The series looks at brief moments when individual expression surfaces inside a place

defined almost entirely by restriction and control. I have always been drawn to the

presence people carry within their environments, and in North Korea that tension

becomes especially direct. To document this tension, I relied on observing, waiting, and

allowing the environment to dictate when the photograph could happen. Patience was

the only real method available.

These restrictions extended to us visitors as well. Government minders were embedded

within our group, closely monitoring both what we photographed and what we discussed.

We were given explicit instructions on what could not be photographed. Soldiers,

infrastructure, signs of poverty, or improperly framed political imagery, and much more.

This set clear boundaries around the narrative we were allowed to produce.

At the end of my visit to the DPRK, as the train approached the Chinese border, guards

boarded to review the images on our cameras. I had separated my photographs across

two SD cards, keeping non-approved images hidden on my person. This final inspection

was a stark reminder of the constant surveillance the state exerts.

Authority and structure are the most visible aspects of North Korea, and they are often

what images emphasize. What interested me more was how ordinary life continues

within that framework. I wanted to observe how people move through their days and to

look for small, familiar signals of human experience that persist even in an extreme

Environment.

Quiet moments such as pauses to read, brief curiosity, boredom, or distraction felt more

revealing than overt symbols of control. These moments are not dramatic, but they are

shared across cultures, and they offered a way to understand the place through

continuity rather than spectacle.

What stood out most were ordinary, unremarkable expressions. Bored workers, tired

commuters, friends sharing cigarettes, people joking quietly, moments of fatigue or

distraction. These weren’t acts of resistance or individuality, but familiar responses to

daily routines that we all do.

Once the state recedes from the frame, what remains is a collection of people

responding to their environment in ways that feel widely recognizable. They are simply

human, and it was that normalcy, rather than any dramatic gesture, that stayed with me.

They remind us that the people within the frame are not representatives of a state or

ideology, but individuals responding to their environment in ways we do ourselves. In

that sense, it humanizes subjects not by capturing exceptional moments, but by

revealing how ordinary expressions remain visible across vastly different social, political,

and environmental conditions.

Yes. Before visiting the DPRK, much of what I knew came from extremes, either

accounts of severe repression from defectors or the highly controlled narratives

presented by the state. I arrived with uncertainty about how much of ordinary life would

be visible at all.

What challenged those assumptions was how consistently familiar human behaviours

surfaced. I shared cigarettes and food, laughed with strangers, and attempted simple

conversations across limited language. We played arcade games, and showed each

other photos of our families. These interactions were brief and constrained, but they

reflected the same deep desire for connection and shared experience I’ve found

everywhere else on my travels. My assumption was this search for connection was

incompatible in places such as this.

Limitation greatly shaped both what could be photographed and how observation had to

happen. Physical movement was controlled, social interaction was monitored, and

political boundaries defined what was considered acceptable imagery. As a result,

photography became less about searching for subjects and more about responding to

what briefly revealed itself.

Ethical considerations were central to how I approached the work. I chose to travel with

an operator who has experienced in navigating the cultural and political realities of the

country, and I followed guidance intended to avoid placing people at risk. I was

conscious that images can carry consequences beyond the moment they are made. The

work focuses on moments that could exist without harm to the people within the frame,

while still acknowledging the conditions that shape them.

I avoided images that reduced people to symbols of hardship or spectacle, and focused

instead on moments that reflected ordinary presence. The goal was not to define

individuals by their circumstances, but to photograph them as they appeared within their

daily environments. The intention was to present familiarity, rather than judgment and

shock, to guide the viewer’s understanding.

I hope viewers come away with a more nuanced understanding of the place and the

people within it. Rather than seeing individuals as extensions of a political system, I want

the work to create moments that bridge the extreme distance of the DPRK’s reality

through familiarity. These photographs are not meant to explain North Korea, but to

complicate the way it is often viewed and imagined.

If the work succeeds, it’ll shift attention away from spectacle and toward understanding.

The takeaway is not a conclusion about the state, but an awareness of how ordinary

human rhythm persists even in environments defined by constraint.

I hope the work adds complexity to how daily life within authoritative systems is visually

represented. These environments are often photographed through symbols of power or

extremes of suffering, which can flatten the experience of the people living within them.

By focusing on small moments of ordinary presence, the work offers a quieter insight.