The Shape of the Invisible
Yana Northen • 25 August 2025
Capturing the Invisible
Today I watched the wind and gazed at clouds drifting into the distance.
How my hair lifted into the air, how the invisible touched me—and vanished.
I thought about time—how much it resembles the wind.
We cannot see it, we cannot hold it, yet it is always here: moving, touching, passing through us.
I decided to make the invisible visible.
Every breath of wind I captured with my camera.
A click—and the moment is preserved.
A click—and what has gone remains in memory.
A click—and I freeze the breath of time.
This series is about fluidity and brevity, about what will never return.
Every movement of air is like life, a thought, a touch: it exists, and in the same second, it is gone.
I recall my husband’s words: “I only believe in what I can see and touch with my hands.”
But there is wind, there is sound, there is love, there is time.
They are invisible, yet they exist.
We live inside this invisible.
These photographs are my way of touching it.
They are about time that slips away, about memory that preserves, about life that passes,
and about how even in the briefest breath of wind, there is eternity.
Thoughts on time, life’s fleeting moments, and discovering your inner compass amidst the rush of days.
Honouring my uncle’s memory through art, music, and the wisdom he shared about living life to the fullest.
Exploring how flowers, emotions, and images intersect — one layer of reality over another.
Planting poppies in my garden was my unconscious way of mourning my husband—only recently did I understand their deep, symbolic meaning.
A brief reflection on change, loss, and quiet presence. How one bare tree in a blooming garden became a reminder that everything passes, everything moves — and sometimes, the most important thing we can do is simply be.
A quiet morning. A small mirror. A body, remembered.
In this letter-like reflection, I explore what happens when we pause long enough to truly meet ourselves. Through a series of movements — gaze, touch, presence — I reconnect with my body not as an object, but as a part of me that feels, remembers, and responds.
This is a continuation of the project A Conversation with My Body — where photography and words become a form of healing, presence, and quiet truth.
A quiet meditation on memory, loss, and what remains of us when we’re gone. Through a daughter’s gesture and the few objects left behind — old photographs, a worn belt, and a watch — this story reflects on how life continues in traces, in light, in dust, in love remembered. Accompanied by a symbolic photograph capturing the intimacy of this moment.
A deeply personal letter from the body to the self — an invitation to listen, feel, and reconnect. This message speaks about pain, silence, self-compassion, and the unbreakable bond between mind and body.
A visual reflection on how ordinary objects reveal our emotions and thoughts — a photo collage made over one week.