you’re here now.

Presented in retrospect like a diary, the photographs shown are a personal

archive of images taken from 2012-2016, when first learning how to use the 35mm
analog camera, and darkroom techniques. Simultaneously, these photographs were
taken at a time of personal turmoil, at the peak of a heroin addiction lasting
from 2012-2016.
“It’s really interesting how familiar all of your photos seem to me.
Everything from nondescript buildings, random words and items,
taking pictures of yourself but obstructing the face nonetheless, to
the casual syringe posted up in a public bathroom…it’s almost like
it’s forever full and forever about to be injected, and as such it is
frozen in time on your picture in its most powerful state. To me, at
least. It just never got better than that moment just before the shot.
Maybe on par with only the first cigarette right after.
You would think it would be a more striking image, more shocking,
but the casualness of it in itself is very habitual. I like that you didn’t
put any special attention on the syringes and the paraphernalia in
general.. just one picture slithered through, like, “yeah, this is totally
a normal part of my day.”
The buildings and the city also look a certain way. I remember how
isolating using seemed. I remember taking photos of myself and
stuff around me for what seemed like no reason, but now that I think
back with a clearer mind it seems that the reason was just a des-
perate search to leave some kind of trail, every pixel a breadcrumb
leading towards reassuring myself that yes, I exist, and yes, this day
happened, and this moment really happened, and I didn’t imagine
it and I didn’t dream it and I didn’t let it pass me by without taking
something to keep. God knows I couldn’t keep much of anything
else back then. I think my packrat tendencies today might also be a
deep and unconscious testament to that. There was also that feeling
of playing with death, whether or not I wanted to admit it then, like,
fully admit it, and somehow I felt like I was making marks and leav-
ing little windows for someone else to find should anything happen
to me, should i overdose again and this time there won’t be an EMT
hitting me with a triple dose of Narcan on a public bathroom floor in
a hot dog place. It was just… weirdly comforting, leaving little clues
like that, whether consciously or not.
Being an addict definitely led me to some weird corners of the city
I would have never found otherwise. The whole town just had a
different vibe to it. Every neighborhood was colored by what chem-
icals I could find there. It makes me remember looking around the
streets and the subway and wondering who else might be on their
way to get high, or looking up at endless rows of gaping windows
and trying to guess how many people inside might be doing drugs, or
just wishing to, or withdrawing. I looked at us and it didn’t seem to
me that we looked like junkies when we were sitting on stoops and
waiting for dealers and doing general junkie things. We often had
cute outfits on and makeup and nice things. Phones, cameras. Jackets
that definitely cost more than $20, and we even did pretty well at not
letting the sleeves get too snotty. It was really surreal, how different
my inner world was from what I was willing to show to most people.
That’s why, I think, both of us held on to each other so much and
still do. Because we saw it clearly and didn’t hold anything back and
we were one and the same just like we are now, but in a good way.
It’s crazy.
That photo where you can just see the word “hope” repeating. It
reminded me of how much I got off on the fact that I would go and
buy heroin on a street called “hope street” in Brooklyn. I remember
soaking in the irony, and enjoying watching a beautiful sunset over
the buildings with a bundle of dope in my hand as I have just missed
a whole day of classes that my mom paid for by going in debt. I
remember it seemed so cinematic, like it was all worth it, but really
I was just getting my fix while my life still seemed manageable.
Like, “this is only the second set of classes I missed this semester.
I can still catch up;” “I’ll plan ahead next time. I won’t run out of
drugs in the middle of a school day.” Oh, every junkie’s dream. To
live as usual and just be on heroin all the time. The days when it
still seemed possible are what we spend the rest of our addictions
chasing, I think. But anyway, I remember how seeing shards of
anything symbolizing light and hope and goodness in the midst of a
dark and expensive and drug-filled city made me want to document
it, especially if it was surrounded by derelict trash and in neglected
neighborhoods, because that’s the only way I knew how to keep
those concepts close, if that makes any sense.
And then, the pictures of your dad...It felt to me like there was a gap-
ing divide between you behind the camera and your father smiling in
front of it. There were a few photos, all from similar angles, almost
like you were hiding behind the camera while hanging out with
him, and feverishly documenting smiles and mundane, “normal”,
everyday moments because maybe it felt like he was going to notice
any second now and it will all come crashing down and nothing will
be “normal” again, even though in this “normal” walk that you’re
partaking in you’re already long since acting and pretending to fit in
there, in that scene, where you spend time with family and enjoy it,
without it seeming alien and tense and ridden with shame and fear. I
mean, I don’t know, I only say this because that’s exactly how I felt
whenever I would spend time with my mom. Anytime we spent time
together it was like walking on coals, every part of my body was in
tension and I was both happy for the “normal” moments still existing
somehow, and also ripped apart by guilt for not being able to get the
next shot out of my head - just acting my best self while fixating on
the perfect moment to ask her for an extra $20 without it seeming
desperate. And then after that, counting down the minutes until it
would be OK for me to leave without raising too much suspicion.
The heartlessness of using was reflected to me in her every smile,
and back then, I really didn’t care about much except keeping our re-
lationship good enough that she would still believe whatever story I
would spin so that she would still give me the extra $20. Everything
was a game of pretend, just spending time with her would crash and
burn my personal illusion of normalcy, like, how could you possibly
pretend that shooting dope half a dozen times a day is a perfectly
reasonable thing to do when you’re hanging out with a parent?
I hated it, so I avoided it as much as I could.”
- Sasha Davydova.