Doubles or just random
Two encounters from a day this week.
I’m on the subway when I first clock him. A man, maybe late fifties, early sixties, staring at me. Not in a bad way, but he’s definitely staring.
I first notice as the train passes Tekniska, barely registering it, but by the time we stop at Östermalm I’m acutely aware he’s watching me. He glances away when I catch his eye, but I catch him staring again moments later as we pull into Central Station.
I’m not particularly bothered, concentrating instead on my phone, watching someone gabble about Lumix cameras on YouTube. They’re not really covering the question I went online for.
At Gamla Stan—the Old Town—I get off and pause by the lift, taking my camera out of my bag. The train reflected in the perspex. I start working the scene, looking for the right angle, the best shafts of light. The kind of shot you can easily get if you know it’s there and where to stand.
I wander to the end of the platform, looking up at the buildings by Mariahissen poking above the flyover. Too much concrete in the way. I lower my camera, crossing it off my mental list.
Outside by the water’s edge, a group of tourists are photographing themselves with the view in the background. It’s cold and gently snowing, but they don’t seem to mind, too busy taking selfies. One of the most popular spots in the city for it.
“You know you look like someone. An American actor,” I hear someone say in slightly broken English.
He takes a step towards me, frowning—no, smiling.
It’s the guy from the train.
“I realise that you’re younger, but it… it bothered me slightly. Can you guess who it is?”
He’s taken me for a tourist on account of the camera around my neck.
I switch to Swedish. “Really, who do you mean?”
I have an inkling who he’s going to say, but I don’t really see it myself.
He says the name of the actor I knew he would, then insists, “But you do look like him. It could be a job for you, being a double. A small source of extra income.”
He’s not obviously deranged or drunk, just a regular nobody on his way to Riddarholmen—unless he’s followed me—but all the same I’m taken aback.
“Well, he has a Slavic name,” I say. “And my Austrian grandmother originally came from the border region, not far from Slovenia, so maybe I’ve got Slavic genes in there somewhere.”
I grin, moving away from him, raising my camera to my eye, looking out across the water, not really intent on taking a picture.
“Well, think about it – become a double,” he tells me, turning to go. “It could be a second career.”
For a moment after we part it’s not the weird comparison that bothers me—it’s that he was implying how little photographers earn. Then again, he can’t possibly know I work as a photographer.
I walk up the steps towards Söder, glancing back at Riddarholmen as I go, still looking for reflections in the water, in the perspex barrier shielding pedestrians from the track.
He wouldn’t have spoken to me if I hadn’t looked like a tourist, I figure. All the same, I can’t remember the last time a stranger started speaking to me out of the blue.
Then it happens again. Not more than half an hour later.
I’ve wandered around the streets by Mariahissen and made my way back to Slussen. I’m standing at the edge, looking out across the water to Gamla Stan, my camera half-raised. Because I photograph a lot of interiors, I’m immediately looking at the straight lines of the buildings, noting the lamppost by the bus stop that leans to the left, spoiling the symmetry of the scene.
I’ve not been there more than two or three minutes when a man comes striding towards me, going out of his way to approach.
I’m pretty hard of hearing, so I can barely catch what he’s saying, but I figure it’s some kind of greeting. He’s clearly talking to me.
“Hello, hello!” he says in English. “So lovely to see someone with a proper camera.”
He’s probably in his sixties, thick white hair, grinning at me in a friendly way. Again, he thinks he’s addressing a tourist.
“Hej,” I say, going straight into Swedish. “Sorry, what did you say?”
He switches language immediately and starts asking about my camera.
“It’s Canon, right? I broke my R7 just recently. Dropped it while photographing over at…”
I don’t catch exactly where, the noise from the buses drowning it out.
“It’s going to cost me 7,000 kronor to repair,” he tells me. “I’ve sent it to Canon in Mölndal.”
“I’ve smashed a couple myself,” I say. “They usually fix them quickly. I use their Pro services—I need my cameras for work.”
He opens his sling bag and takes something out. A small action camera.
“This is brilliant,” he tells me, attaching part of the device to the wall next to where we’re standing. He shows me the other part—a tiny monitor displaying what the camera sees. “You can get incredible angles.”
He hands me the monitor. He’s right. The tiny lens captures a view I couldn’t get with my regular camera. I start thinking about how I could use something like this on paid shoots—cranes, roofing, construction work. I can get a lot with a drone, but this could give me another edge.
“That’s amazing,” I tell him. “I’m definitely going to look at getting one.”
The man introduces himself as Göran, and starts telling me about his career as a chauffeur and his obsession with photography. He shows me his Instagram, mentions a Facebook group he’s in, tells me he’s in his seventies.
“But you look incredible,” I say. I would have placed him at least ten years younger. It’s not just the thick, wavy grey hair or his clear complexion—it’s his enthusiasm. His energy.
I mention I’m out scouting the city because I’m planning to launch a photowalk for tourists.
“More for people interested in street or travel photography,” I say. “The market for pretty picture photowalks is saturated.”
Göran nods.
“Anyone can walk around Gamla Stan and get nice photos,” I tell him. “Thousands do it every day. But there’s a difference between finding the obvious spots and knowing where the light falls at 3pm in February, which underpass fills with commuters at exactly the right moment, where the neon signs create something worth shooting after dark.”
“That’s what I want to sell,” I say—but I’m also telling myself.
Göran rattles off a list of places that would be a perfect fit, then shows me a photo he’s taken of Gamla Stan from Skeppsholmsbron bridge. Very wide angle, shot through the crown statue.
“Through the crown,” he explains, beaming.
I tell him I’ll follow him on Instagram, that I’ll check out the adventure camera.
“I bought it online from China,” he calls as I head down the steps towards the water. “They didn’t have it in Scandinavian Photo.”
I head across the newly built walkway linking Söder to Gamla Stan. Part of me is thinking about coffee and a cinnamon bun as a reward for being out in the cold so long. But mostly I’m thinking about how strange it is that two random strangers started conversations with me today.
It’s so rare for someone to just come up to you in this city and start talking. I can count on one hand the number of times it’s happened in the twenty-six years I’ve lived here. Sure, I exchange a casual “Hej hej” with other dog walkers in Täby. But this is different.
Two men, both assuming I was a tourist. One wanting to tell me I looked like a movie star. The other wanting to share his love of cameras. No connection between them except me, standing there with a camera around my neck.
Maybe that’s all it takes.
Great story. Happens here as well. I thought perhaps lonely people are in desperate need of talking to someone, anyone. Great to go out and flex photography muscles. I have cherished spots too that I want to go back. Awaiting winter lights now (summer here).
Was it Robert Redfordovitch? ;)