Nevermind if I’m blind
After the end of a meaningful relationship, I returned to my home country — a place that had shaped me for over two decades and had long existed in my imagination as a kind of refuge. But something felt misaligned. The landscape, once familiar, now appeared distant, almost unrecognizable. I began to question whether the place itself had changed, or if the idea I had held of it had quietly unraveled.
In search of clarity, I began walking at night — crossing empty streets, quiet fields, and abandoned homes. Armed with a film camera and a small flash, I tried to capture what eluded me in daylight. The photographs preserve fragile moments: the grain of a wall, the flicker of a shadow, a fleeting trace of movement — fragments from a place that felt like memory under investigation.
What emerges is a visual passage through disorientation. Not a longing for the past, but a quiet dismantling of certainty — the realization that the world’s contours no longer align with their remembered shape. In these nocturnal wanderings, the work reflects on how the spaces we come from are never fixed, and how even the most deeply held notions can fracture, shift, and dissolve — without warning, without sound.