Speaking of birds…while being entertained by these fine feathered friends (sparrows?), we enjoyed a delicious lunch at the Rosenlunds Trädgård yesterday as a light drizzle fell on Djurgården in Stockholm. This scene is from our walk to the always satisfying museum Nordiska Museet.

It rained the entire train trip from Malmö to Stockholm yesterday. Today the sun came out again and I went for a 6k jog along the lush shores of Södermalm, the island on which Annika’s cozy flat (where we’re staying while here in the capital) is located.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my relationship with photography and how it’s evolved over the years.

I’m a firm believer in Malcolm Gladwell’s theory that you need roughly ten thousand hours (or, fuckupos) before you get really good at anything. The old Chinese proverb, “failure is the mother of success” (失败乃成功之母/shībài nǎi chénggōng zhī mǔ), also rings true to me. There are no shortcuts.

I’ve also found that, especially within the realm of the arts, the following 10,000 hours are typically not nearly as exciting. Why? Simple – it’s the often steep learning curve that provides the most thrills during the ride.

Whenever I first dive into a new pursuit, everything feels fresh and full of potential. The excitement of learning a new skill, the satisfaction of small achievements, and the titillation of exploring and subsequently reaching milestones make the initial phase (the first ten thousand hours) indescribably exhilarating.

But as I gain prowess and proficiency, the novelty typically wears off, and the challenges become less about discovery and more about refinement and taking on greater challenges until one day, I just don’t get much out of doing it.

Eventually, what was once a passionate pursuit can start to feel like routine work. You feel like you’re mass-producing rather than crafting distinctive works of art.

This phenomenon is not unique to my creative endeavors; it happens in almost all aspects of my life. Which makes it all the more important for me to redefine, reinvent, and realign almost everything I do.

In practice, this means that if I welcome opportunities that force me to step out of my comfort zone, like experimenting with totally new techniques, or discovering or inventing new genres, I can hopefully rekindle the initial spark of inspiration and enthusiasm.

If I manage to live until I am 85 years old, I have about 200,000 hours left. That’s 20 new skills…

Whenever I pick up my camera and frame a scene, spontaneous or planned, I’m not just capturing reality – I’m interpreting it. Each click of the shutter is a blend of my technical ability as well as my artistic vision.

But that’s just the beginning of the creative process. In the name of storytelling, by retouching my photographs, I am allowed to truly imprint my signature on every image.

Here’s why:

Firstly, let’s acknowledge that all cameras are already subjectively programmed. From the outset, the color management (color science) in all cameras are designed by engineers who make decisions about how colors should appear for their particular product.

These decisions are influenced by a multitude of factors, including the intended use of the camera, market preferences (i.e regional/cultural), and technological constraints. This inherent subjectivity means that every photo is already a step removed from pure, objective reality from the very moment it was captured.

Consider the development of camera sensors and lenses. Each lens has its own unique characteristics – its way of bending light, its clarity, and its color rendition. Similarly, the sensor’s interpretation of light and color further skews the image towards a certain aesthetic. For instance, some sensors might produce warmer tones, while others lean towards cooler hues. This variability underscores that even unedited photos are far from neutral or objective; their interpretations molded by the biases of their creators.

Given this inherent subjectivity, retouching photographs isn’t just an optional enhancement – it’s a vital step in the storytelling process. By retouching, I can emphasize the elements that resonate most with my vision. Whether it’s enhancing the contrast to bring out the dramatic interplay of light and shadow or adjusting the color balance to evoke a particular mood, these edits allow me to tell a more compelling, cohesive story.

Moreover, retouching enables me to correct the temporary or permanent discrepancies that might detract from the narrative I am aiming for. Cameras, despite their sophistication, can’t always capture the scene as I perceive it.

The dynamic range might be too limited, or the automatic white balance might miss the mark. Through retouching, I can bring the final image closer to my original vision, ensuring that what I present to the viewer is a true reflection of the story I want to tell.

This process of retouching is akin to a painter refining their strokes or a writer editing their prose. It’s about honing the initial capture to its finest form. Just as a writer’s voice is found in the choice of words and structure, my photographic voice emerges through the subtle nuances of my edits. It’s in the highlights I choose to emphasize, the shadows I deepen, and the colors I either mute or saturate.

In the end, retouching is about authenticity—ironically, it’s about making the photograph more genuine to my experience, vision and heart. It’s my way of transcending the mechanical limitations of the camera and imbuing the image with the emotional and aesthetic layers that a mere click rarely captures on its own.

Therefore, embracing retouching is not about distorting reality but rather about expressing a personal truth. It’s the final, essential step in making the captured scene truly mine, stamped with my unique perspective and artistic signature.

Midsummer’s allure lies in its ability to bring people together in a celebration of nature, light, and Swedish tradition. As so much is changing in my life and in this ancient country, I both appreciate and find solace in partaking in Midsummer. Like last year, this past Friday, we celebrated another sun-drenched Midsummer on the island of Orust, north of Göteborg, together with hosts Alexandra and Pär and friends Veronika, Thomas, Martin and Anette. Charlotte and the lovely women are pictured above.

We spoke of life, of travels of goals, and of the future. We laughed, we juggled, we ate delicious herring, salmon, moose, and wild pig. After sunset, Charlotte and I presented our music quiz and then Thomas shared his movie quiz. It was a terrific evening spent outdoors from noon to midnight.

The rituals and customs that define this remarkable holiday – dancing around the maypole, wearing handmade flower crowns, and sharing meals and drinks with friends and loved ones – create a sense of connection to when I was visiting Sweden in the summer during my childhood.

However, alongside my increasing appreciation for Midsummer, I also have some growing concerns regarding one of Midsummer’s most prominent features: the abundant consumption of schnapps and other alcoholic beverages.

While an integral part of Midsummer’s bygone traditions, the ritual of singing and toasting to schnapps songs can often lead me to overindulge.

I rarely get plastered, but the amount of liquor does tend to detract and fog the overall experience – and can take days for me to overcome, physically and mentally.

Balancing the joy of tradition with personal well-being has once again become a focal point for me.

Speaking of train stations…I’m just about finished with a new book with some of my favorite images from my visits to Portugal. One of the last photos in the book is from Oriente Station (Gare do Oriente) just minutes before we boarded a southbound train to Lagos in the Algarve.

Unbeknownst to me, Oriente Station was designed by Spanish architect/engineer/sculptor Santiago Calatrava, the designer of the Turning Torso located a short distance from where this is being written.

As far back as I can remember, I’ve been fascinated by train stations. It’s not necessarily the trains per se that intrigue me as much as the tracks leading in and away from the station. Not always, but often enough, the station building itself can be architecturally and/or ornamentally interesting.

This is Madrid’s Estación de Atocha, the Spanish capital’s main train station and one of my favorites. I shot this during a visit to Madrid. I had been invited to join a press event in Havana a few years ago and the PR firm that had arranged my itinerary, thought it would be a good idea to have me spend some time in Spain before flying across the Atlantic to Cuba. 

Malmö. Thursday. Afternoon. Sweden’s National Day. 

I’m not a huge consumer of Swedish music, but there are a few exceptions. One of them is Eric Gadd, whom I’ve seen three or four times over the course of his career. My first live experience was at a venue near Visby on the island of Gotland during the time I was attending the art college there. Last night’s concert with Eric Gadd was great and certified that he is one of the most talented singer-songwriters in Sweden.

Before last night’s gig at Malmö’s Folkets Park, the best show with Eric was an unplugged, indoor performance at the seaside resort Nösund with his wife. That dinner and the show took place on my birthday and was a present from my wife, Charlotte.

That evening’s club feeling reminded me of a tiny room concert I saw with Abe Laboriel’s band Koinonia in North Hollywood at The Baked Potato when Al Jarreau showed up and sang a few tunes.

I was also reminded of when Michael Ruff had a gig in Göteborg and Greg Phillinganes and a few other members of Michael Jackson’s band showed up (after their concert earlier that same day) and jammed for an extended second set.

I’m having another book signing today at ICA MAXI, our local supermarket.