Man

This series was born out of grief — and rage. A friend of mine was murdered. I found out through a news article. A photograph of him alive was published, but all I could imagine was how he had died. His ex-partner told me it was a hate crime. The report said robbery. I couldn’t stop thinking about his mother. About the moment. About the violence. About how something like this happens — and gets rewritten. He died in his own home — the one place we’re taught should be safe. For years, I carried his death in my body. I had panic attacks. I feared windows, doors left ajar. I woke up in the middle of the night convinced someone was inside. I feared that what happened to him could happen to me. To any of us. I fall backwards into water. I disappear. I distort. I remember. This series reflects on violence, erasure, abandonment. On how even jokes — the ones that mock, that sting, that seem small — build the stage for this kind of death. In a world that often refuses to see us, we are left wondering: Where can we feel safe? Who gets to live — and be mourned — fully?