The Book

“Art lives in the space between two very similar sentences: ‘I could do that.’ and ‘I did that.’” There are two kinds of people who walk into an art gallery. The first kind looks at the paintings and says: “Nice.” Sometimes they add “interesting.” If they’re particularly impressed, they might say “hmm” and nod thoughtfully, as if they’ve just discovered something subtle. Then they move on. The second kind of person stops in front of the exact same painting and begins a smal

The most beautiful memories in life are those shared with another person, which are simple and they are memories that are inherently good, that perpetuate their essence through the timeless act of narration, that survive any tumult or change in life, any obsession with present worries. Looking at life this way, you realize that the past is still accessible, at least through memories. It has already been “lived,” but can be relived now, even so, in a different way, more passiv

I only felt that I must, that the world inside me was too alive to remain there, unwritten. There are beginnings that don’t come from decisions. They rise from a warm feeling, from a joy too full to hold inside, from a summer day that catches you smiling for no reason. For a long time, I’ve felt that a part of me wanted to take shape in words. I was already writing, poems, thoughts, fragments. And one day, I knew: I will write a book. I don’t know exactly what it will be; I o

There are days that ask for nothing, but give you everything. Stockholm had sun, and only those who live here know what that means. It was the kind of day that makes you forgive everything: the cold, the rain, the clouds. My friend was with me. She brought a book she keeps promising to finish “when she has time.” Spoiler: not today. We walked toward Djurgården, our favorite place for “artistic moments.” She took out her book. I opened my notebook. We both said at the same ti