I was born dead. Forty-five minutes without breath. When I came back, my body carried the mark of that first struggle — cerebral palsy, hands twisted like fists, a body that learned to move by its own rules.

I did not choose painting to express myself. I chose it for the same reason I chose long jump, judo, sailing across the Atlantic, and coaching human beings through their deepest crises — because something in me needed to find out what was possible.

"The paintings are like looking at his true self — where he truly belongs. Something happens on a deeper and unconscious level. People are drawn into the paintings and read the energy without knowing it."
— Barbro Bronsberg

I began painting in 2005. I was not an artist — I was a man with an idea: paint 100 paintings and see what happens. After thirty or forty, something shifted. The canvases grew larger. I had to decide what I was doing. I drove to my brother's kitchen and set three paintings on the counter. His friend, also a painter, looked at me: Depends what you want to become. Hobby — 300, 500, 700 kronor. Artist — 3,000, 5,000, 7,000. I chose the second. Two weeks later I put those same three paintings on a stage in front of five hundred people. A man came up afterward and bought the middle one. He didn't ask the price — he asked how much to bring. Five thousand kronor. He wanted it by his front door. A daily reminder of what a human being can do. That became my requirement for every buyer since. The painting must live where it matters.

I paint only from presence. There is no sketch, no plan, no technique imposed from outside. I enter the canvas the way I entered every room as a speaker — reading what wants to happen, not deciding in advance. Forty-eight years of working with the human spirit are in every brushstroke. When I sit with a collector before creating their work, I am doing what I have always done: listening for what is not yet said.

The paintings carry no titles. Names close a door. I want the viewer to walk through, not stand outside reading the sign.

I work in acrylic on large canvas — the minimum is two by one metre. Thailand's humidity makes oil impractical; acrylic allows a directness I have come to need. Every work is created on commission, preceded by a deep conversation about intention: Why do you want this? Where will it live? What should it wake in you each morning?

Since 2011 I have collaborated with German artist and musician Sacha Alexander von Oertzen — work that has grown into thousands of short films, original music, and live performance. Nothing we create uses AI. Everything is made by hand, in the moment, from what is alive between us.

In 2015, my largest public work — a six-by-two-metre mural at the Center for Excellence Training in Rayong — became the cover of Den mentala träningens historia by Pia Hellertz. It hangs there now as a permanent anchor for every person who passes through. That is what I mean when I say a painting must live where it matters.

I have sold work in Sweden, Norway, the United States, and Thailand. I moved to Thailand in 2009 with five tailored suits, a laptop, and no contacts. Within months I was showing in Bangkok. One painting sold that evening for 100,000 baht. The group of people who had laughed at my prices months before later bought three works totalling approximately 350,000 baht. They said nothing. They already knew.

No painting has ever been returned. In twenty years, not one. I do not take that as proof of quality. I take it as proof that the conversation before the painting matters as much as the paint itself.

I paint what cannot be coached and cannot be said.
Only transferred.