Void is a series of lumen prints created through a deliberately improvised process: photographic paper placed inside cut and altered light-tight paper bags, exposed to UV light in multiple stages. The method invites unpredictability—light leaks, misalignments, and accidental overlaps become part of the final image. What emerges are swirling, layered compositions that hover between chaos and structure.
These prints often appear as portals—openings into uncertain depths, both visual and emotional. I’ve long been interested in how a flat image can evoke a sense of dimensionality, of something pulling the viewer inward. In Void, depth becomes disorienting, almost spatially unstable. The swirls and tonal shifts can feel like falling, floating, or spinning—qualities I hadn’t fully connected to my own experience until I was diagnosed with vertigo nearly a year after beginning the series.
That diagnosis reframed the work for me. The sensation of losing balance, of the world tilting without warning, is echoed in the visual language of these prints. The instability I was unknowingly capturing became a mirror to a physical reality I hadn’t yet named. It’s made me more curious about how the body processes space and movement—and how those perceptions can be translated, or even abstracted, through photographic materials.
In a way, Void is about letting go of control while still seeking structure—about allowing process, light, and time to shape meaning. The prints resist easy interpretation. They ask the viewer to slow down, to sit in the disorientation, and perhaps find familiarity in the unknown.
