INFO Art 🇬🇧 English

Here you will find information about the artworks. I have deliberately avoided images. Visit us instead!

🇬🇧 English–Artist Statement "I Can Be Your Lifebuoy When You Can’t Go On"

One is always shaken when a person takes their own life. Whether it’s a public figure on TV or someone closer within one’s own circle, the sorrow is the same. I always think: I wish I had had the chance to meet them, to somehow steer them in a more hopeful direction.

Sadly, in recent years, even here in our seemingly idyllic villages on the peninsula, there have been such tragedies. Mothers and fathers who walk into the sea to leave this life behind. Imagine feeling so completely broken that you no longer want to live? It’s heartbreaking. To be in such pain that you know your decision will cause deep sorrow for your loved ones, but still feel you have no strength left to carry on.

For a long time, I’ve dreamt of building a small art chapel on the short side of my house – a space where anyone can come, sit for a moment, observe the art, listen to soothing music, and maybe have a conversation with a fellow human being. I haven’t received permission from the municipality to build it, so instead I’ve opened the doors straight into my living room.

But I still wanted to throw out a “lifebuoy” to anyone who feels alone in their struggle. When I found the broken lifebuoy in Ljungen, I immediately thought of how worn it looked – like a soul in distress. As I walked along the old railway embankment carrying it home, I had music in my headphones. The song Horn of Africa by Hypraphonik & Mr.Joz was playing. I started to sing instinctively:

"I can be your lifebuoy when you can’t go on."

I sang it over and over again – a mantra. The artwork was born the very moment I lifted the broken lifebuoy from the ground. Sometimes, you just know what you need to do.

🇬🇧 English – Artist Statement - Milagro Corazon

Milagro Corazon was born from a moment of stillness, chance — and perhaps a hint of miracle. It was Christmas morning when I found it: a piece of driftwood, a root shaped unmistakably like a heart, lying wet and salt-soaked on the beach at Måkläppen — a nature reserve visited only in winter, shared by both humans and seals. I couldn't see it as anything but a gift from nature, presented to me on the most symbolic day of the year.

The idea of miracles deepened when I decided to unite the heart with a Mexican Milagro cross — one I bought over thirty years ago in Miami, along with a silver crucifix that I still wear around my neck. Milagro means “miracle” in Spanish, and in Latin American tradition, small metallic charms called milagros are offered as prayers or tokens of gratitude. On this particular cross sits a small wooden figure of the Virgin Mary — slightly charred, having survived a house fire. It was in my young son’s bedroom that a candle caught fire one night. Smoke woke us. We were able to extinguish the flames. He was unharmed. Another miracle.

The figure of Mary remains on the heart — a mother at her son's side, even in death. A symbol of a love so profound it transcends time and matter.

But this piece carries yet another surprise: a triangular block of wood at the base — like a slice of cake, but with a mythic tale. To me, it’s nothing less than the old doorstop from the Pearly Gates of the heavenly New Jerusalem. As the tattoo on my back claims, I have “sailed to Jerusalem,” and become quite friendly with the gatekeeper — none other than Muhammad Ali. During my visits we sip contraband Greek tsipouro and swap gossip. One day, I noticed this broken wedge lying by the gate. Ali told me it had been the faithful doorstop for eons, but had finally split. I asked if I could bring it back to Earth, repair it, maybe even sell it as merch. He agreed to a 50/50 cut. (I would’ve taken 40%, to be honest, but after so many hits to the head, he wasn’t hard to convince.)

And maybe, just maybe, that old doorstop will earn me a nod when it’s my turn to knock. You never know. Knock on wood.

🇬🇧 English – Artist Statement The Dark side of the Mind

In my artistic practice, I am deeply intrigued by the duality of the human mind – our capacity for innovation and creativity, mirrored by an equally powerful tendency toward destruction. The Dark Side of the Mind explores this paradox: that the same intelligence responsible for the wheel, the microchip, and space exploration has also engineered gas chambers, bombs, and the noose.

There is a tragic irony in the fact that our greatest asset – the human brain – is also the source of our darkest inventions. To my knowledge, no other species on Earth invests as much effort into finding ways to annihilate its own kind. The industrial precision behind the death camps of the Holocaust remains one of the most terrifying examples of what happens when engineering is governed by our most sinister instincts.

This work brings together two objects, both loaded with symbolic weight. A rubber tire, representing progress, movement, and human ingenuity. And a noose – one of our most primitive tools for execution – representing the flip side of that same ingenuity. It is especially haunting to consider that it is the brain itself that dies when the airway is crushed. The mind becomes both perpetrator and victim.

The materials were found at Måkläppen, a nature reserve off the Swedish coast. That both the tire and the branch (used to suspend the noose) washed ashore within days of each other adds an almost fateful dimension to the piece. The sea, with its patience and endless motion, shapes objects in ways no human hand could replicate. Each fragment the ocean returns carries its own silent history – something I find deeply inspiring to work with.

For me, working with these objects is as much a physical process as it is an emotional one. In The Dark Side of the Mind, I’ve sought to embody the most paradoxical aspect of human nature: that we are both creators and destroyers – victims and executioners – all within the same breath.

🇬🇧 English– “Arca Sacrarum Bibliorum”–The Ark of the Sacred Scriptures

This is my ark.

A resting place for words that risk drowning.

We live in constant noise –
a stream of images, voices, movements,
where sacred words fade behind recipes and crime stories.

I think of Noah.
How he carried in his heart the will to save life from the judgment of the waters. In the same way, I wish to save what speaks to our souls.

Here rest books from the 18th and 19th centuries,
carrying messages older than time itself.
Words carried through centuries, whispered in the dark, sung in the light.

But how long will they keep whispering? How long will we hear them,
before the flood sweeps them away forever?

🇬🇧 English – "Artistic Statement: Shakira’s Serenade"

A young and beautiful Shakira had enchanted a young Greek actor who was visiting Colombia to film a movie. He had managed to land the role of a Native American in a Colombian western. One day, as he saw her practicing her hip movements on her family’s balcony, he was mesmerized and decided to sing a serenade for her. Every evening at dusk, he played his guitar and sang beneath her balcony, hoping she would come down to meet him. But Shakira’s father had other plans for her. In a fit of rage, he kicked the guitar from the young man’s hands, splitting it in two. After that, it sounded even worse—so much so that the entire neighborhood suffered every night when the broken guitar played out of tune.
One day, Shakira was gone from the balcony. The rest is, of course, history. She is now, as everyone knows, a world-famous artist. Her father was contacted in Colombia by an American couple who were good friends with America’s then-president, Donald Trump. The couple was wealthy and even had their own private jet. They first made a stop at Neverland Ranch in Los Olivos, California. But Michael Jackson thought she looked too old. Still, the wealthy couple knew their best friend would be interested. He was so excited that he even drew Shakira’s silhouette on a letter he sent them.
And what happened to the young Greek actor? He never saw Shakira again. But he revered the broken guitar as if it were a sacred relic. Who wouldn’t want to hear the song about his magical Shakira?

🇬🇧 English- ”Instrumenta Apostolorum” The Apostles' Tools

This small artwork I present as a whisper from the past.
Twelve spoons – gently placed in a display case like relics – carry a silent history.
They are said to originate from the year 1708, perhaps from Ezinge in the Netherlands. The initials A.G.A – W.H.C whisper of hands that once held them, and the word “Lepelbret” is glimpsed – as a memory of a baptism, a wedding,
or perhaps just a loving gift, far from home, brought here by winds from the East Indies.

But it is not the silver's shine or the story that gleams brightest – but what they come to symbolize:
the twelve apostles' tools to bring light into the world.
Not with swords, not with power – but with patience.
With words as nourishment. With hope that must melt slowly.

To win a soul requires no lightning. It requires time.
One spoon at a time.
One thought at a time.

Humans are seldom convinced by force, but often by quiet reflection.

So these spoons – simple, silent, beautiful –
stand as symbols of the slow movement of faith that shapes the world. Spoon by spoon,
heart to heart.
That is how the light spreads.

🇬🇧 English- ”Dolores”– A Tale in Red and White

This work carries a different tone from the rest – lighter in form, but rich in symbolic meaning. A tale, a legend, perhaps even truth: the story of Dolores, the pirate queen who was not born free, but chose freedom. She grew up the daughter of a wealthy plantation owner in South America, married off to a cruel baron whose whips spoke the language of power. On the plantation was also a young man from southern Europe, his blood staining the earth – and his gaze, impossible for Dolores to ignore.

In secret, she tended his wounds. In silent gratitude, he planted roses in the dark of night, cared for them by moonlight. When they bloomed, he picked twelve – like the apostles, like the gates of New Jerusalem. They were white, until he – in panic, in love – let his blood turn their petals red.

When the morning sun touched them, they stood: wild, beautiful, streaked like freedom itself.
The baron, furious over what he could not possess, sold the young man. Dolores fled soon after – and the world gained its pirate queen.

Perhaps it's only legend. But every day, a man stands at the harbor in Skanör, looking to the horizon. Waiting for a ship with sails of flame, and a woman at the helm. Once, he gave her roses. Now, he waits to see them bloom again.

🇬🇧 English – Artistic Statement

"Afrofuturism"

From the Earth’s first breath, she rose —
Mother Africa, clothed in sun and star-dust.
There, where time was born, the heart still beats strong,
in drums, in pulses, in the eternal dance of electricity.

From ancestors’ whispers grow the sounds of the future.
Ancient rhythms swirl with shards of synths,
and in every beat — a story, a promise, a cry.
We hear it: a new world is born in the depths of the bassline.

She stands there, golden and unshakable,
her crown carried high by history,
with her feet in the roots, her hands in the sky.
Her children dance — with fire in their blood,
with light in their voice, with star-dust in their steps.

So we light a candle.
We raise the volume.
We dance — for freedom, for future, for the joy of the soul.
We dance — in her name.

🇬🇧 English – "Panagia Gorgona"

Mother of the Sea, Hope of the Lost

From the cliffs of Santorini she watches the eternal blue.
For those who have left the safe harbor,
she is more than legend –
she is the compass in the heart's deep.

When the storm tears the sails and the rudder falters,
she reaches out her hand through the shadows of the waves.
In her grasp the ship is steered – not by force,
but by faith.

Let not her tears be your ruin,
but wind in your sails – a caress toward home.
For those who listen to her song
shall find their way back,
to where love waits at the edge of the shore.

🇬🇧 English – "Final Stop"

The violin’s last whisper has faded,
an echo left in the breath of the room.
Now she stands still – ready to shed her skin,
to leave the realm of tones for the arms of memory.

Her form, still swollen with movement,
hangs like a breath in our home.
Light creeps over her patina,
a mirror of all the times she has carried.

How many hands have caressed her soul?
How many fingers have sought comfort on her neck?
She was born from the heart of the tree,
from the depths of silence –
with a single calling:
to speak in tones no mouth can shape.

Now she rests.
But in every crack, every worn string,
there still lives a song
that only silence remembers.

🇬🇧 English – "SPIRIT"

The title "SPIRIT" suggests something transcendental – a spirit or essence. The African artist, though anonymous, is presented as a bearer of collective memory. The artwork portrays Africa as a continent with an indomitable soul, where the history of colonization and oppression has failed to erase the deep connection to the earth – the roots, the wood, the trunk. "The hardest wood in the world" symbolizes strength, resilience, and permanence.

The souls that have "been absorbed by the roots" can be interpreted as ancestors, their memories and suffering preserved within nature itself – almost like marbled figures, frozen in time within the tree’s trunk. A kind of living gravestone or sacred reminder.

🇬🇧 English – "Panagia’s Tears"

The icon painter from Thessaloniki, like the Evangelists, has brought forth a silent story as a prayer in image. In the face of the Virgin Mary, he has painted every tear she has shed, like scars etched by heaven’s own sorrow. Her gaze is calm, but the depth in her eyes carries the pain of the world.

The paint seems to refuse to dry where the salt once ran. As if the very wood weeps with her, and the icon continues its quiet miracle: to carry the Mother’s grief, drop by drop, to the one who sees.

In the Orthodox tradition, the icon is called a window to eternity. But this icon is also a mirror, for in the sorrow of God’s Mother, the pain of all humanity is reflected. She weeps not only for her Son, but for every child who suffers, every soul crying in the dark.

🇬🇧 English – “The Mystery of Gabriel”

(APX)
The prayers, knot by knot,
flow like an eternal rosary —
never completed.
Since the greatest mystery broke its silence,
so sacred in its heart,
that time itself was reset.
To the right of the archangel,
but outside the frame,
stands she —
the God-bearer,
made invisible by the brush,
as if the director forgot his star.
When did she feel the first stirrings within?
When did life whisper: “Now I begin”?
He was born when the earth was frozen,
but his message —
of joy, of love, of humanity —
ignited flames that never die.
And still the prayer moves.
It is the prayer of prayers,
a whisper through the heart of the centuries.

🇬🇧 English – “The Lovers”

Nose to nose,
eye to eye —
frozen in a moment where time itself holds its breath.
The wind tries to tear them apart,
but something stronger keeps them together.
Not will. Not hope.
Perhaps an ancient force —
like the gravity between stars,
like the pulse between hearts.
Two bodies, two poles,
drawn to each other in silent eternity.
A farewell never truly completed,
or a reunion where joy’s curtain never pauses?
Legend whispers:
When the names are engraved — the contract of love becomes eternal.
Write with ink, but archive the contract in the innermost chamber of the heart.

🇬🇧 English Artist Statement "IRINA" – The Pearl of Siberia

Lake Baikal in Siberia is not only the world’s oldest lake but also the deepest on the planet. Irina and Vladimir, who lived in a small cabin by the lake, were childless. Every day, Vladimir put on his diving suit and swam into the cold water. Deeper each time. The myth said there was a pearl so large and so luminous it could create life. According to mythology, the god of death, Erlik-Khan, had searched for the pearl for eons to be reborn himself. Vladimir wanted so dearly to give his wife Irina the child she had longed for her entire life. Each night, he took more risks. And each night, Irina waited with her blue lantern on the shore so Vladimir could follow the blue light from the depths and find his way back home. One night was his last — all Irina found was Vladimir’s diving helmet.

But now, I must admit something I lied about… It wasn’t Vladimir who dove each night — it was Irina. How easily we accepted the gender assumptions. But now we’ve turned reality upside down. Irina never found the pearl and never had a child before the black depths took her. But one day, something strange washed up on the shore. It was hard as granite, but when Vladimir turned it over, he saw it was completely charred — except for a round white spot in the center where the pearl had once rested. Vladimir burst into tears. His Irina would never give up the search for the pearl. Even if she had to remain forever in the realm of death. That’s the kind of woman Irina was.

(She never found the pearl. But isn’t that what makes her real? To continue seeking, despite knowing the answer might not exist? That is where Irina’s greatness lies. Not in finding, but in refusing to give up. When the “stone” floated ashore — burned, marked, but with a white spot at its center — it became clear: it’s not the pearl we remember. It’s the will to continue. It’s faith, action, endurance.
We often seek meaning in outcomes. But perhaps the search itself is the very core of meaning. Irina never became a mother — but she became more than that. She became the one who defied death for hope.)