Human perception is an interconnected process, shaped by sensory experiences, emotions, cultural norms, and psychological projections. As creators of reality, we generate a dynamic interplay between what is real and what is perceived. Yet, amidst the shifting landscapes of digital and mediated dynamics, the face remains an undeniable truth; an anchor in a world increasingly shaped by algorithms and images.

Through this work, I aim to provoke reflection on the dynamics of perception and identity, where the visible and invisible layers of reality often collide. The illuminated face, as a mirror of emotions, invites the viewer to explore not just the surface, but the deeper emotional truths that lie beneath. It is both a personal expression and a shared language, emotions reflected in the features, raw and unguarded.

A face is a fact; an undeniable mirror of our feelings, a truth that transcends the fleeting, enduring amidst the noise of modern life.

It started with a WhatsApp.

I'd send my friend a photo of some battered car from Berlin and caption it: "My Actual State of Mind." The joke was funny because it was true.

This project isn't about decay. It's about the peculiar dignity of things that refuse to die quietly.

Berlin is full of objects held together by improvisation, not because they lack the money for replacement, but because there's something honest about mending. A Hyundai with its rear window patched. A boot secured with rope. A bicycle seat wrapped in plastic. These aren't failures of capitalism; small acts of resistance against disposability. Pragmatic. Stubborn. Alive.

I photograph them because they tell the truth about survival in a way that polished things never can. When you tape a car window, you're not pretending it's fine. There's no vanity in it. There's only clarity. Objects clinging to existence not because of beauty, but because of sheer persistence.

That's when I recognized myself in them.
Broken.But refusing to die.

Being aware of nature isn't about grand vistas or distant horizons; it's learning to pause at the forgotten corners. It's recognising that the small, persistent textures you might walk past a thousand times are carrying their own quiet narratives.

What grows in the spaces we've forgotten teaches us.