Erik Johansson, a Swedish photographer and visual artist, views photography as a journey of capturing creativity ignited by the shutter. In his works, landscapes curl into sheets of paper, lakes are "unzipped" by zipper, and buildings twist into Möbius strips—absurd concepts that ultimately achieve a sense of physically plausible reality through precise masking, perspective correction, and meticulous light-matching. His creations hover between dream and subconscious "pseudo-documentary," embodying the very essence of surrealism.
Born in 1985 in the small Swedish town of Götene, Erik was influenced by his painter grandmother and developed a love for both art and computers from an early age. At 15, he received his first digital camera, opening a new world of possibilities. In 2005, he moved to Gothenburg to study computer engineering at Chalmers University of Technology, where his interest in photo editing flourished. Gradually, he developed a workflow: first constructing complete images in his mind, then shooting real-world materials，and finally digitally compositing them to achieve visual coherence.
If Erik’s surreal world were a bridge, one end would be anchored in the darkroom techniques of the silver halide era, while the other would float atop the pixelated clouds of digital algorithms. Standing on this bridge, one witnesses a historical reversal in the river of photography—digital technology has not eroded traditional imaging but instead sharpened the alchemy of the darkroom and the poetry of chemical processes.
For pioneer Man Ray, surrealism was the emotional estrangement behind everyday photograms; for constructivist master László Moholy-Nagy, it was geometric abstraction born from light experiments. Meanwhile, Berlin Dadaist Hannah Höch used photomontage to challenge rigid perceptions. In the 1930s, Brassaï, the nocturnal voyeur of Paris, transformed nighttime pedestrians into ghostly blurs through long exposures, turning the city into a theater of the subconscious. By the 1960s, Jerry Uelsmann, the "magician of imagery" and "alchemist of black and white," defied rational order through complex post-processing techniques.
Although Erik does not employ traditional darkroom techniques like collage, multiple exposures, or negative overlays, his surrealism subverts viewers' habitual understanding of "reality" through extensive on-location photography, post-production, and pixel-perfect editing. In a sense, Erik is like a creator who rediscovers a primal craftsmanship amidst the technological frenzy—using images to fabricate "lies" that counter the absurdities of reality, elevating subconscious expression into a calculable illusion, and ultimately speaking the truth of time.
Notably, Erik insists on using a camera to capture visual materials. He once said, "If you truly capture it, no one can tell you it doesn’t look real." In an era of mass-produced visual fast food, he spends months manually stitching together the fissures between reality and fantasy—a slowness that is itself an avant-garde rebellion. The floating islands, reverse waterfalls, and recurring glaciers and forests in his works hint at both the rupture and reconstruction of humanity’s relationship with nature in the technological age, while also serving as speed bumps for instant visual consumption. True gazing requires time to ferment, and the deep connection between art and its audience demands even more time to settle.
As camera resolution and photography technology advance, Erik strives harder than ever to capture the minutiae of reality—yet these very details become tangible paradoxes in his fictional worlds. The montaged reflections, chills, nights, and light resemble False windows painted on walls, through which the unexpected whispers of real wind drift. This is perhaps Erik’s most captivating quality: his work preserves an ambiguous zone for "reality," where neither pure replication nor complete fabrication reigns. Instead, through the absolute rationality of technology, he distills an irrational intoxication—and a hidden door to the real world.
For us, who seek to affirm our existence in an increasingly perfected, virtualized, and unreal world, perhaps only through each viewing, each suspension of "the now" prompted by his "spectacles," can we reclaim sovereignty over perception.
In early 2025, Fotografiska welcomed Erik’s latest solo exhibition, All We Have is Now, featuring works created exclusively for the show. Through flow, seemingly logical yet contradictory poetic dreams, Erik highlights the importance of being present in a space-time haunted by future anxieties or past regrets.
Almost all the works in this exhibition are new. How do they differ from your creations five years ago, thematically and technically?
Over the past five years, my work has evolved thematically and technically. While I’ve always been drawn to "distorting reality," my recent pieces focus more on introspection, reflection, and the perception of time. Technically, I’ve refined post-production to achieve seamless integration of photographic elements, enhancing the illusion of reality while preserving a dreamlike quality. I’ve also begun experimenting with motion works as part of this exploration.
Your art reconstructs everyday scenes to overturn perceptions of reality. Where does this impulse come from?
It stems from childhood curiosity and a desire to see beyond physical existence. Daydreams, stories, and hidden possibilities in daily life inspire me. The world often feels too structured and predictable; through art, I explore alternative realities that challenge human perception.
Your work blurs the line between photography and digital art. Could you walk us through the creation of one exhibited piece?
Take River Hotel in this exhibition. It started with a simple idea—transforming a "hotel by the river" into a "hotel made of river," partly responding to climate change but also reflecting human adaptability.
I shot a waterfall in Sweden (one of its largest), then captured people and architecture in Prague, and composited them. I also filmed the waterfall for the dynamic version displayed here.
You’ve said, "The best way to create a realistic scene is to photograph it directly." With AI, VR, and AR tools emerging, do you still hold this view?
Yes. Photography captures the tangible, while AI generates via algorithms. These tools are complementary, not replacements. I don’t use AI-generated images because creative process requires time—not everything should be effortless.
After digital recombination, does a scene’s "authenticity" still hold?
Authenticity lies not in how something is made but in the emotions and ideas it conveys. Reality is subjective—shaped by memory and feeling. My work between reality and fiction, offering a space for viewers to interpret their own truths.
How do you stay creatively Acuteness to reality and perception?
By constantly observing my surroundings. I challenge myself daily to spot hidden compositions in the mundane. Playing with double-meaning words (e.g., "reflect" as both thought and light) also sparks ideas.
One word to describe your art?
"Meditative." It blends rationality with emotional resonance. I want my images to provoke thought, but more importantly, to evoke feeling.
If viewers only had five minutes, which work would you recommend?
All We Have is Now. It encapsulates the exhibition’s core—questioning perception, time, and existence. I hope it makes people pause and reflect on the present moment.
Producer：Tiffany Liu
Editor：Tiffany Liu
Video Production：Yoko Liu
Cameraman, Editing：Yuki Xiao
Photographer, Designer：Yizhou Shen
Image and text: Courtesy of Fotografiska and Oui Art
Unauthorized use is strictly prohibited without official authorization from Oui Art
