In August 2025, an argument with my father ended with my hand through a door. I left the house to get some air and picked up my analog camera on my way out. My right hand was covered in blood from the cuts, splintered, bruised, swollen — and my left hand photographed it. I photographed that same hand, in the same pose, for a year. The Walls Between Us became a study of one hand held over time, exploring family, identity, and grief as a theme.
The project went on and my hand aged alongside me, the photographs started to loosen their grip on the wound. The earliest photographs carry that anger plainly, but the background crept in. The light, the room, the small shifts in how the hand was held — these began to matter more than the injury ever did. That drift, I think, is the real subject of the series: anger has a shelf life.