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Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
This self-portrait comes from a moment when I was struggling to keep going. I was trapped in my studio during winter, in the middle of the pandemic, not knowing when it would end. Time felt frozen. I felt lost, incomplete, disconnected from movement and purpose. That feeling always appears when I can’t travel, when I can’t be out in the world working on photographic assignments, listening to stories, crossing borders, feeling alive.
I painted over my own face as a way of trapping that emotion — smearing confusion, frustration, and restlessness onto the surface instead of carrying it inside me. The paint becomes a kind of noise, a way of saying that I didn’t fully recognise myself in that moment. I was there, but not whole.
Behind me, there are wings. They matter deeply to me. In some Native communities, there is a belief that there are two kinds of people: tree people and bird people. Tree people put down roots. They stay, grow tall, provide shelter, stability, and protection. Bird people move. They fly into the unknown, carry seeds from place to place, push boundaries, and accept uncertainty as part of living fully.
Both are equally important. Trees need birds to spread life beyond their reach, and birds need trees to rest, to hide, to survive. I’ve always felt I was a bird person. Movement is where I find meaning. Stillness, for me, can feel like suffocation.
This painting captures the pain of being grounded against my nature — wings present, but unable to fly. It’s a portrait of restlessness, longing, and identity. Of someone who knows who they are, but has been forced to stop mid-flight, waiting for the moment when the sky opens again.
This self-portrait comes from a moment when I was struggling to keep going. I was trapped in my studio during winter, in the middle of the pandemic, not knowing when it would end. Time felt frozen. I felt lost, incomplete, disconnected from movement and purpose. That feeling always appears when I can’t travel, when I can’t be out in the world working on photographic assignments, listening to stories, crossing borders, feeling alive.
I painted over my own face as a way of trapping that emotion — smearing confusion, frustration, and restlessness onto the surface instead of carrying it inside me. The paint becomes a kind of noise, a way of saying that I didn’t fully recognise myself in that moment. I was there, but not whole.
Behind me, there are wings. They matter deeply to me. In some Native communities, there is a belief that there are two kinds of people: tree people and bird people. Tree people put down roots. They stay, grow tall, provide shelter, stability, and protection. Bird people move. They fly into the unknown, carry seeds from place to place, push boundaries, and accept uncertainty as part of living fully.
Both are equally important. Trees need birds to spread life beyond their reach, and birds need trees to rest, to hide, to survive. I’ve always felt I was a bird person. Movement is where I find meaning. Stillness, for me, can feel like suffocation.
This painting captures the pain of being grounded against my nature — wings present, but unable to fly. It’s a portrait of restlessness, longing, and identity. Of someone who knows who they are, but has been forced to stop mid-flight, waiting for the moment when the sky opens again.