Sweden: 1968
My mother was an immigrant from Sweden. She was born and raised in Eskilstuna, SWE. After her K-12 (the Swedish version) she went to Leksand, SWE to study art at Leksands Folkhögskola. She studied during the day and worked as a waitress at a local pub on nights and weekends.
My father's family came from Sweden, although a bit farther back. Anders, my dad's grandfather, moved from Insjön, SWE to Iowa somewhere around 1915 and changed his name to Andrew. My dad grew up knowing all about his Swedish ancestry. So when he was on leave from the Army (stationed in Germany), he rode a train to Insjön to spend the summer playing baseball in what was then a very young Swedish baseball system. He was an exceptional pitcher and threw the first no-no in Swedish baseball history. That's the tale he spun later at least. I believe him.
My parents met at the pub where my mom worked. It's where the baseball team would end up after home games and practice. They started talking... Eventually they fell in love, got married, and moved to Wisconsin. Where all young lovers migrate...
I grew up in a home surrounded by Swedish culture - from pastries and food to decor and customs. My mother spoke heavily accented English. She taught us a few Swedish words and phrases, but largely focused on getting better at English. I look back and wish she would have talked to us in Swedish more. What a gift it would have been to make her kids bilingual. But, I understand why she didn't.
Sweden, 2022, The myth.
I had been to Sweden before this family trip in 2022. I spent an entire summer with grandparents and friends on my mother's side. I was an infant, though, and it was more of a "feast your eyes upon the boy" parade lap for my mom. I still have that passport with my baby photo. I went again when I was 5 and stayed there again for a few months. My memories of that trip reside mostly in a trip to the zoo where a goat head-butted me and I cried and then got an ice cream treat.
In late July of 2022, we took a 10-day family trip to Sweden. As we were landing, I got unexpectedly emotional. I had been looking out the window as we were descending from the clouds, seeing those iconic red houses. When the stewardess started making her announcement in Swedish I broke a bit. I realized how much I missed my mom and how incredibly profound it was to be landing in this mythological land of family and old stories. This time I was an adult.
My cousin met us at the airport gate holding a "Haglund" sign that his daughter had made over his head. He said "Welcome home!" We spent time with our awesome Swedish family in Uppsala over the next few days. Then we hopped a train to Leksand/Insjön to meet more family and see where my parents met. I had heard all of the stories. I wanted to see for myself.
I was able to spend time with a bunch of my dad's old teammates. They were all in their 70s but that didn't stop them from trying to get me hammered at a pub at 2pm. Kjell, who played outfield, said "When your dad was pitching we didn't have much to do because he would just blow the ball by the batter."
I never got my no-hitter questions answered, but the way they talked, it sounded more true. The team won the championship that year. When my dad passed away, Kjell wrote, "So it seems the hero pitcher from America has passed..."
I vowed to return. It was pure magic. Still a faraway land.
I needed to normalize Sweden. I needed to dig beyond the magic. I needed to make it more real to me.
The Epic Of Karlgamesh: 5 Weeks In Sweden
It was originally planned as a trip to London with the family, finishing in Sweden, but it changed almost as quickly as it was planned.
Things came together quickly. I learned that I could stay for free with family in Insjön, very cheaply rent a guest apartment in a cousin's Södermalm apartment complex and then stay for 2 weeks in their apartment watching cats while they traveled around Europe. Cat sitter = free place to stay. Five weeks came together. I could sell the financial aspect to my wife as well. Important.
The plan eventually evolved into 2 parts more or less.
Part 1: Uppsala, my wife and I had fallen in love with this city. Our family there, the beautiful river cutting through town, the food, and I do also really love the brewery right on the river.
I then rented a Volvo (obligatory car choice). My modern-day Swedish Viking Ship. I set off for Insjön in my Viking Road God and immediately took the wrong exit off a roundabout, going 3-4 miles out of my way. I am Karl, the explorer.
In Insjön I stayed 3 nights in what I called a stuga but was really a friggebod (a small structure named after the politician who made it law). David's dad, Christer, also my cousin, was kind enough to let me stay there for free. I met Christer's brother Pär who is a blues musician in Sweden.
We went to Åhls church in Insjön where the Haglunds had been going as long as anyone could remember. It's where my grandfather Anders went when he was a kid. We even had a "Haglund pew," unofficially named, but true. Pär and I sat on it and rubbed our butts around to soak up all the Haglund butt history. Seriously.
I danced around a maypole on Midsummer in Insjön. I wore a wreath made from real Swedish flowers that I had picked with David and his daughter. Those look great in photos, but no one mentions how much they itch. And the bugs. Bugs like flowers. I did a lot of scratching and swatting as I danced. We also ventured to Leksand for the largest Midsummer celebration in Sweden. Over 30K people filled this small rural town. It was an insane sight to see. Immeasurably great.
I then drove around Lake Siljan, stopping in a few towns to grab coffee and pastries. I eventually pulled the Viking Ship off to the side of the road to stretch my legs. I was near Lesjöfors and posted about stopping there to my Facebook account. It turns out the musician I was meeting later in the trip actually grew up in that isolated area of Sweden.
Small world. Big world.
The Viking Ship near Lesjöfors
Part 2: I returned the Volvo and took a train to Stockholm, Södermalm to be exact. I stayed in a guest apartment for 4 nights before moving in with the cats. Did I mention I love cats? I do. They are so chill. Like little stoned roommates. Except when they get the zoomies.
In "Söder" I learned to be a Swede, in my estimation anyway. I learned how to recycle. Sure, we recycle in the States, but in Sweden it is an art form. I had to separate all of my recyclables and put them in their designated bin. I had to separate food waste and other waste into separate bags. Cat litter in one, leftover sandwich in the other. It took me a while to understand and I apologize to the Swedish recycling industry for my early mistakes.
I had a musician friend from Göteborg, Martin of Lesjöfors, come over for a day of record store browsing, early beers and lunch. That day ended at a club in Slussen (a neighborhood on Södermalm) where a punk band from Canada was playing. We had a blast. If we weren't the oldest dudes there, we were close. I drank the Swedish version of PBR, Pripps. You gotta love cheap beer on nights when you're not drinking for taste. I rode the subway back to the apartment, decidedly intoxicated. I was told that makes me a real Stockholmer. I wear that badge with pride.
I replayed the intoxicated subway ride a few nights later with a friend of a friend. A musician friend of mine from the States, who also has a mother from Sweden, put me in touch with a friend of his from Stockholm, Jocke. I was nervous about meeting him because I tend to be reserved and introverted at times. And our musician friend in the States is pretty well-known to guys like me with beards and flannels. I won't name-drop. Jocke and I hit it off pretty well. The beers, shots, meatballs, and laughs helped.
We ended the night in Slussen at a rooftop bar overlooking Gamla Stan, the old city. It was surreal. Not sure how many times I said "I am living someone else's life" during those 2 nights out.
I was feeling like a real Swede.
Beer, shots, meatballs, Slussen view > Subway
The price of being Karlgamesh
I went to Sweden this year in a much different place internally than I had in 2022. My art career had taken a nose-dive during the pandemic, something that had started in 2019. The pandemic killed it. I was unable to revive it. I had also grown horribly complacent with my life. Depressed, probably. Art was more than my occupation, it had become my identity. I didn't know who to be without it.
My photography suffered immensely during this as well. My photos were still good, but I was no longer pushing myself. I was a passenger. I was a guy with a camera, not much more.
Sweden was a mighty adventure. An epic pilgrimage. A journey of a lifetime. That was my narrative going in. But I wasn't prepared for some things.
I almost immediately felt very much alone. Lonely. More than I thought I would. I had traveled without my wife before and she had gone solo on trips as well. I had been away from her. As an artist, I work from home, alone. I am comfortable in that.
But, I immediately felt the miles between us. I was also an alien stepping off a spaceship into a place where I didn't speak the language, a place where even basic signs excluded me.
I was Karl the alien, the alone.
The first night alone, I was exhausted after traveling for 18 hours. I slept for 11 hours that night. Too tired to experience emotions.
The next night was the hardest. I couldn't get to sleep. It was still light out at midnight in Sweden, their time. I was watching a Swedish version of COPS except I didn't know why anyone was getting arrested. It was funny, but it also led to a profound sense of sadness. I missed my wife. I was alone in a foreign country. I cried. This great adventure, but I couldn't feel it.
I am Karl, the family guy. I love my family. I no longer wanted to do this without them.
But, I was stuck. I had created this epic adventure and now it was up to me to survive it.
I went to the other side of the planet to find myself and quickly realized that the best part of myself was still back in Iowa. It was overwhelming. Day 2. Shit.
I had other moments similar, but it got easier. There were many moments in Sweden when I was seeing incredible things, doing incredible things, but just underneath the surface, I was still Karl the lonely.
We put the band back together
When my wife and daughter landed in London I started feeling better. They were on the same side of Earth. Then Paris, they were getting closer.
I landed in Sweden on Monday morning, June 15th. My wife and daughter landed in Sweden on Saturday, July 11th. I took a train up to meet them at their gate. My wife said she was going to scream and run and hug me. I convinced her to take a more moderate approach. Ha. We hugged. I hugged my daughter.
I have a son as well, but he was in New Hampshire working all summer and had already been in NYC for 3 years. Missing him was more familiar to me.
We went back to Södermalm to the apartment and the cats. My wife and daughter made some very high-pitched noises when they saw the cats who had a look more like WTF? Who is this and why are they so excited? Cats are cool.
The next few days were all joy. I showed them places I had discovered and we explored new places. My wife, who runs marathons, went on some great early morning runs, seeing parts of Söder I have still yet to see.
My daughter and I did the first part of her senior photos.
SÖDER 8
When I hopped on a subway with my daughter to start her senior portraits I was excited to see what we could do. My little princess. (Can't believe she is a senior this year.) But, I still felt "ho-hum" about it. To a degree.
We explored Gamla Stan (Stockholm's old city) and got some great images. Then we took the subway to the Slussen stop and started working our way towards the Mariatorget area on foot.
On one of the buildings near Mariatorget I saw a wall in harsh shadows and light, something I have grown to love using. On the wall was the address "No. 8 A-D." I thought it looked cool, so I had my daughter stand there. I snapped the photo and we moved on.
I returned to the States with them a few days later. Life went on. I kept trying to make sense of the trip. I knew I was changed, but was still not sure how I could fully articulate the how or why.
But, one thing I brought back with me, something I was only able to appreciate once I got back and comfortable, was that I am a stronger person than I was giving myself credit for.
I am more daring than I had been acting.
I realized I could still do great things whether or not I ever sell another painting again. Maybe the gift was my art career dying.
I am Karl, the daring. I am Karl, the photographer.
Early on in my photography, I had a mentor, a talented photographer in the Denver, CO area. He would often hurt my feelings with his advice. It was good, though. I'd rather have my feelings hurt than keep making the same mistakes. I got better fast with his help.
I started looking at what I had created so far with my photography. I had great photos, but I also had a mess of sorts. The photography was good. The business around it wasn't. I had to be better at that. I also had to be a better photographer. I had stopped learning. I had stopped pushing myself.
Söder 8 is my battle cry.
I wanted a new name. Not to hide from my past. I continue to be very proud of my catalog. Proud of the people I have met and the relationships I have formed. But, my new understanding of self and my renewed passion needed a new name. Something better than just my name.
I was reminded of that photo in Södermalm. The wall with No. 8 A-D and the harsh shadows and slicing light. I started with that whole thing "Södermalm No. 8 A-D" but eventually shortened it to Söder 8.
Something weird happened - I got really excited about photography again. I even got excited about the business that surrounds photography, which was a strange feeling.
Driving across Sweden in that black Volvo was something I was somewhat terrified to do. But, I did it.
I can do this, too.
And maybe someday I will even buy a Volvo. Probably used.