others.

This irony is especially stark when set against the story of Christ’s birth. His humble beginnings in a manger, surrounded by simplicity and reverence, stand in sharp contrast to a holiday season now dominated by excess and materialism in which I am an increasingly reluctant participant.

Oh, and I generated the above image using AI.

There’s something about the chaos and cacophony of Asia that I can’t help but love. The relentless swirl of sights, sounds, and smells colliding have had a hypnotizing effect on me since my first visit in the fall of 1988. It’s not just the intensity of it – it’s the vibrancy, the immediacy, the overwhelming now of it all. And yet, I have also always had a divided relationship with Asia. Too much of it, for too long, can leave me frayed at the edges, yearning for cold, calm, silence. But after being immersed in the serene calm of Sweden for way too long, the pendulum has swung. Now I desperately need Asia.

I crave the sensory overload of bustling streets, the kind where you have to weave through a sea of motorized humanity, where every corner is alive with the sizzling of street food, the chatter and laughs of food vendors, the cries from sidewalk hawkers and street hustlers. I also miss the layered aromas of Asian cuisine – the tangy zest of lime, the punch of chilies, the earthy sweetness of soy and garlic blending into something almost transcendent. I long for the smiling faces of strangers, those fleeting moments of warmth exchanged in crowded markets or tiny street cafés.

And the weather – oh, the weather. The kind that wraps you in a blanket of warmth, an enveloping heat that makes you feel alive and allows you to shed layers upon layers of clothing of cautiousness of convention.

I yearn for the plentifulness, for the kind of life where fruit spills out of baskets, where spices fill the air, where every glance reveals something new for me to explore, something vibrant to experience. An abundance of abundance, if that makes any sense

There’s a part of me that thrives on the intensity, on the chaos that makes you feel so small yet so connected to something unmeasurable, forceful, unstoppable.

Sweden’s calm is restorative, yes, but now I’m ready to dive headfirst into the storm of life again. Asia is calling me – its colors, its noise, its flavors, its sweat. I’m ready to embrace the pulse of a my world that refuses to stay still.

I just came across this photo from Las Vegas deep within my vast USA archive. I’m not sure during which trip I captured these old neon signs but it might have been in 2018. In any case, it reminded me of the city’s unapologetic indulgence. A place that dares you to let go, to throw reason to the wind, and revel in the sheer absurdity of life as we know it.

You don’t get to tread lightly in Vegas. Whether they like it or not, we are forced to dive headfirst into its neon abyss, to gorge on the spectacle until all senses beg for mercy. It’s a gluttonous place where losing oneself isn’t just inevitable – it’s expected and part of the package.

But here’s the thing: as much as I know better, as much as I understand the ecological and personal cost of such excess, there’s something about Las Vegas and all that it stands for that called out to me as soon as I saw those signs.

I suppose it’s the American in me, the part that was fed Americana from day one. It’s not about what’s good for me – it’s about what feels good, if only for a fleeting moment.

Las Vegas is the perfect place to indulge in these guilty pleasures. To step into a world where everything is larger than life, where reality bends to the will of entertainment, and where the mundane is banished to the fringes

It’s not about balance. It’s about extremes. And in a world where we’re constantly reminded of everything that’s wrong – with us, with society, with the planet – there’s a kind of defiant joy in saying, “To hell with it all,” and just dive in.

The old hotel and casino signs brought all of this rushing back to me. It reminded me of what it feels like to give in, to let go, to embrace the contradictions. I’m all about that right now. After all, it is the season to be jolly!

We spent most of Thursday and some of Friday at Mary Hill Estate. I couldn’t have chosen a better time for a first comeback after nearly 3 months of dealing with a herniated disc and sciatica. The hotel and resort corporation Ess Group has done something truly remarkable with Örenäs Castle. The transformation is both tasteful and stunning. If you’ve ever stayed at any of their other properties, this was our fourth or fifth hotel and resort, you’ll soon recognize Ess Group’s concept throughout Mary Hill Estate’s interior design, color schemes, and artsy photographs in most public spaces, corridors, and rooms.

I just submitted a few photos to a UNESCO-sponsored contest themed on water and water storage. I don’t usually participate in photography contests and though I have won a few, when I do partake, it always gives me pause. Why should I compete with my art? After all, art is one of the most subjective experiences we have as humans. What warms me might leave someone else cold. What’s “good” or “bad” depends on taste, context, knowledge, and even mood. How, then, can anyone judge, let alone decide, what good art is? Sure, you can assess technical skill, but that’s only a fraction of what makes art resonate or not resonate. The connection, the emotion and the ideas art sparks are things that can’t be measured or compared.

When we treat art as a competition, I think we reduce it. It stops being about expression and instead becomes about metrics: who sold the most? Who got the award? Who has the most followers? Numbers are fleeting, disconnected from the deeper purpose of art, which I think is to explore, provoke, and connect. And then there’s the risk of suppression. Competition has a way of discouraging experimentation, especially for young or unconventional artists. If the goal is to win, why take risks? Why push boundaries or create something raw and unpolished if it might not be “good enough” to win? Art flourishes in freedom, not fear.

The bottom line is that competing with art is largely meaningless. It distracts from the real essence of what art is and why it matters. Art isn’t about being better than someone else; it’s about saying something truthfully, and hopefully inspiring others to feel what you felt while making it. If competition plays a role at all, it’s indirect – a way to shine a light on what’s possible, to nudge younger artists toward their potential. But the moment we turn art into a numbers game, we lose sight of what makes it powerful in the first place. And that, at least to me, defeats the purpose.

Despite being physically restrained, I am thankfully able to spend a few hours each day being creative – in one way or another. Creativity has become a lifeline, offering me a sense of purpose and connection to the world around me, even when my physical freedom is temporarily limited.

Right now, I’m focused on two new photography books that have been consuming most of the pain-free energy I have. The first is themed around Malmö, the city where I’ve lived off and on for 25 years. It’s in its final stages, with the layouts and design nearly completed, and I’m optimistic it will be ready for print sometime before Christmas. This project has been a wonderful way to highlight the unique character of Malmö through my lens.

The second book is about Los Angeles, a city that continues to hold a special place in my heart. It explores a wide range of neighborhoods and iconic spots that have inspired or resonated with me emotionally over the years, including Downtown Los Angeles (DTLA), Silverlake, Hollywood, West Hollywood (WeHo), Santa Monica, and Venice. I’m almost finished with the image selection process, which, while rewarding, can often feel like a meticulous and repetitive task.

Whenever I need a break from curating images, I’ll shift my attention to writing and editing the book’s introduction or come up with ideas for the cover art. Figuring out how to visually represent an entire book about a city filled with so many contradictions, so much energy, and layers of history is no easy task.

A few years ago, I photographed a Mid-Century Modern house in the Hollywood Hills. Its clean lines and stunning views epitomize the architectural beauty of the era. At the moment, I’m awaiting publishing permission from the property’s owners to include the image in the book.

The above image was computer-generated using a series of prompts. Even so, it captures a vibe remarkably similar to the atmosphere of the Mid-Century Modern house I mentioned earlier. To me, the illustration with its sweeping views and iconic design evokes the uniqueness that is the Hollywood Hills.

There’s something intriguing about the California Brown Pelican – a majestic bird that embodies resilience, grace, and a touch of prehistoric mystery. This is why I’ve not only photographed this magnificent creature at several locations in Southern California (though I am definitely not a birdie) but also immortalized it in ink as a tattoo.

Watching a brown pelican in flight is like witnessing art in motion. I’ve been out surfing at dawn in Santa Monica and seen them glide effortlessly with their massive wingspans just above the ocean’s surface, their aerodynamic bodies lit by California’s morning light.

It’s a dance of precision and power as they dive headfirst into the waves, emerging triumphantly with their catch.

When I captured the image above, it wasn’t just about honing in on the perfect composition – it was about freezing a moment that symbolizes freedom and adaptability.