Geometry doesn’t lie, and it’s readily available in both urban dwellings and organic environments.

It’s just there – in shadows cutting across a facade, lines meeting, in patterns that appear once you look beyond the obvious. That’s the moment I’m currently focused on.

Geometric photography isn’t just simplification. It’s more about revealing or discovering patterns, intersections and interesting overlaps. Stripping away the noise and letting structures and shapes speak.

Sometimes all it takes is a wall, a corner, a shadow at the right time of day. The rest is mindset and perspective.

There’s something therapeutic about focusing on geometry. Discovering where lines will fall into place. Watching the world reduce itself to form, rhythm, balance.

There’s something quietly relentless about going through an archive of one’s own work. Not the glamorous part of photography. Not the travel, not the moment of capture, not even the finished image. Just me, a screen, and tens of thousands of files staring back, asking to be judged, thrown away or tweaked.

I’m currently working my way through roughly 40,000 RAW images. It’s slow, methodical, and at times tedious. Frame by frame, deciding what stays, what goes, and what might have been overlooked the first time around. There’s no shortcut. I just sit with it.

But somewhere in this repetitiveness, something else happens.

I start to see some images differently.

Images I archived years ago suddenly open up again. A slight change in composition makes what felt off before now feels deliberate. A moment that seemed ordinary now carries weight. And with the tools I have today in Lightroom and Photoshop, there’s also the possibility of giving certain photographs a second life. Not by reinventing them, but by adjusting them – closer to what I actually felt, at the time.

Getting rid of the duds is also part of the process. It clears space, both literally and mentally. It sharpens the overall body of work. I’m not just editing images – I’m editing my own history.

And then there’s the unexpected part: memory.

Going through these files is like reopening doors in my head that I forgot existed. Trips, assignments, places, people. Details come back in fragments – the light, the temperature, the pace of a city, the reason I stopped to take that particular shot.

It’s not nostalgia exactly. More like reconnecting with earlier versions of how I saw the world.

This image is from Venice, shot during an assignment in 2009. It shows the Church of San Giorgio Maggiore, sitting quietly across the water from the more crowded parts of the city. There’s a kind of restraint to it – the clean geometry, the pale façade against the deeper tones of brick, the vertical pull of the bell tower cutting into an otherwise calm sky.

Venice often gets reduced to chaos and crowds, but moments like this reveal something else entirely. Space. Balance. A sense of stillness that exists just outside the obvious.

At the time, it was one of many captures. Today, it carries more context. More clarity. Not because the scene has changed, but because I have.

That’s the strange reward in all this. What starts as a cleanup becomes something else entirely – a recalibration. A reminder of where I’ve been, what I’ve seen, and how my eye has evolved along the way.

Here’s an inverted version of Humlebæk train station, which is located near the shore of Øresund and just a few minutes’ walk from the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art, where Elle, Charlotte, and I spent most of yesterday afternoon enjoying the world-class exhibits, the excellent shop, gorgeous surroundings, and delicious food. We make a cultural pilgrimage to this world-class destination at least once a year.

Friday. Evening. Gothenburg.

Took the early milk run north through the country, from the south coast to the west coast. Spent most of the train ride writing, largely offline.

Grabbed the train’s sturdy conductor to explain that there was no way to get online.
Oh, so the Wi-Fi is down? The stressed conductor asked, his expression failing to hide my inconvenient observation.

No, the Wi-Fi is fine – full strength, I replied.

So what’s the problem then? came the inevitable follow-up question.

In my most pedagogical tone, I explained that Wi-Fi and the internet are two entirely different networks. That you can have perfectly functioning Wi-Fi, but if it isn’t connected to the internet, it’s utterly useless.

I might as well have been speaking ancient Egyptian. The distinction – or the dependency between the two – didn’t sink in. To the conductor, Wi-Fi and the internet are same-same. Not different.

The meeting with Fredrik von Zweigbergk at the Gothenburg Museum of Art went much more smoothly. He was happy to receive “Abandoned,” which he has purchased to sell in the museum shop. And soon my book of abandoned places will also be available at NK in the capital. Alongside Akademibokhandeln, Bokus, Adlibris, and of course, Amazon.

This could have been from the Shinkansen trip between Osaka and Kanazawa, or Kyoto to Osaka last fall. Hard to say. Not important.

What stayed with me was the bento box. 

Not just because it was neatly packed and thoughtfully composed. Clean lines, balanced colors, a quiet attention to detail. Soft rice, crisp pickles, something glossy, something firm – each food item placed with intent rather than convenience. For my visual pleasure. And now yours.

And then there was the taste.

Fresh, precise, and deeply satisfying without trying too hard. The kind of meal that does exactly what it should, nothing more, nothing less. The ultimate lunch that gives energy without putting you to sleep.

Bought on the move, eaten somewhere between two cities at high speed – and still better than most sit-down lunches I’ve had in recent memory.Filling, thoughtful, and unexpectedly affordable. No wonder I haven’t had any Japanese food since last December…

Urban landscape photography has always felt like a contradiction that somehow makes perfect sense. The genre sits right at the intersection of structure, chaos, permanence, change and dilapidation.

Once established, most cities are built to last, yet they’re never finished. Something is always being torn down, rebuilt, repurposed, or abandoned.

What draws me in is not always the obvious postcard view, but the in-between spaces – the less obvious. The overlooked spiral staircase where light hits a rounded facade just right, like in the image above which also has an interesting symbolic angle to it.

To me, urban landscape photography, at its best, is less about documenting a place and more about investigating it. I’m not just capturing architecture – I’m capturing time.

A city reveals itself differently depending on the hour, the season, the weather, even my own state of mind. The same block can feel completely different from one day to the next.

There’s honesty in urban environments. Nothing is staged, yet everything is part of a mostly unintentional, often changing composition.

Lines, shadows, repetition, decay, symmetry – it’s all there, waiting. The challenge is not finding a subject, but learning to see what’s already in front of you.

It becomes a way of slowing down in places that are inherently in a rush. A way of extracting and archiving something quiet and reflective from environments that are anything but. And in doing so, preserving fragments of cities that might not look the same next month – or even two days from now.

Yesterday, I delivered “Abandoned – The Beauty in What Remains” to Malmö Konsthall. Even after all these book projects, I still get a rush of pride seeing my efforts “in the wild” at a bookstore. It makes the entire journey feel so tangible and real.

When I hold the finished book, I can feel the moment I boarded the plane, the weeks spent capturing a place, and the time spent back home curating and refining the work until it was ready to be included in a book.

It’s an exhausting, exhilarating process – but seeing it in a store, ready for someone to buy and take home or give away, makes every part of the process worth it. Again, “Abandoned – The Beauty in What Remains” is also available for purchase on Amazon. 

For those wanting to buy from an online bookstore based in Sweden, Bokus now sells Abandoned.

I’m in Gothenburg for a few days. Spent a couple of hours at the city’s art museum, Göteborgs Konstmuseum, today. It’s a huge place, arguably disproportionately large in relation to the city’s relatively small size. Then again, visual art has historically always been kind of important here—much more so than in Malmö.

“Olive Grove“ by Vincent van Gogh was still there, but Dalí’s “L’Énigme de Guillaume Tell,” which I remember vividly from visits during my younger years, had been sold by the museum.

Charlotte had just been reading about Kino International in a magazine, and when we realized it was practically around the corner from our hotel, we knew we had to see it. In fact, we ended up visiting it twice yesterday – once during the day to appreciate the architecture and then again later that evening before heading back to the hotel.

Stepping into the foyer felt like walking directly onto a high-stakes film set from the sixties. It opened in 1963 as the premier cinema of the GDR, and it still stands, newly renovated, as a pristine monument to socialist modernism. I was struck by the “suspended” aesthetic of the building; despite being a massive block, those clean lines and expansive glass fronts make it feel strangely light, almost as if it’s floating over Karl-Marx-Allee.

One of the most intriguing details we discovered is the sheer level of exclusivity the building once held. Erich Honecker actually had his own private room and lounge built into the cinema – a hidden retreat where he could stay tucked away from the public during premieres.

Seeing it twice in one day really let the history sink in. It’s not just a theater; it’s a beautifully preserved time capsule of a vanished world – elegant, imposing, and undeniably cool.

Here’s a cute cub from my visit to a lion orphanage in South Africa a while back.

Signing a liability waiver, with its cold legal language about personal health and the very real risks of injury or worse, quickly stripped away any lingering “Disney” illusions I might have had beforehand.

I soon realized that stepping into an enclosure with these animals was a temporary, fragile truce with a predator that has evolved over millions of years to hunt agnostically anything it deems edible.

Even as babies, lion cubs carry an intensity that demands total presence. The first thing I learned was that you never, ever turn your back to a lion – no matter how small and cute-looking these furry creatures are.

In the bush, a turned back is a universal signal of vulnerability – an invitation to a potential meal – and even a cub’s play-instinct is hardwired to exploit that moment of distraction.

At some point during my hour-long visit to the orphanage, I got distracted and learned this the hard way when my left shoulder was gouged by the above cub’s razor-sharp claw. Scarred for life? No, but definitely a memorable experience which I will honor by including my cute attacker in the new safari book.