I dreamt about Örnsköldsvik last night.
By chance we moved there in the year of 2000 and I was surprised that this dark, cold and snowy place made me happy. Not hilariously happy or success-was-poured-over-me-happy (success has never been pouring over me.) But a fine kind of happy – a resting, everyday contentment, being with my daughters and then my little son was born. For the first time a safe, simple life that felt like liberty.
While living there we often went to Lundberg’s – a café. A place with wooden furniture and dark-ish wallpaper where everything in the bakery was homemade, the sort of not-so-modern place that I like better. In my dream, with my son in my arms, I saw that Lundberg’s café had been altered. Distorted into a claustrophobic area with fluorescent lamps thrusting out an insufferable bright trembling light, bouncing off furniture of steel. I experienced an explosion of sentimentality and melancholic nostalgia and told my little boy “we can never go back.”
Most likely what triggered the dream was the documentary; Hockeyhjärtan, about the NHL players who were raised in Örnsköldsvik. I don’t have any ties to hockey but since I worked at the local newspaper I photographed the games and met the players. I feel guilty when Modos captain Per Svartvadet had to pay for his own ice cream when being interviewed; neither the reporter nor me had brought money.
Both images are from the same occasion. A charity football game between Icebreakers and an English team. Peter Forsberg was being interviewed, but when the red-haired woman showed up he cut the rather large press posse off and he listened like she was bringing severe and incredible information.
I rarely hold on to the images that are published. My true concern lies in the periphery.