I want to talk about mental health, my mental health and yours, because really, there is no distinction between the abstract, standalone term, and the personal pronoun. Mental health is something we cannot escape - as scary as that sounds - a supervillain ready to pounce at your slightest vulnerability.
Since childhood I was aware that, periodically, something was not right with my mind. Ephemeral memories of my childhood where I would wander in my parent's garden, with an overwhelming sense of disquiet ruling my thoughts, unshakeable despite however long I stayed outside. Play seemed impossible; life's weight inescapable.
Irrespective of the sun shining above, those memories are recalled with a foreboding feeling of the darkness that would at times overcome me through my adolescence and adulthood.
I still feel it today. A sense that I am muted in my actions and my thoughts. Yes the physical and mental are deeply connected, but I still to this day cannot fathom why I can't jolt one to jumpstart the other. It seems no such cable exists in my repertoire, and although I can accept that that may be a personal limitation, that it's a skill I am yet to learn, I don't believe it unreasonable to think it's a tool I will ever master. Yes I can go running, talk to a friend, put a fucking face mask if I must, but their transience is all to real to me. Still the inertia persists.
There are days I sit in my study, seemingly pottering yet achieving nothing of worth, or simply catatonic, with any real movement likely to reduce me to the ground.
Many years ago, where I experienced singularly the biggest crash of my life, I took eight months sick leave. During that time I felt comforted by my love of photography. Back then simply a hobby, I would pound the streets of London to teach myself street photography. sStarting from such low vantage points, I had no fear of losing. I would fearlessly point my lens at everyone and all, snapping my shutter with complete abandon. Shamelessly uncaring about the consequences of my actions. During those days - at times out for eight hours or more - I took some of the best images to this day move me and others. They remain resonant.
Since then, I have turned pro. Rather unsuccessful in monetary terms, I am utterly proud of my portfolio and the shoots I have achieved. I have branched out into fashion, shooting regularly at fashion weeks, shooting for countless agencies and instilled confidence in many a new face. I have developed my street photography into more nuanced projects that range from skateboarders to market places in Cyprus; published multiple times for street, fashion and art nude photography.
It was during the height of my productivity that I developed my Confessional series. A reaction to shooting mainly fashion, and an utter fear I was shooting boudoir or glamour photography, I embarked upon bringing the rawness of my street photography to shooting models.
Inspired by photographers such as Nan Goldin, Saul Leiter and Richard Bellingham, the project was simple in conception. Devoid of styling, set design or hair and makeup considerations, it would be simply me and the model shooting nude and talking. A kind of therapy if you will. There were times we would laugh or cry, or be stilled by the gravity of the expectations of our lives. A shared intimacy unique in space and time.
You see, photography is deeply connected to my mental health. Arguably it is the reason I am still alive today.
Yet I have structured it into my life in such a way that it's complexity now halts any soothing thoughts of picking up my camera, and heading into town to shooting street. My biggest desire for the coming year is to once again strip it all down. Just me, my camera and subject. Be that the public or an art nude model, I am focusing only on shooting what makes me happy and well.
Life is too short chasing unachievable desires, unachievable because of the undue weight placed upon them; there comes a time where letting go takes precedence.