Why do I take pictures?

Bring about something to someone. The fifties was generally badly off and overcrowded. It was party time when the local food store got a bulk of bananas delivered. It was either Tommy or Elvis and only one gift for Christmas. But somehow there was always money stashed for travelling. By caravan. A tiny, eggshaped one, made from pea green masonite with four crisscrossing bunks. Meals were cooked on a Primus petrol stove of shining brass. Mom pumped up the pressure by hand and the danger of explosion was constantly impending. 

We travelled mostly in Europe, mainly Germany and Austria, and most oftenly with no definite destination. A week in the south of Sweden as well as a month in Italy or why not the Netherlands. We went by steamer to South Africa and coming home eight months later we had to stay in Hotel Foresta outside Stockholm for a month. When money ran short we had to move to Motel Golden Wheel for three months. Our flat had been rented for a year. 

Sometimes we arrived one or a couple of weeks late for the schools roll call in August. Of course I missed some information. But on the other hand my knowledge in foreign languages and geography became my ticket. I had to work hard for a few years. Fed up with university, I devoted myself to the mountains in the Alps as a tour guide, ski instructor and ski bum. Summers were spent windsurfing, teaching languages in England or counselling on summer camp in the US. Skiing led to photography and today the trips usually contain assignments for travel agencies and magazines. But the propelling force remains the same. 

The couriosity is still there. No matter whether I'm in Denmark or Down under (Alps or Amman, Israel or Iceland). The pictures are all there and hopefully I manage to bring about something to someone. What, I still don't know. All I know is I have to do it. And I enjoy every minute of it.