Going HomeWhat does it mean to truly feel at home, not just in a place but within ourselves?
Photography; both in the doing, and the viewing, has the power to capture this quiet feeling, where we find peace in solitude and connection. Our sense of self grows from the spaces we inhabit, the people we meet and of course, the stillness of mind we sometimes crave. In moments where we cannot quiet our minds, we can find comfort in a familiar landscape, a nostalgic photograph, the warmth of a home or simply by being present and accepting of our current situation.
The interplay between inside (comfort) and outside (possibility) is a constant mental negotiation. We long for the warmth of human connection whilst gazing from a cold street into a softly lit cafe; yet from the inside of that same place, we desire the open night, and the promise of unknown roads. These contrasts within our psyche are primal: our survival instincts, our need to explore, and, our fundamental need for safety, comfort and belonging.
Solitude can be a retreat, a place for self reflection. In moments like these, our body and mind, set against the vastness of the world, can bring a sense of peace. Solitude can also be a void, a reminder of our separation from others and a sense of being untethered from our deepest desires. Photography, done well, captures this tension. Does solitude bring us closer to a deeper understanding of ourselves, or does it simply highlight the emptiness we sometimes feel? The only guarantee we have is that we will always have ourselves.
I've been smashing out 80s power ballads while I write recently, so let's talk about contrasts. Light and shadow, closeness and distance, harmony and dissonance. A single image can capture the tenderness between two people or the quiet space growing between them. Life and love, much like blurry photos, are beautiful in their imperfections. Obviously, they can also be a complete mess that makes you wonder why you even bothered, but that's the contrast, and, in a fucked up way, the fun of it. Either way, long after the song fades out, something lingers. A feeling. A place. A person.
The sound of the 80s gets this. There's something about synth-drenched ballads that makes them a musical love letter to dramatic feelings. That era understood that passion and pain are two sides of the same 12-inch. Photography and memory, much like those songs, freeze the highs and lows and everything feels cinematic.
The beauty of both music and photography is that they let us return to what we once felt. A song takes us back to a summer night, a photograph to a love that lingers in the depths of our memory. But this isn't about losing those parts of ourselves. It's about carrying them with us, our personal melody that keeps playing.
By the way, should you decide to listen to “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” after this, I can highly (like S tier) recommend Wendy Wang's version from the Paradise soundtrack. Or just go for the Miley version, you psycho.
Even at a busy house party or a get together with family, we can feel alone. Our cities are woven from endless networks; pathways and roads. In the air the internet hums with interaction, and yet, true intimacy remains elusive. Capturing this connection is key to the photographer's life, do we truly see our subjects and each other?
the feeling one has on realising that every other individual one sees has a life as full and real as one's own, in which they are the central character, and others, including oneself, have secondary or insignificant roles.
In a state of sonder, each of us is at once a hero, a supporting cast member, and an extra in overlapping stories.
At the end of the day, we all go home. Home is a place, of course. But really, its a feeling. A good photograph can evoke the deep sense of belonging we seek. An internal landscape, of comfort, of solitude and memory. For the wandering type, home might be the next horizon or the next meaningful encounter. For the rooted among us, it is the comfort of the familiar, of routine and stability. In a world where everything shifts and fades, perhaps we are drawn to home because at our core, we are searching for ourselves.
Weirdly, we are at once solitary and deeply connected, surrounded, yet mostly unseen. Going home is more than just a return to a place; it is a journey inward, in the spaces, people and feelings we inhabit, and the ones we leave behind. To me there is comfort in this journey, in familiar streets, in good friends and happy memories, home is not a destination; it is a place we carry with us.
