He’s standing near the shuttered entrance of a shop, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind. There’s no mistaking that he’s been through it — but there’s something else in his eyes too. Not just tiredness, but defiance.
I tell him about my project — photographing people who’ve been homeless and people who haven’t, so you can’t tell who’s who from the picture alone. He listens, then shrugs and says, “Yeah, I’m homeless. But I’m still standing.”
We talk for a while. He tells me how it started, how losing a place once can send you down a road that’s hard to come back from. He talks about prison, about plans that fell apart, about the small things he does to keep going. He’s blunt, but there’s no bitterness in it — just the truth as it is.
I raise the camera. He doesn’t force a smile, doesn’t pose. He just looks straight at me, and the weight of his story is right there in the frame.
Update: Since taking this photograph, I have learned from the charity that was supporting him that he has died. I have chosen to include this image in the project in honour of the fact that he existed — because every life matters, and every story deserves to be seen.
