During the suffocating summer of 2023, I fled the sweat of Tbilisi and found myself alone in the forest of Kojori—just twenty minutes by bus, yet entirely deserted. The trees stood still, the birds had gone silent, and yet the forest was full of sound. It sang with wind and leaves, with light and absence.
These images were taken with a Holga 120, a camera known for its softness and unpredictability—perfect for capturing a state of disappearance. What you see here is not a document, but a kind of sensory blur: a place where landscape becomes memory and vision turns inward.
I walked with no map, letting myself get “lost” on purpose. These frames echo that experience—layered, imperfect, nearly vanishing. Things are there, and not there. You look once and see an infinity of trees. You look again and see a shadow of yourself—or maybe, in this universe, you are the shadow after all.
During the suffocating summer of 2023, I fled the sweat of Tbilisi and found myself alone in the forest of Kojori—just twenty minutes by bus, yet entirely deserted. The trees stood still, the birds had gone silent, and yet the forest was full of sound. It sang with wind and leaves, with light and absence.
These images were taken with a Holga 120, a camera known for its softness and unpredictability—perfect for capturing a state of disappearance. What you see here is not a document, but a kind of sensory blur: a place where landscape becomes memory and vision turns inward.
I walked with no map, letting myself get “lost” on purpose. These frames echo that experience—layered, imperfect, nearly vanishing. Things are there, and not there. You look once and see an infinity of trees. You look again and see a shadow of yourself—or maybe, in this universe, you are the shadow after all.
