he times when Arne Hodaličcame back from his journeys with photographs for magazines that only publish agreeable images of this world are far behind us. All of us who followed his work knew him as a creator of “beautiful pictures”, as an author who avoided the “momentary photograph”, an author who insisted on long preparation and perfect technical skills. Now with increasing frequency the glittering, vivid and playful colours of his photographs retreat into dark and palpable dreariness. It is increasingly frequent that his scenes take us aback and they neither cheer us up nor calm us down. His photographs have moved into another sphere, a sphere we are not used to; they have extended into a realm where depth of content has taken the place of beauty.