There’s been those who have wondered why I’ve always carried around a plastic bag instead of a back pack or something
Solo exhibition in ValstaKonst, Märsta, Sweden, 21.2 - 8.6.2025.
Photos by Giulia Cairone
I was a strange-looking kid when I was in middle school. I wanted to be a punk, but I didn’t really know what one looked like, so I just ended up looking weird. I probably should have been bullied, but no one dared mess with me because all the toughest guys in our neighbourhood were Finns, like me. This was the first time I understood that I was part of a larger community.
Oil and oil stick on jute, 81 x 60 cm, 2024
Five years ago, I read an article about professional criminals. The article included an info box about the criteria you need to meet in order to be considered a professional criminal. I met all those criteria. That is, I did when I was young. The years when I was between 17 and 24, I stole every day and made a living off it. But I never thought of myself as a criminal. Stealing was just something I did, and I always thought a criminal was someone more like the rough Finnish guys were when I was growing up. You know, a tough guy. But according to this article, I was a professional criminal when I was young.
Oil on jute, 85 x 61 cm, 2024
I have never known what I am until someone else has told me. I didn’t know I was a Swedish Finn, or a criminal, or someone worthy of love until someone else said I was all those things. When you are alone, there are no words for what you are because, after all, no one is listening.
Oil on jute, 50 x 50 cm, 2021
But anyway, the reason I became a criminal was that I didn’t have any friends until I started high school. There I met Helena, who became my first friend. After I met her friends, there was no turning back, because they looked exactly the way I had wanted to look since middle school. They were vegan and animal rights activists, and a short time after I met them, I dropped out of school to dedicate myself to my new way of life.
Oil and graphite pencil on jute, 70 x 99 cm, 2025
My new friends thought it was cool to steal, so I started doing it too, because I wanted to be cool and for them to like me. After the whole activist thing ended, I kept stealing. It felt good to get everything I wanted; I just took it. And I noticed it was the only thing that kept me from crashing. It was like a pressure inside me that kept growing, and the only thing that eased the pressure was going into town and stealing until it didn’t hurt anymore.
Oil, oil stick and graphite pencil on jute, 116 x 89 cm, 2024
I still didn’t look like a punk, but I had found something else to do, something that made the days go by.
Oil on jute, oil on wood, 141 x 111 cm, 2020
I stole records, books, clothes, but mostly I stole food. I worked sometimes and got money from welfare sometimes, and all that money went towards more important things than food, so I stole everything I ate, even potatoes. I was good at stealing. I rarely got caught, and when I did, I kept my mouth shut, and the police usually dropped the investigation because it wasn’t worth spending resources on petty theft. Eventually, I was forced to talk to a social psychologist who was supposed to decide whether I would go to prison or not. I only got probation, probably because she didn’t see me as a criminal either.
Oil and graphite pencil on jute, 55 x 41 cm, 2023
After a while, I stopped stealing, mostly because I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t take anything. I just lay down and gave up. I lay in my bed and thought about everything and nothing all at once.
Oil on jute, 76 x 99 cm, 2024
Then, after a long time in therapy, things got better. Things got better, and now I’m good. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. Actually, my life is still not good. My parents destroyed me and I still haven’t managed to heal from that. I probably never will. But I guess that’s just how life is, and there’s no point in trying to control it, you just have to let yourself go, get swept along.
Oil and oil pastel on jute, 57 x 42 cm, 2024
I haven’t stolen anything in twenty years and I still don’t look like a punk. These days, I’m called an artist because I paint pictures and write texts like this. I don’t know if it’s really any better than being called a thief, but I guess it’s better than nothing.
Oil on jute, 85 x 97 cm, 2025
