The Light Between
Death has always whispered to me—not loudly, not with spectacle, but in quiet ways: the shift in light through a hospital curtain, the way silence thickens when someone you love is no longer breathing. I feared it long before I understood it. As a child, it was the idea of disappearing. As an adult, it became real—the day I found my best friend, gone without warning, the room around him frozen in unbearable stillness.
That silence never left me. It lives in the background of my days, sometimes as an echo, other times as a roar. For years, I turned away from it, believing that to stare too long would be to fall in. But grief has its own gravity, and eventually I stopped resisting. I picked up my camera and began walking through cemeteries—not to conquer my fear, but to understand it. To sit with it. To look at death and not flinch.
That’s when I began to feel it: the liminal space. A place that is neither here nor there. Not fully life, not entirely death. A trembling threshold. A breath held between worlds.
Among the moss, the crumbling stones, and the vines that weave like veins over names long faded, I began to listen. These aren’t just graves. They’re stories. Portals. Invitations to feel something beyond the physical. Photographing them became more than documentation—it became communion. I was no longer just a visitor. I was part of the landscape, suspended in that sacred in-between.
There’s a strange alchemy in fear.
It sharpens our senses.
It calls us deeper.
And sometimes, it becomes wonder.
Curiosity is intense around the things we fear.
This work was born from that intensity.
Through these images, I’m not offering resolution. I’m offering presence. A way to stay with the questions: What does it mean to be alive, knowing we must one day die? Where do we go, if anywhere at all? Can a photograph speak to the silence?
“Liminal Light” is not about death as an ending, but death as a space of becoming.
A veil.
A mirror.
A soft, trembling edge.
And somewhere in that space, I’ve found not just grief—but reverence. Stillness. And, strangely, a deeper love for life itself.
