The Chair Movement

These first gallery chairs mark the beginning of The Chair Movement—a project born from my need to no longer hide my story. What started as a private photo series has grown into an exhibition of empty seats standing in for every survivor who, like me, used dissociation to endure trauma.

I hunt for these chairs in abandoned lots, dusty attics, and quiet backyards, capturing their scars and surroundings so you feel the weight they’ve carried. A cracked plastic seat half-swallowed by weeds murmurs isolation; a rust-spotted stool on a sunlit porch breathes hard-won hope. Every chipped armrest and sliver of light becomes a silent portrait of resilience.

With each new “Lost Souls” image, you’re invited to ask: Who once sat here? What kept them upright? As this collection grows, so does our shared testament—that no survivor’s story should remain unseen.

Arrow Lane

Walking through Arrow Lane trailer park after all these years feels like stepping into a ghost story I once lived. The place is more forest than trailer park now—overgrown grass swallowing the lots, roofs caved in and walls collapsing, everything being slowly reclaimed by the woods. I remember being nine, running through these paths, never imagining they’d fall silent and empty. Now every broken window and rusted car frame holds an echo of that little boy I was, lost and searching for safety.

This is the place where my world fractured when I was nine years old—I first learned to disappear here. My mind floated away while something unspeakable happened, splitting me into pieces I wouldn’t understand for years. I can still feel the outline of that absence, like a hollow space in the air. These photographs are my way of facing those ghosts: each overgrown weed and shattered door is a memory, every frame a confrontation. The trailer park may be abandoned, but I refuse to abandon what happened here any longer.

I write this as a witness to my own history, my own survival. Coming back to Arrow Lane is like time travel through a nightmare, but I walk through it awake and unafraid. With each step and each photo, I take back a piece of what was lost to me here. The trees that have grown in these ruins and the sunlight that now falls on broken floors both bear witness that life continued. I stand here, broken and whole at once, and I know: I survived, and I am reclaiming this place as part of me.

Friendly Ambassadors

I lose myself in winding streets and rusting warehouses, drawn to weather-worn doors and dust-laden windows that whisper hidden stories. The true magic sparks when a passerby—whether a groundskeeper who’s swept these floors for decades or a neighbor who remembers brighter days—pauses to share a glimpse of what lies within: a sunlit stairwell, a sealed vault, a mural tucked behind crates. In tougher neighborhoods, a simple greeting can dissolve walls faster than any guidebook, opening doors to forgotten factories, humming switchboards, and alley-scrawled graffiti.

Each tip becomes a roadmap, transforming solo exploration into a shared journey. As I frame peeling paint and fractured light, I’m not just photographing places—I’m weaving together the resilience, creativity, and community etched into every corner. When I leave with my camera full, I carry their untold stories and a piece of their world with me.

The Chair Movement

Fractured Souls

Arrow Lane

One-Percent Phoenix

Friendly Ambassadors

The Chair Movement

Fractured Souls

Arrow Lane

One-Percent Phoenix

Friendly Ambassadors

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