Statement:

I stepped into a house where time had come to a standstill. It felt as though I had traveled fifty years into the past. Time seemed frozen in every corner of the home.

The objects, the worn furniture, the clothes hanging in the wardrobe, the books, gramophone records, children's toys, and dust-covered family albums—all had remained untouched. It was as if the inhabitants had suddenly been forced to leave, without even having the chance to gather their belongings. A migration that was harsh and unwilling.

The child who left that house must have been deeply attached to their doll, and the woman who departed undoubtedly wished to take her white wedding dress from the closet and carry it with her. Yet, sadly, life rarely allows us the luxury of holding on.

Sometimes we are compelled to let go—even of our family photo albums, filled with images of people who will never return.
As time passes, photographs cease to evoke only the sweetness of lived moments; instead, they become vessels of longing and deep sighs, reminders of absence and loss.

My encounter with this enchanting house coincided, by chance, with a documentary photography project in the fish market of Rasht. ///

The fish resting in scratched metal trays, their eyes wide open and mouths agape, reminded me of those photographs.

They were no longer symbols of life, vitality, or renewal. With their dull, lifeless eyes, they seemed to propel the viewer toward reflections on death and impermanence.

This series took shape somewhere between the caught fish and the shadows of those who are no longer here. It emerged and evolved in the solitude of the quarantine days during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Today, Between the Prey and Your Shadow is a narrative of life, death, nostalgia, and migration.

Nazly Abbasi