Insomnia
“Insomnia” began with a crash, a real one, violent enough to split my life in two: before and after. I lost a close friend in a car accident and fell into a coma. When I returned, neither the world nor I was the same. Sleep became unfamiliar , not just physically, but on a deeper level. My mind no longer knew how or when to shut off. Memories echoed like subcutaneous noise, consuming the nights. I lived through depression. Through silence. Through erosion. Twice, I chose not to continue. But I stayed. And in the midst of that darkness, something began: creating.
For me, Insomnia is a form of survival, an attempt to give shape to grief, fatigue, and loss. To create rather than disappear. This body of work is composed of fragments from that private war: documentary-like scenes captured in public, urban, industrial, and restless spaces, where a tired body, a reflection of my own, is caught sleeping: next to a gas pump, beside a cutting machine, on a subway floor.
There is no artificial lighting. No staging. These images were captured as they were, unretouched, uncontrolled. The performer surrenders his body to chaos; and it is this surrender that opens a point of entry for the viewer. The images do not seek to tame space, but to let its disorder speak. The performer is a mirror of myself. But I, too, am in the frame, not physically, but through the lens. This is me watching myself from the outside. The camera is not a passive observer; it is my co-conspirator in a waking dream. Photography in Insomnia is not about display, but excavation, a way of constructing new meaning from moments stripped of meaning. Insomnia is my path back to life.
