To those of us who cannot dream anymore

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To those of us who cannot dream anymore,

Not long after I arrived in New York City from China, I found myself caught between two states of mind. On the one hand, I felt adrift, unanchored, and enveloped by a vague sense of waiting—without knowing what I was waiting for. Sometimes I couldn’t even bring myself to leave my bedroom. On the other hand, I knew that the only way to find some personal resolution for my feelings was to step out into the real world.

This constant tension—between embracing the new and being held back by old fears—became the starting point for the photographs in To those of us who cannot dream anymore. I asked myself how I could translate such complexity into images. I realized that my own bedroom had become a symbol of psychological retreat, while the outside world was both a place of both potential growth and confrontation. In making these photographs, I began to reconstruct my relationship to these inner and outer worlds. The resulting photographs capture moments of small, specific emotional states—feeling caught by the sudden strike of sunlight, an overwhelming wave of anxiety when nothing particularly has gone wrong, or the contrasting tension of stepping into a world that feels at once inviting and intimidating. These experiences are deeply internal and rarely visible to others, but they have shaped who I am in this moment.

To represent this dichotomy, I created the project’s photographs in both staged and spontaneous ways. Sometimes I planned actions or chose settings; at other times, I let chance and improvisation guide me. This process allowed me to simulate both the controllable and uncontrollable aspects of life, reflecting how we navigate what we can manage and what simply happens to us. For example, I set the camera on a tripod and moved through the frame myself, allowing the resulting blur to express moments of hesitation or transformation. Through this work, I want viewers to feel my attitude towards these forces: we may be silent, but we are still capable of resolving or accepting them.

In To those of us who cannot dream anymore, I use my own body as the primary subject. I’m not trying to perform a role for others; instead, it’s about gestures—how I sit, move, pause, or look. Standing still might convey a sense of submission or introspection, while moving loosely through the frame suggests resistance. By using my body in this way, I transform everyday gestures into my own language. It is a way of using the body freely in a space where people usually think I should be passive or invisible. It’s about claiming the space to breathe—a quiet rebellion against powerlessness, and an honest way of existing.

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