There is one thing life underwater and life in a metropolis have in common. When you can’t see through, when you are nothing but a body and you sink, almost drown but find yourself carried, just before you let it go.

The night I realized my fire burns and I long for water was the night I realized my home is Blue.

Blue is a condition or a feeling that fills my chest. This series spans from shades of turquoise to nighttime ocean to aegean blue. It is an expression of when I feel close to myself, like the visual of a sensation that has no name. It looks at the skin of water and the sea change that happens when I touch its body. Turquoise means alone at ease or in intimate body contact with another skin. My life and my dreams are the same. The moment I fall into sleep hides something that only my vague memories that trickle down into a reflection of a skyscraper remind me of. When I walk through the middle of a metropolis and see a never-ending stream of people and streets, their stories and colors merge into grey noise. I like that. Sometimes these kind of moments overlap. Everyday I passed by a camp a homeless person created for themselves under a balcony. Next to his cream-colored couch, more and more books piled up, higher each week. He must have been rich in castles in the air with fireplaces inside. He had created a library of escapes. Up until that one day when I first smelled and then saw, that every page had been burned. Last night his home was set on fire.

Death is blue too. Most people say it was black but if you look closely, you can see in a blur that a blue substance carries all the dead after their bodies become invisible even to the strongest net. They float through it and fall beneath.

Every loss turns blue. On these images, I shot myself.