Everything That Isn’t There is a visual reckoning with absence. A moment of truth with no exit.
This work began after the loss of my sons. It is not a tribute. It is not closure. It is the space they left behind.
Photographed in black and white, with light crushed and detail surrendered, each frame searches for something that cannot return.
This is not about death. This is about what’s left.
Just grief—unfiltered, and still breathing.
A shrine of loss. A memorial for what has been taken. Names that should have been spoken more. Grief has a form, but this is the void staring back.
The world, always moving, dissolving into a motion of chaos. A spiral of memories, dreams, and madness. Nothing stays still, but me, grounded by all the pain.
Perched between presence and absence. The weight of everything that could have been. Somewhere between why and how. Everything that isn't there still lingers here.
A rupture in the woods, where peace should only move the trees. But this place has torn open, slipping between what is and what should have been.
Grief isolates. It reduces the world to a single point of light, and you sit beneath it, waiting for a warmth that never comes.
Grief disconnects us. We move through spaces that aren’t real, memories bleeding at the edges.
Grief curdles, rotting into something worse. On all fours, vengeance sinks its teeth in. I held death, and now it holds me. Only rage remains.
This mark is not my faith, but it holds my rage. I claw at it, peeling back the seal, daring the demons inside to face the light.
Old violence—wounds settled into the earth, waiting to be reclaimed. If we stay still too long, we are claimed too. The scars remain, waiting to split open again.
The shadow of grief reaches further than we ever could stretch. We send thoughts and prayers to those we love, but they disappear. The shadow never does. It follows us, even when the sun hides behind the clouds.
Reaching for what's already gone. Only the shadow answers.
We are always moving, but our shadows never let go—an abyss that stares back, revealing who we truly are and what we hide from the world.
Between light and shadow, ghosts whisper of those who were. Footsteps echo, then vanish. Nothing remains.
The world is relentless. It moves while we long to be still. Not to hold us, not to care—only to remind us that it will keep going, no matter what it leaves behind.
Barred. Life moves on without me. I built this prison. I refuse to leave. Grief is all I know. And I am the one standing on my neck.
Everything around me runs, but she stayed. She saw me.
The light shows a man—what’s left of him. But he’s already gone. Grief won this battle. Now, it emerges from the dark.
Holding on, though the world moves past. A grip on something solid in a place long forgotten. The weight of history in the palm of a hand.
I need more time, but time doesn’t wait, we fade like whispers at heaven’s gate. Illuminate me from this misery — reverse the stars, bring you back to me.
Showing up to tend the silence. A nest of what if’s.
The scars they left never closed. Time just taught them how to bleed in silence.
A hand from the void. Longing to hold what should be there. The presence of what should be and the absence of what isn't.
Longing for that day it’s easier, before the shadows smother.
