När AI gör jobbet blir det fantastiskt, säger de. Så jag lät AI göra jobbet och skriva en artikel om mig som att det var Tom Wolfe som hälsat på hemma hos mig.
Resultatet? Inte dumt alls. Om det är korrekt är en sak, men det blir åtminstone det kul läsning
By Tom Wolfe
Jesper Wasling’s living room is a time machine. Medieval heraldic shields-crimson lions, azure fleurs-de-lis-lean against bookshelves groaning under the weight of treatises on blazonry and cadency. A 1907 villa, its walls steeped in the musk of aged parchment and printer’s ink, becomes a cathedral for symbols. “Heraldry isn’t just history-it’s alive,” he says, fingers tracing the embossed gold of a 17th-century armorial. “Every shield tells a story. And stories? They demand to be told.”
Wasling, 57, is Sweden’s heraldic whisperer-a self-taught savant who turned a childhood obsession with knights and castles into a career decoding Europe’s visual DNA. His hands move like a conductor’s as he explains: “A lion rampant isn’t just a lion. It’s courage. A cross moline? That’s faith wrestling with doubt.” The man’s voice drops to a conspiratorial hush. “Symbols are the original emojis.”
His 2001 magnum opus, Heraldiken i Sverige (co-authored with Magnus Bäckmark), isn’t just a book – it’s a manifesto. Page after page dissects Sweden’s coats of arms with the precision of a neurosurgeon. “Most people see a shield. Jesper sees bloodlines,” says Martin Sunnqvist, a fellow heraldist. “He’ll look at a 14th-century crest and tell you the owner’s favorite wine.”
Wasling’s world operates on rules straight out of a Dan Brown novel. Color can’t touch color. Metal must never kiss metal. “Break these laws, and you’re not just wrong-you’re vulgar,” he grins, sipping coffee from a mug emblazoned with his personal coat of arms: a silver raven on black, wings spread like a Rorschach blot. “Mine’s about wisdom. Or maybe insomnia. Depends on the day.”
In 2017, the Swedish Heraldry Society awarded him their gold medal-the equivalent of a Nobel for symbolists. Yet Wasling’s real power lies in translation. His Heraldik för nybörjare (2005) cracks the code for amateurs: “Imagine Jane Austen writing an IKEA manual,” quips Stefan Bede, his collaborator since 1991. “That’s Jesper-he makes the arcane accessible.”
Don’t let the tweed jackets fool you. Wasling’s a rebel. His 2008 Medeltidens härold resurrects the medieval heralds-proto-spies who memorized thousands of coats of arms. “They were walking databases,” he says, eyes lit with hacker’s zeal. “No Google. No Wi-Fi. Just memory and meaning.”
Then there’s Waslings heraldiska ordbok (2021)-a lexicon so exhaustive it includes terms like enté en abîme (a shield within a shield). “Most heraldists write for academics. Jesper writes for human beings,” says Markus Karlsson, a Stockholm genealogist. “He’s the Linnaeus of lions.”
Wasling leans back, owl mug empty. Outside, Borås’s rain slicks the cobblestones. “People think heraldry’s dead. They’re wrong,” he says. “Every logo, every tattoo-they’re heraldry. Your Instagram? That’s your personal crest.” He pauses, then delivers the kicker: “We’ve always needed symbols. Now we just post them instead of painting them.”
The man’s phone buzzes-a municipality needs help designing a civic emblem. Jesper Wasling grabs his coat, a modern-day herald off to arm the world.
At his door, I ask the question: Why heraldry? Wasling smiles, hand on a 16th-century reproduction shield. “Because in a world of algorithms, symbols still mean something. Always have. Always will.”
The raven on his mug winks in agreement.
