many who know me know the story of how i became a photographer. it began with a concussion in 2018 that knocked me straight out of the life i’d known.

the physical wiring in my brain became torn and distorted; signals that had once been automatic started getting slowed down and lost. 

my brain stopped registering memories. blackouts ensued. entire chunks of time lost to… nothing. 

attempting to use old thought patterns now resulted in dagger-like headaches and nausea. it was like being able to think myself into a nasty hangover.

and light was the worst. it still is. bright light feels like those same daggers, hot and digging and twisting under my skull: a condition called photophobia.

interacting with the world meant fatigue; everything cost energy i no longer had.

at the time, i was in school and starting a new semester, and i had luckily already registered for one of the few photography classes on offer. between oppressively reading-heavy classes, my sole refuge became the darkroom.

it was dark. quiet. solo. a shelter from the pain and overwhelm of my now-draining world. it didn’t hurt to think— i could just operate on instinct. i could fully open my eyes in the black and feel the darkness drift into my head, curling around the ache and smoothing over the pain. a desperate reprieve.

carrying a camera around became my go-to memory crutch. at the time, i happened to be coming into my first experiences of queer community and gender discovery. with a camera on hand, i could document it without worrying that my experiences would just disappear into the void.

so photography became a means for survival. and i kept following it. it was the only thing that felt like i didn’t have to overthink, but rather just act out gut instinct. i finally discovered something that wasn’t exhausting, but instead gave me life. 

my compulsion towards darkness most obviously shows up in my visual language. anywhere i go, i unconsciously strategize on how to make it darker—turning off lights, keeping my back to lamps, wearing tinted glasses or a brimmed hat. it’s become a survival instinct.

as a photographer, i employ this same gut impulse. my body knows what it wants. in my work, i minimize light, bending it to my will and shaping my subject while using as little of it as possible. i don’t overthink; it just comes naturally.

it has turned into a body of work characterized by dark voids, heavy blacks, and sparsely illuminated subjects carved into the shadows. while my references are many, my biggest inspiration by far is darkness itself.

in order to investigate and understand my own psychology as an artist, i have had to understand my neurology. they are one and the same. 

i have had to examine the contours of my thought patterns, discover detours around collapsed neural pathways, and explore new methods of existing in an inflexible world. my visual language, concepts, and creative direction have all reaped the rewards of this never-ending process.

brain damage gifted me photography. and for that i am grateful.

and so now, i am creating a self-portraiture series dedicated to my traumatic brain injury. i am so thankful for this lifelong process, and to finally share my story with you all <3