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Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
This piece is particularly important to me because it is a self-portrait of my state of mind while working in the refugee camp in Calais. At the time, I was running participatory photography workshops, taking photographs, and collecting interviews for what would later become my book. I was surrounded every day by extreme injustice, pain, and resilience, and I was constantly struggling to hold my own emotions together.
In this painting, I see myself as vulnerable, angry, and deeply disappointed with the idea of justice. I was worried about the conditions people were living in, about how normalised their suffering had become, and about how powerless I often felt. My heart felt like it was shrinking day by day, worn down by what I was witnessing and absorbing.
In my hands, I am holding my camera. It was both my shield and my responsibility — the tool that allowed me to listen, to document, and to give space to voices that were constantly ignored. Around me, birds fly freely above the fence. That contrast was impossible to ignore. They crossed borders without resistance, while the people I worked with were trapped, contained, and criminalised simply for existing.
In the background, there is an ocean of tents — endless, temporary homes filled with lives on hold. On the horizon stands the infamous fence, a symbol of separation, fear, and exclusion. The painting itself is made on half of a large wooden panel that I rescued from the camp before it was destroyed and burned to the ground. That material matters to me. It carries the memory of the place, the people, and a moment in time that was violently erased.
This work is not about heroism. It’s about fragility. About being present in a place that breaks you a little every day, and choosing to stay human anyway.
This piece is particularly important to me because it is a self-portrait of my state of mind while working in the refugee camp in Calais. At the time, I was running participatory photography workshops, taking photographs, and collecting interviews for what would later become my book. I was surrounded every day by extreme injustice, pain, and resilience, and I was constantly struggling to hold my own emotions together.
In this painting, I see myself as vulnerable, angry, and deeply disappointed with the idea of justice. I was worried about the conditions people were living in, about how normalised their suffering had become, and about how powerless I often felt. My heart felt like it was shrinking day by day, worn down by what I was witnessing and absorbing.
In my hands, I am holding my camera. It was both my shield and my responsibility — the tool that allowed me to listen, to document, and to give space to voices that were constantly ignored. Around me, birds fly freely above the fence. That contrast was impossible to ignore. They crossed borders without resistance, while the people I worked with were trapped, contained, and criminalised simply for existing.
In the background, there is an ocean of tents — endless, temporary homes filled with lives on hold. On the horizon stands the infamous fence, a symbol of separation, fear, and exclusion. The painting itself is made on half of a large wooden panel that I rescued from the camp before it was destroyed and burned to the ground. That material matters to me. It carries the memory of the place, the people, and a moment in time that was violently erased.
This work is not about heroism. It’s about fragility. About being present in a place that breaks you a little every day, and choosing to stay human anyway.