Tuesday 31 December 2019


It was Friday 29 November, around 4.30 pm. I had just come home from a visit to town, when this Caspar-David-Friedrich-like view enticed me to step out on my balcony and fire away a shot. Such scenery late in the year is quite uncommon at our Nordic latitude, which got me thinking. Soon my musings took some quite philosophical, if not melancholic turns, centering around the German words Abendland (Occident) and Abendrot (Sunset glow). There is no good way to translate these two alliterating words, which explains the German title of this blog.

The Teutonic language may appear rather unwieldy to outsiders, but, in the present context, it seems a bit prophetic; don't you agree? In literal translation, Abendland stands for "evening-land", which rather aptly describes the state Western civilisation finds itself in at present. Just a decade ago, Western supremacy appeared almost self-evident, whereas, at the beginning of the new decade, serious doubt is creeping in and the Orient (aptly called Morgenland, "morning-land" in German) seems on the rise and on the verge of take-over. This would be quite acceptable, if the change in leadership took place in an atmosphere of peaceful competition, guided by international consensus, but, increasingly, a more morose future may unroll, with increasing risk of violent confrontations between the winners and losers of the global power game.

Even if such risks tend to frighten me, I usually console myself with the insight that nobody, least myself, can foresee the future; so there is no meaning in getting anxious about possible chains of event that, however worrying, never may materialise in the real world. Especially since, at my age, there may not be enough time left for path-breaking global changes to play out with me being around.

The more reason to redirect my thoughts to happenings closer in time and to home. In my own time-zone, I have reached more definitely my personal Abendland. At the mature age of 75, which I reached just a week ago, I think it proper to enter into full retirement at long last. But haven't I been a senior citizen for ten years already? True enough, but there is one official position that I have been holding on to and will leave only today, on year 2019's final hour.

The author with his book "Fiat Lux!"

To explain what I am talking about, I have to backtrack almost five years. At an event, organised by the Swedish Fulbright Alumni Association (SFAA) in early 2015, I happened to bring along some copies of my book "Fiat Lux!", and gifted one of them to the staff at Fulbright Commission Sweden. Now, you, Dear Readers of my blog "Déja vu", know already that this book is about revisiting my time as Fulbright Grantee at UC Berkely back in 1976/77. This may explain what happened thereafter. Half a year after the event, out of the blue, I got a phone call from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, asking me whether I would be interested in becoming a Board Member at the Commission. I gladly accepted, had I not been a Grantee myself and benefitted greatly from the study year in Berkeley made possible by my Fulbright Grant? Time to pay back!

During the four years since, I have been a grateful and diligent Member of the Commission Board, putting my decades' long experience as researcher, university teacher, and Swedish and international civil servant to good use when advising the Commission on its affairs and, in particular, when participating in evaluation and selection of the students and scholars from Sweden and the US to benefit from this grandiose exchange experience. But, all good things have to come to an end, eventually. For me, attaining the mature age of 75 seems a good stopping point, apt at handing over the baton to younger capacities. Still, I will sorely miss the Commission, with all the good work it is doing, and wish it the best of luck for the future.

Thus relieved from the burden of work, let me move on to more creative themes. At my age, sleep comes lightly, so am always awake and ready to start the new day around 7.30 am. Shortly after 8 am, you will find me sitting in the kitchen, sipping coffee in peace and admiring the ever changing carpet of Hammarby Sound rolling itself out before me. The month of December is especially interesting in that respect, since the morning light is fading away ever faster, the closer the days are to their Nadir, on 21 December. So, let me show you what that does to my morning view, as appreciated shortly after 8 am.

4 December, shortly after 8 am

In the beginning of December, there is still clear morning light greeting me with fervour. No need to put the lights on for my newspaper reading. 

8 December, shortly after 8 am

Four days later, the scenery looks already a bit different. It is not really daylight yet, so I have to keep the lights on, even if newly fallen snow helps to keep the view reasonably clear and fancy.

12 December, shortly after 8 am

Another four days later you begin to understand, why we residents in Sweden often are in a somber mood. It is not funny to barely see the light when sipping your morning coffee!

16 December, shortly after 8 am

So this is about as bad as it gets, just 5 days before the Nadir. No need to wait for 21 December, it is still night even now, when I am trying to get my act together over coffee.

25 December, shortly after 8 am

"Wenn die Not aufs Höchste steigt, Gott der Herr die Hand uns reicht". The noble words of Adelheid Wette come unbidden to mind, when sipping coffee and experiencing this first sign of a new beginning. We are just four days past the Nadir, but a partially clear sky permits a "foreglow" of the sun, which is still hovering below the horizon. 

29 December, shortly after 8 am

Finally, this fine morning, eight days past the Nadir, brings tidings of a rosy future! Who am I to question such a hearty encouragement?

But, I see that New Year's Eve is rapidly approaching its finale. The first rockets are already sprinkling Southern Island with light, my neighbours are stepping out on their balcony to admire the  midnight firework, and corks are popping out of champaign bottles. So, without further ado, permit me to wish you all, Dear Readers,

A very happy Year 2020

Monday 7 October 2019


Sometimes it pays off to follow the urges of your subconscious, rather than making up long-term plans that tend to disappoint you in their execution.

Around mid-September, life was starting to become more focused again here in Sjöstaden, since long Summer days were gone and it seemed  – for a short while – as if the flow of days and nights had reached an equilibrium, of a kind especially proficient for getting things done.

Whilst picture taking had been in hiatus for a while, the trigger finger started to itch again and I even took a camera with me on one of these crispy clear Autumn morning hikes. It is amazing that I still manage to "sqeeze out" new perspectives on my closer neighbourhood these days; shouldn't I have gone bored with it after ten years' living in my Sjöstaden? Apparently not, to judge from the two pictures below:

The first one is taken where hikers pass the lock between Lake Sickla and Sickla Canal, which in fact consists of two locks in series. The second lock had to be built since the new road bridge crossing the outlet of Lake Sickla happened to be constructed so low that no boats could pass under it!

The second picture shows the passage under the road bridge connecting the Sickla Peninsula with the main part of Sjöstaden. In the back, you just about can glimpse the red building housing Restaurang Göteborg, the finest eatery in Sjöstaden, located in a romantic fashion along Sickla Canal just below the locks.

Whilst taking these pictures, and generally enjoying life, suddenly, I felt the urge to do something new and surprising, rather than just aching on with my lengthy Emsland blog. Thinking about what could appear new and surprising to a septuagenarian who has seen it all, a name suddenly popped up from the caverns of memory, "HOCHOBIR"! It so happened that I had climbed that mountain in company with my wife exactly 40 years ago; why not try it again and see, whether I still could do it? Said and done. I hastened to book a trip to Austria, taking care to combine this adventure with visits to dear friends and relatives.

One of the later, my younger brother Ludwig, even was so considerate to suggest that he accompany me on the climb. No doubt, he was fearing the worst and wanted to render support, if needed. I gladly accepted his offer and we agreed to meet on 22 September morning in the mountain's vicinity.

The Hochobir is somewhat unique, in that it rises as a solitaire from the South Carinthian Valley of the Roses. It is not especially high, as Austrian mountains are measured; still, it surges a good 1.5 kilometers straight up from the plain. From the top, and on a clear day, one can admire essentially all of Carinthia, from the Karawanken to the South (the border mountains to Slovenia) all the way North to the Grossklockner, Austria's behemoth.

The Rosental (Valley of the Roses) in Southern Carinthia
Photographer: Jörg Schmöe

On this beautiful Sunday morning of 22 September, we drove a winding small road up to an isolated mountain hut, called Eisenkappler Hütte. From there, it was a question of getting our act together and climbing up, slowly and painfully, some 600 meters of altitude to the top of Hochobir. The Guidebook tells us, rather sprightly, that it would only take some 1,5 hours to do so. And, indeed, I recall that my wife Alice and I considered it a nice promenade (I even had sandals on my feet) forty years ago.

But this time was different and rather painful. Slowly putting foot after foot, and not looking too much ahead, I kept going, with grim determination, hoping the torture to end at long last. After two hours' labour we eventually arrived at a wide plateau, called "Kraguljišče" in Slovenian and "Napoleon Wiese" in German. Time to take a well deserved time-out! It had to be short, since the we had planned on a mid-day sandwich luncheon on the very top. Fortunately, we could glimpse the summit already, and it did not seem too far off. So on we went, with renewed vigour.

After another 45 minutes' painful ascent, we arrived at some ruins of a stone mansion, which we learned later were the remains of an old mountain hut, the Rainer Schutzhaus, sadly destroyed in the last battles of WWII. It would have been nice to have a Schnitzel or at least a Lederknödelsuppe at that stage, but destiny had decided otherwise. So we had to trod on. Just minutes later, we glimpsed a large hole in a nearby knoll, which, as brother Ludwig knew to explain, was the remnant of an old lead mine, abandoned already some 100 years ago.

Up to now, I was too exhausted to think about picture taking, but this mine was certainly worthy of being documented, to honour the poor devils who had to toll on this mountain, either hiking up and down every day, or spending the night in the forerunner to the Rainer Schutzhaus (which used to be the miners' cabin), shivering in the thin and cold mountain air.

But now, at long last, the summit beckoned. Soon we arrived at a kind of precarious crossroads, with two paths meeting on a rather narrow ridge leading to the top. Standing there is to be recommended only for those who are steady on their feet – or, at least, have a third leg to lean on. To your left, an abyss opens up, with an unhindered view down into the Rosental.

Proceeding uwards along this ridge we arrived at the summit, at long last. It had taken us almost three hours to get there. Can we conclude from this that I am now only half the man I was forty years ago? As concerns physical capacity, this is certainly the case; but, I refuse to believe that it also applies to my mental capacities. Have I not in these intermittent years managed to complete my PhD thesis, as well as to produce several literary oeuvres, and met numerous intricate challenges in working career that certainly have honed both planning and problem solving propensity? Thus, being only half the physical man may well, as consolation, be compensated by now being twice the man, mentally speaking!

Thus fortified in spirit, Ludwig and I lined up at the summit cross, to document the success of our venture. 

To be frank, Hochobir's summit does not look altogether spectacular, being a small plateau rather than a narrow peak, but don't let looks deceive you! If you dare approach the rim of this small expanse, like the couple with dog in the next picture, an abrupt decline below your feet threatens your equilibrium since, between your shoes and the valley below them, there is nought but thin air for a vertical distance of more than 1.5 kilometers. 

Whilst munching our sandwiches on a sheltered nook at the summit, I started to re-consider my memory of the earlier ascent, forty years ago. How come that I remembered it but vaguely, and as a cosy promenade with sandals on my feet and, furthermore, accompanied by my wife Alice, who was somewhat reticent as concerns mountain climbing? Did we really climb this mountain? 

Upon my return to Stockholm, I revisited my picture collection from the trip of forty years ago. And, low and behold, I found pictures there witnessing our ascent! It may be doubted that we did not go all the way to the top, but rest assured that we made it at least up to the ruins of the Rainer Schutzhaus. From there, it is only a short distance to the summit, so we probably made it. You don't believe it? Well, let me show you some proof. 

View of the Rainer Schutzhaus Ruin ... taken in 2019

... and in 1979

There is an intriguing difference between the two takes. Whereas the 1979 picture shows the tunnel view of an instinct driven youngster, its 2019 counterpart widens the view markedly. To me, the wide angle view in my more recent pictures appears to indicate an increase in readiness to grasp reality in all the range and complexity it possesses. As we can see, the people in the 2019 picture appear like ants in the greater context, which is about how I am perceiving humanity nowadays. 

Yet another set of pictures shows a rare superimposition of my former wife Alice and myself. This time a bit further down the mountain, on the green expanse somewhat funkily called "Napoleon Wiese".

A septuagenarian on "Napoleon Wiese", in 2019 ...

... and his former wife Alice, back in 1979

But let's go back up to the summit for a moment. From up there, as I already said, a marvellous view can be had of the Karawanken Range to the South. The top rim of this cavalcade of summits constitutes the border between Austria and Slovenia. In the old days, there were even Yugoslav guards watching the frontier, which we experienced when trying to climb the "Hochstuhl", the highest summit in the Karawanken. The mountain path up to its top was cris-crossing the border and, unfortunately, we did not have our passports with us on the hike; so no summit was reached that day! 

Whilst looking at the range, I couldn't help noticing the "knoll" in the middle of the picture, which actually is the highest top of the Eastern part of the Karawanken, called "Koschutnik Turm". "Now I remember!" I suddenly felt the urge to shout to Ludwig and some other people standing nearby. "We have been up there in 1979 and my wife almost died trying". And this was indeed the case, so let me tell you the story now. 

It was late August in 1979. We had just come back from a pleasant séjour in Dalmatia and entered Austria via the Loibl Tunnel. Intense greenery welcomed us and the enticing nature of the Rosental invited us to stay for a few days and do some hiking. The first day was dedicated to mount the "Hochstuhl", to no avail due to lack of border documents. On the second day we were lucky to climb the "Hochobir". On the third day we rested or, rather, drove around by car to savour the romantic small valley just below the Karawanken, with Zell Pfarre as its center village. This is when we discovered the Koschutnik Turm, as shown in the picture below.

The Turm did not at all look as formidable as it really was – and as it can be grasped from the top of Hochobir – so even Alice thought it might be nice to hike to its summit. After all, hadn't we successfully ascended the Hochobir the day before? Said and done, early the following day we began what we thought would be a pleasant hike, by driving the car up to the Koschutahaus. From there, about one hour's easy walking brought us to the foot of the Turm, about where the red line is starting to the right in the picture below.

So far so good: another half hour's walk, in increasingly more demanding terrain, brought us to the canyon to the left of the tower. 

Alice rounding the foot of the Koschutnik Turm (see red circle above)

Here, we were supposed to climb steeply upwards, in an increasingly loose steep scree (a rise with very loose gravel), where every two steps upwards slided us one step backwards. Still, we managed to meet this challenge with youthful vigour and arrived eventually at the canyon wall bording the scree on its right, where ascending was easier. 

Unfortunately, after some fifty meters upwards, there was a big red sign asking us to traverse the scree to the other canyon wall. This proved to be a major undertaking. I was crossing first. The scree was now so loose that every step across brought me several meters downwards. After arriving at the left hand wall, I had to climb carefully back up to the hiking path, through rather loose rock. Alice, seeing my travails, categorically refused to follow suit and declared that she would continue upwards on her side of the canyon. So, up we went, with a sea of scree separating us. 

Hikers crossing the scree ahead of me

But, our ascent came to an abrupt end. Whilst I was watching a lonely eagle sailing majestically above us all, a low rumble suddenly vibrated my ears. When I looked to my right, where the rumbling had started, suddenly, a huge stone came tumbling down the crevice, aiming straight at Alice! A call of warning from my side, a glance from Alice's side and, to my extreme surprise, my wife suddenly scrambling up the vertical canyon wall with lightning speed like a mountain goat! And well it was that she did! Since, after some loose gravel following the boulder, a whole avalanche of stones came sailing down from a ledge further up, like a rocky waterfall, just about grazing the heel of Alice's shoes as she continued clambering up the wall. 

After this breathtaking intermezzo, I trust you understand that further mountaineering was off the day's check list. Without further ado, down we went as fast as possible. For me, it was a question of descending with my "Seven Mile Boots", that is, sliding down the scree several meters for every heel I dug into it. My wife, more cautious, applied another method of sliding downwards, as can be seen in the picture. The end effect was the same, but, well back in the valley, I had to buy new hiking boots whereas she had to acquire new jeans! 

Alice's more cautious method of descent

All in all, our short séjour in the Karawanken Range proved a great success. Not only did we manage to climb to the top of one of the three mountains we had put our eyes on; we also came away from it safe and sound, with only some damage to trouser and shoes! So, by now I trust you understand why I had felt the urge to return to this cosy bit of nature forty years after the fact.


Just now, I am sitting in my writer's studio back home in Sjöstaden, searching for some apt ending sentences to this adventurous blog post. It is a sunny late afternoon, the air is fresh after a recent rain, but I have difficulties in collecting my thoughts. Suddenly, the room is getting very dark, like night had suddenly arrived, but far too early for beginning of October. I am rushing out to the balcony, to see whether this is the end of the world! Not yet, I am relieved to say; instead, a dramatic view is greeting me, as made for a concluding picture. Thus, nature relieves me of the onus to put in some inspired final words into this blog post. After all, who could outcompete heaven at its most dramatic? 

Nature's very own ODE TO LIFE!

Friday 29 March 2019


A skyscraper in Sjöstaden – architects' wet dream – inhabitants' bad dream!

No one living in our cosy little neighbourhood of Sjöstaden (with 25 000 inhabitants, but still cosy) can help notice this "middle finger" being raised at us, whilst we are taking the tram to subway station Gullmarsplan. It is an enigma to me why architects and building companies hunger for raising such an outlier at odd places in Stockholm. This will be the third scraper raised, with at least three more in the pipeline.

I ask you: why on Earth did the city authorities authorise this extreme case of one-up-manship? It is as if largesse in size is equalled to grandeur in style by the town officials. Anything higher than 20 floors goes, if there is but an empty building site allowing for it. Unfortunately, city officials' understanding of urban aesthetics is hardly shared by us poor suffering citizens.

Aesthetics aside; did the town planners think about the logistical nightmare being created by this outsized sugar top? Close to where its feet are planted into the Earth, there lies one single small roundabout, which has to accommodate, on the one hand, all morning and evening traffic flowing to and fro our neighbourhood into town, and, on the other, all the cars coming from Southern Stockholm and choosing to travel to downtown, using the small bridge across. Already without the new scraper and surround, with its forthcoming 6000 working places, this roundabout is hardly navigatable during rush-hours, with huge queues backstopping way into our neighbourhood. Imagine what will happen with the abrupt increase in car traffic created by this new development.

I am sorry to say, that there will be NO ROOM to enlarge the roads around this abomination of a city plan! Every single square meter of the necessary space is already occupied. What were town planners thinking when approving this building project?

You may conceive of me as being a hopeless nostalgic, forever opposing progress. And I am forced to agree, even if my reaction to this unnecessary and molesting skyscraper appears to me more rational than affective. Still, I think it is better to be a nostalgic, wishing to keep hold of all that is pleasant in the city, rather than embrace "progress" that implies getting rid of what is pleasant and replace it with abominations!

An old song comes to mind, which will help me to underpin my position. Unfortunately, it is in Swedish, based on an Italian original. But allow me to reproduce and translate here the core lyrics of the tune:

Lyckliga gatan du finns inte mer,
du har försvunnit med hela kvarter.
Tystnat har leken, tystnat har sången,
högt över marken svävar betongen.
När jag kom åter var allt så förändrat,
trampat och skövlat, fördärvat och skändat.
Skall mellan dessa höga hus en dag, stiga en sång?
Lika förunderlig och skön som den vi hört en gång...

Lucky Street, you exist no more.
You have disappeared with the entire neighbourhood.
The game has ended, the song has subsided.
High above the ground floats the concrete.
When I came back everything was so changed,
trampled and plundered, damaged and desecrated.

Shall between these high risers one day rise a song?
Equally wondrous and beautiful as the one we heard once upon a time...

Will a song rise around the Sjöstaden high riser one day?
I doubt it!

Tuesday 1 January 2019


This time of the year is usually dedicated to retrospection. Typically, you are looking at the past twelve months, at your achievements in that period, your mistakes and disappointments, and make pious pledges to become a better person the following year.

I will attempt to do more than this. Instead of looking back one year, I will try to have a glimpse at most of two thousand years in the past. A vainglorious task you may well think. You have, of course, a right to think so. But so do I have a right to make the attempt, being as old and (hopefully) wise as I am. In addition to getting on, I am also a born Austrian and as such always eager to tell a good story. So here goes:

Last October, I had the pleasure of exhibiting my Stockholm pictures from the book "Stockholm/Brussels ..." at a vernissage in Vienna. I am glad to say that this met with great interest. Especially glad am I to have seen so many old friends and relatives at the gallery. The picture below shows the "grand opening" with representatives for the Swedish Embassy, the "Österreichisch-Schwedische Gesellschaft" and the gallery, all praising me with nice welcomes.

Opening of vernissage with my Stockholm pictures in Vienna, October 2018

Inspired by this warm welcoming, I took, in turn, care to talk at great length around the pictures on the wall. The one on top of this blog has always been my favourite, so I went into considerable detail extemporising on the provenance of the bronze horse taking centre stage therein. Afterwards, a young lady was clearly inspired by the presentation and bought the picture straight away, being the very first to acquire a fine print at the exhibition. Hopefully, I have now wetted your appetite for the story behind this horse, since I simply can't resist to let it unroll.

To be precise, the horse in the picture was not originally conceived as a solitaire. Even now, there are two such sculptures standing on Blasieholm Square, in the centre of Stockholm. But there should actually be four horses standing, since the original was cast as an antique quadriga, a four-in-hand team drawing a racing chariot. And we are not talking about just any old four-in-hand, it is the only quadriga preserved from antiquity. You don't believe me? Well, you only have to visit St Mark's Basilica in Venice to see it in all its gilded glory!

The Quadriga of Saint Mark.  Source: Wikimedia

But how did this quadriga wind up in Venice? You may be surprised to hear that its origin is lost in the dawn of history. Investigations of the sculpture, looking at the way the eyes had been cast and the gilding applied, led experts to the presumption that it must have been forged around the turn of the second century AD. It is most plausible that it had been ordered by Emperor Septimius Severus, to embellish the top of his Triumphal Arch in Rome, in celebration of his sizeable military achievements.

The gilding method, in particular, points to the emperor. It concerns a cumbersome and costly procedure, with the labourers involved being condemned to painful disease and certain death. Who but an emperor could order such work?

Triumphal Arch of Septimius Severus in Rome. The Quadriga long gone!
Source: Wikimedia

However that may be, the statue would not have remained in Rome for more than a century. In 330 AD, a new Roman Capital was dedicated in the East, called Constantinople after its founder, Emperor Constantine the Great. Constantine put great efforts into getting this new seat of power up to imperial splendour immediately. To that effect, he pilfered sculptures, memorials, prominent obelisques, etc. from all over the Empire to adorn his "Second Rome".

It is therefore plausible that such a prominent sculpture as Septimius Severus' Quadriga would not have remained unmolested on top of Severus' Triumphal Arch. The rebuilt and enlarged Hippodrome in Constantinople had a four-in-hand to show for it on top the Northern facade, with its start boxes. This most probably is Severus' Quadriga.

Restored overview of ancient Constantinople, with the Hippodrome in centre
The quadriga is just about visible on top of the Northern facade.   Artist: Antoine Helbert

The Quadriga throned on the Hippodrome for a whole 900 years! It took a holy cruisade to remove it. To be precise, the Fourth Cruisade got "confused" and plundered, in 1204 AD, Constantinople instead of conquering Jerusalem! The Venetians, led by Doge Enrico Dandolo, participated in the plunder. Dandolo hastened to have the horses dismounted and shipped to Venice as spoils of conquest. There they were put on the facade of Saint Mark's Basilica and are from then on known as "The Horses of Saint Mark".

You may be led to believe that this is the end of the story. Far from it, several events remain to be told. Granted that another 600 years passed by without incident. But, anno 1797 AD, a modern day emperor was in the making. Napoleon had invaded Italy and now occupied Venice. Like a Septimius Severus reborn, he ordered the Quadriga to be moved to Paris, so that it eventually could crown his very own Triumphal Arch on Place Vendôme, known as the "Arc de Triomphe du Carousel".

Military review in front of the Arc de Triomphe du Carousel.
Quadriga on top.  Artiste: Hippolyte Bellangé

But, as we all know, Napoleon's power and glory came to a timely end, about 15 years after this move. Post the Congress of Vienna, Emperor Francis I of Austria, who by then had become sovereign of Venice, ordered the horses to be returned to Saint Mark. And there they have stayed, with the exception of two shorter deviations, an excursion to Rome in WWI and a visit to Padua in WWII.

The Horses of Saint Mark, now residing within the Basilika... 
Source: Erich Lessing

This about ends my New Year's Retrospection; even if somewhat longer than usual, it still contains, at the very beginning, a short glimpse at my main achievement during 2018! But what about my New Year's Resolutions? Well, I am a senior citizen by now and understand the limits of my free will. What I am able to accomplish, I will of course pursue; but no pledges from my part about activities that I am well aware to be unable to carry out. Instead, permit me to put forward some pious wishes for the future. They concern the fruit of my creative labour. By this I mean, especially, the best of my Stockholm pictures.

... and the copies on the front of the Basilica
PhotographerJürgen Prohaska-Hotze

These pictures lead a life rather more precarious than my two photographic books. The latter are safely preserved in the Swedish Royal Library, as long as that venerable institution will persist. But the fine prints I am producing will depend on the "kindness of strangers". Only if there are people gracious enough to acquire them and hang them on their wall will they have a life of their own. All I myself can do is to gift them the potential to last of up to a century, if well taken care of by their owners.

So let me wish the acquirers of my fine prints, in particular of the "Venetian Horse on Blasieholmstorg", a long and fruitful life so that they can cosset this creative child of mine. Let the print bring them an understanding of the almost two thousand years of history behind it. Let it induce them to hand it over to their children and them to their children, so that it can last the life span given to it by its creator.

In this spirit, I would like to wish all the dear readers of this blog

A very Happy New Year!