There Is No Here

2017-2018

Where Convergence looks outward—toward the layered complexity of real life unfolding in the street—There Is No Here turns inward, into the symbolic terrain of the subconscious.

These images are not observed; they are constructed. Guided by dreams, memory fragments, and emotional archetypes, the work explores what it means to feel disoriented in one’s own reality.

Rather than mapping place, this series gestures toward the dissolving edges of space, time, and self. It doesn’t offer answers—only traces, impressions, unfinished scenes.

Last night, I dreamed it again—though nothing was the same.

The colors shifted. The air was heavier. But the feeling knew its way back.

There’s always a girl or maybe it's a young woman. I’ve never met her, but she wears the shape of someone I’ve already lost.



I’ve felt this before.

The weight she carries isn’t visible, but it bends everything around her.

There’s a quiet war behind her eyes—between who she is and who she’s supposed to be.

Whatever freedom she finds, it never comes free.


When a dream lingers—vivid, electric, too strange to forget—I don’t chase its meaning.

I listen for the feeling underneath.

If I can name the mood, I look for its echo in waking life.

A hidden thread, humming below the surface.

That’s how my dreams speak to me. Not in answers, but in frequencies.


I’ve heard it said that every person in a dream is just a fragment of the dreamer.

I never quite believed that—until her.

She returns in different forms, in different rooms, with the same quiet gravity.

I don’t know her name. But lately, I’ve started to wonder—am I the one who disappears when she wakes up?



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With Alina Lee, who brought these images to life with gestures I could never have directed, only witnessed.