I could never quite pinpoint where my fascination with photography started. Nor did I understand my decision of moving half way across the world to a place that felt like a silent mosh pit of cultures and fighting ideas to no avail. ​ Maybe it was the photobooks of my family growing up. Maybe it was the work of Soviet photographers I saw growing up. Maybe it was old American magazines my mum brought back from the States. Maybe it was those photos of all the wars that happened to my people before I was born that I saw in the museums and history books. Maybe it was the desperate wanting to reclaim moments of my life that I felt helpless against.  ​ All the maybes never helped, they were irritating thoughts. Where I’m from, it’s a luxury to own a camera, and even then, as a creative pursuit, it was never a viable option. Then I moved to Melbourne, my current home. It was never quite clear to me why I felt so alone, like Melbourne was giving me the cold shoulder regardless of my attempts at saying hello. I spent countless days and nights walking and napping on public transport. Slowly I realised, that I was never alone, that we’re all very tired, and that we’re all very lonely together. It’s a cathartic moment, held firmly by my annoyed curiosity, urging me to start learning. The process of making a photograph that carries a life of its own. The process of making our loneliness appear on these images, relevant, felt, and shared.  ​ My photographs of Melbourne are my perspectives, at arms length, disorganized observation of an outsider. This place, to me, is its people, its roads, its rails, its corners. Its undeniable loneliness resembles beauty within all moments of absolute tolerance, hopeful that things will be better. And it will.