Krakow, no, no, no, no

Krakow, Passing a playground with a prohibition sign on the wire fence: No biking, no football playing, no climbing on the swing, no climbing on the goal, not four kids on the seesaw, not two kids in the swing, not walk around with body bent over, no dogs. One single thing is allowed and recommended: throw trash in the bin.

All are floored.

No one is here.

Hardangervidda, Norway, outside, inside

Hardangervidda, Norway, Mile by mile, a desolate, magnificent and wide landscape. After a whole day's running across the highlands, and my ears still filled up with the sounds of wind and speed, I put up the tent and lay down inside. It's small, cosy and protecting.

Maybe the contrast outside/inside makes me love to lay down on my back, while listening to the sounds of nature from outside, looking at the movements and changes of light of the canvas. And maybe because it's like this we have been laying down for thousands of years. On the ground, in the middle of nature. When the night arrives. It's a good feeling.

Västervik, walls and colors

Västervik, Sweden, I visit the city where I lived when I was young. Walking the streets giving life to memories.  Find the house where I rented a garret. And the former printing works which became my studio for some years. Now the backyard is an open-air café. And my old studio is a family home, neatly wrapped in reddish-brown wood panelling with black corners. Then it was yellowish and the old plaster was cracked.

Childhood, youth and getting older. I am more than a grown-up person and all houses in this little city are decorated with light opaque paints: yellow, blue, green, rose. People have a better life, are healthier and earn more money. That is good.

Still I am happy to find the maybe very last house that has not yet got choked by plastic paint, but is breathing and telling a story.

Children like things inspiring imagination. I recognize the child within me, and that's a good feeling.

Lac Retba, salt and sand

Lac Retba, sixty kilometers northwest of Dakar, 800 meters from seaside is Lac Retba, or Lac Rose. The pink colored lake. Just today it's not like that, the color is blue like the sky. Some hundred years ago growing and moving sand dunes separated this part of the sea from the big one and the small lake was created. It's ten times salter than the Dead Sea. 

People collect the salt from the bottom and fill the boats. Women carry the salt on their heads on and off. Hard job, hot sun and salt biting the skin. This can bring eight, nine dollars a day. During summer there is no activity here because of the rain.

Dakar, a place for pray

Dakar, outside Le Méridien, the conference center. When you need it there is always a place for pray.

Dakar, a place for a sculpture

Dakar, Placing an art object in public space is usually a matter of longterm discussion. There are arguments about this and that. I walk along the road in the western outskirts of the city when this smiling sculpture appears. The environment is far from being a park, on the contrary: sand, stones, trash all around. Still the female sculpture is quietly sitting here. And still she smiles.

Dakar, while time is passing

Dakar, sometimes you can't see the picture in what you see. You are not really regarding things around you that you see everyday – they just are there. At a foreign place uniqueness appears. There is no consistency, no logic. On the roof is a man sitting, as if waiting. Below on the ground is a uniformed man walking off and on. Beside the man on the roof is a winch with a thick rope. At the end of the rope is a bucket.

In my newly arrived brain it all becomes a unique installation. Where a guard is carefully watching a bucket while a yougalike man meditates on a roof. While time is passing.