Nothing ever really disappears. It just stops speaking. And sits in the silence. Waiting to be witnessed.
I am a photographer shaped by disappearance.
In 2023 and 2024, my wife and I lost two sons. This work, Everything That Isn’t There, began in that aftermath, not to document grief, but to build a space where grief could live without being resolved.
These photographs are symptoms. They embrace collapse, blur, silence, and partial presence, not as effects, but as emotional states.
I use a mix of vintage and modern lenses with in-camera distortion to mimic the disorientation that followed: time folding, the body fading, and rebirth. I am both subject and absence in this work.
I appear and vanish. I stage no catharsis. This is not a healing arc, it’s a ritual loop. A photo book of return.
I make this work not to explain what grief feels like, but to give it form, to hold space for what can’t be said and what isn’t there.
This is where my grief lives.
I’m still here, still enduring, still screaming into the void. It feels like home now.
Between light and shadow, ghosts whisper of those who were. Footsteps echo, then vanish. Nothing remains.
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.
Stay Here.
Grief isolates. It reduces the world to a single point of light, and you sit beneath it, waiting for a warmth that never comes.
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.
Even the light feels far away.
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.
Reaching for what's already gone. Only the shadow answers.
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.
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.
Searching for myself and answers, I met another with nothing.
Stay Here.
This is absence becoming a god. It’s no longer a thought or feeling. The emptiness has become my holy ground.
Splintered in motion, I can’t hold myself together.
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.
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.
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.
The scars they left never closed. Time just taught them how to bleed in silence.
Holding on to everything that isn't there.
