The publication Efterklang / Reverberation is a reconstruction of my childhood microcosm in which references to the child, its games and its way of looking at the world unfold. Where the past solely exists as fragments, insinuations, grand tales and incomplete testimonies. These data, facts, despite being interpreted, contribute to the story.

"Henricson turns backwards and inwards, towards his own childhood. In the publication Efterklang / Reverberation, he returns to the playgrounds in the beech forest and along the coast, fully aware of how hard it is to capture the elusive gestalt of himself as a child. However, locations have an ability to preserve a piece of life – finding himself on location, he once again experiences the rattling of the leaves and the light, and the colours become clearer and deeper when he rediscovers the imagination and playfulness of the past."

- Gertrud Sandqvist

Met on the edge of the yard outside the stable. By the beech tree that turned green before all the others. Under the foliage where a thousand branches embraced the white summer clouds. We had been waiting for the tree to sprout leaves. Waited for the color. The taste.

The well where servants used to fetch water. Forgotten and covered in ferns. Leaves landed on the top of the head, forming an orange crown. With the light a certain way it shone like a halo. Only the brave dared to drink from the mouth of Jesus.

Along the water in another direction. Stepped over the grass snake resting in the sun. We looked for the buzzard. Silent, without wing strokes. We walked through brimstone butterflies. Tried to catch a hare. If we looked up we saw what would later remind us of something else.

The stream flowing into the sea like a shiny tongue. We walked in the choppy water. Past the sledding slope, over the rocks. Followed the stream into the ravine. The water that hollowed out the soft sand stone. Carved our names, our history. Arrived, under the stone bridge, where the pond took over. Our shelter from our pursuers. Voices hushed. All clear.

Each of us with a pocketed newt. Wet feet and blisters beginning. Towards the beech in the slope. Where it got so steep that a rope tied to a tree branch, with a short stick at the end, made for a great swinging vine. Learned speed and height. How to make each other swing higher and faster.

Outside the house the trees grew so close together we couldn’t be seen. Here we built our last tree house. Higher and sturdier. Longed for nights of no sleep, under open skies. Water filled with star-isles and imagined silences.