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© Leanne Boulton, All Rights Reserved
Street photography from Glasgow, Scotland.
A previously unpublished shot from June 2018 with an anonymised subject that is perfect to answer the oft asked question: Why am I not currently doing street photography?
I have CPTSD (Complex Post-Traumatic Disorder) and have suffered with it for 20 years.
I managed to live through the technicolour nightmares, flashbacks, intrusive memories and triggered hypervigilance with a number of coping strategies but the Covid pandemic interuppted those and my symptoms worsened greatly. Over the past 3 years my CPTSD became unmanageable and I became really very ill.
I have recently finished a year of intensive trauma therapy which has been a great help but the road to recovery is a long process. Most days I am still unable to even leave the house and face people, and this explains why I haven't even touched my camera for the past 5 months.
I am making progress and am proud of what I have acheived to overcome these difficulties but the road ahead will be rocky, and may take some time and intense effort. I do fully intend to return to my beloved 'people photography' as soon as I am able to do so.
This is why your continued support while I have been uploading older unpublished shots and re-edits has been invaluable. I am grateful beyond measure for your kind words, favourites and support and it has, at times, kept me going and determined to pick up my camera once again.
I recently read someone else's words on CPTSD that sum up the difficulties quite well. I'll leave this here to give you an idea of what I am up against and am determined to beat. Thank you all so very, very much.
PTSD is a living hell but I am determined to not let those that did this to me, win.
Take care everyone.
---
PTSD isn't just flashbacks and memories.
It's not feeling safe when there is no logical reason for it.
It's intrusive thoughts that change your whole mood in a heartbeat.
It's hypervigilance, seeing threats everywhere.
It's not being able to trust your own instincts because you don't know what is a real threat or what is just in your mind.
It's poor sleep because if you close your eyes you know you will see it all again.
It's not being able to function day to day because you are broken and exhausted.
It's feeling like a failure, feeling like you deserve it and feeling like you will be like this forever.
It's feeling like you can't trust anyone so you would rather be alone.
It's constantly dealing with physical symptoms like headaches, nausea and palpitations.
It's like living in a prison made from your own mind beacuse of what someone else did to you.
It's living with the consequences of someone else's actions and the anger that can bring too.
It's getting triggered into a traumatised state by sometimes seemingly random things.
It's being unable to cope with even the slightest thing that goes wrong.
It's blaming yourself and hating yourself for 'failing' to stand up against those who caused the trauma.
for "Tattered Cultures, Mended Stories" and exhibition at the honolulu academy of arts
up through Sept 27th
This invitational contemporary fiber art exhibition includes works by twenty-two international fiber artists who are members of the Textile Society of America. The exhibition explores how dominant ideologies of a specific time and place often tatter the cultural heritage of the less dominant and culturally diverse.
a path too steep, too quiet, too endless. but he faced it, unshaken. behind him, the weight of time; ahead, the unknowable curve. sheep grazed indifferently. the ski lifts slept. and yet, somehow, he moved — not forward, but deeper into the stillness of being.
caught in a shard of sunlight, she sits at the crossroads of palma's antiquity, phone pressed against her ear, her story folding into the stone and light. this corner of the old town, a whisper away from the royal palace and the cathedral, is her temporary sanctuary. here, the world narrows down to the conversation, the words that bridge distances, that connect, that resonate against the hush of history. the walls, soaked with the sun's last declaration, listen in. even as life's orchestra plays on, there, for a moment, she's an island in the stream of city life, her presence a single note in the symphony of the everyday.
this was palma during semana santa. not the polished view from postcards, but the moments in between – when the procession pauses, when a glance escapes the robe, when the mask slips just a bit. behind every tradition are people, gestures, breath. i wandered, asked, waited. sometimes they noticed, sometimes they didn’t. but i felt the weight of ritual brushing against the mundane.
parked in the narrow calle can xado, the transporter seemed ordinary at first glance. but there, resting casually on the wheel, was a hand that told an entirely different story. ismael ortega suarez’s tattoo wasn’t just ink—it was art alive. the leopard, sharp-eyed and fierce, leaped from his skin, a symbol of untamed spirit amidst the routine of daily life. it’s moments like these—unexpected, vivid, and entirely human—that remind us of the stories etched into the fabric of existence, in plain sight and hidden in shadow.
Sometimes people carry a spark that makes the whole day brighter without even trying. A small, playful reminder that warmth often comes from each other.
Dedicated to the goddess of love Lelya.
Support my work on Boosty — link in bio.
I saw this structure on an aimless walk and stopped to wonder.
Not because it was remarkable, but because it resembles life.
Well… at least mine.
A dystopian construct, cold, mechanical, brutal in its design.
A tower not meant to be climbed easily, maybe not at all.
Its first warning is the lock, sealed and distant.
To me, that lock has always been the chaos I came from.
The violence of the Middle East, the protests, the bombs.
The years of watching my world bleed.
It wasn’t just a barrier, it was the thing that kept me in.
Locked into a path. A geography. A profession. A trauma.
Then there are the thorns.
A crown of metal, bureaucratic, sharp, and senseless.
Each point a checkpoint. A passport stamped with suspicion.
A file confiscated. A night visitor pounding on the door.
The years I stayed just sane enough to keep documenting,
just mad enough to know I had to leave.
And I did leave. I climbed.
And for a while, the way was clear.
A straight ladder, rung after rung.
And now I’m close. Close to the top.
A new country, a good job, a quiet life.
It’s good. It really is.
But still I find myself asking:
What comes after the top?
Because we can’t fly.
There’s no platform up here. No wings.
Just air, and the quiet realization
that once you’ve escaped the thing that shaped you,
you’re no longer sure what to do with the freedom.
So we fall. Or we jump.
Or we climb back down.
Or worse, we go in circles.
A never-ending loop of successes and failures.
And that’s what haunts me.
The full circle.
These days, I walk alone, camera in hand.
The same Canon 5D Mark II I once carried into smoke and fire.
Now it’s just me and it, wandering quiet streets, wooded paths, stairwells to nowhere.
I don’t shoot with purpose anymore. I don’t chase headlines or history.
I walk, aimlessly sometimes. It's strapped across my shoulder.
A weight I welcome, the only thing that feels genuine in this new life.
This camera is the only witness I have left.
The last thread connecting who I was to who I’ve become.
It knows where I’ve been, what I’ve seen, what I’ve survived.
It was there when the shouting started.
There when the bullets came.
There when I bled.
And it’s still here now.
A friend in exile.
A ghost that sees me.
A silent companion that reminds me,
Not just of what was, but what should have been.
And in that moment, standing beneath this tower, I raised the lens toward it.
Was I trying to see myself beyond the metal crown?
Or should I have looked down?
Finding the version of me still bleeding at the base?
I didn’t feel like a photographer anymore. I felt like a fraud.
Like I was borrowing a language I used to be fluent in.
That camera once gave me purpose. Now it gives me questions.
I don’t know what I’m trying to capture anymore.
The present? The past? proof that I still exist between them?
But I clicked the shutter anyway.
Because maybe standing in that tension,
between who I was, and who I’ve become,
is the only truth I have left to frame.
I don’t know what comes next.
But I know the tower is real.
And for now, I’m still standing.
Somewhere between the base and the top.
Fragments - 10
See my Flickr set Tribute to New York on 9/11 2013:
www.flickr.com/photos/sunnydazzled/sets/72157635463352617/
I live in New York now, just north of the city, but on 9/11/2001 I lived on the west coast in the small town where I grew up. Sometimes I wonder how much New Yorkers knew about how all the country (and much of the world) was emotionally impacted by the event. Later I found that there was even a man who had lived in Oregon and helped to create a nearby wildlife refuge, who was killed on the flight that crashed in PA on that day. Even so far away as Oregon, we wanted New York to know that we stood with them, we were one country together despite any distance. I watched the news all morning in shock, close in front of the tv and I cried and wondered how many people were inside these towers when they fell. I went upstairs and took 3 ribbons and braided them into red, white and blue and tied it around my wrist, just so I felt that I had done something. I still have it. In the days that followed, I saw flags everywhere on cars and homes, businesses, and clothing. Everyone wanted to show their love for New York as we heard the stories of the brave firefighters and emergency crews working at ground zero. I heard a little song on the radio with a line I"ll never forget "The sound of the firemen pounding up the stairs, while we were coming down…"
A travel agency in Portland saw their business slow rapidly when people were afraid to travel, and suddenly thought of how this must be even worse in New York. They put together a group to journey to NYC to support local restaurants, theaters, hotels, etc. Around 1000 people joined the trip under the motto "Oregon Loves New York", including a school teacher from my church. She shared her remarkable experience when they returned. She said many things, and described the site of the attack, but what I remember most is that she told me the people here in NY were so kind and grateful for the support that they wouldn't even take the money, but instead kept insisting on picking up the bills for meals and coffees whenever they heard about why the group had come.
I am proud of this small connection to my old home and my new home, though I'm not sure many people knew about it. The anniversary of September 11 seemed like a good time to share the story.
You can read about the adventure in these articles:
www.sylmarscribbler.com/2011/09/oregon-loves-new-york.html
www.oregonlive.com/opinion/index.ssf/2011/09/flight_for_f...
You can see the full song of the firefighters here:
Walking through my quiet neighborhood in Niittykumpu, Espoo, I didn’t expect to feel the weight of an old memory pressing down on me. But as I stepped beneath Haukilahdenkatu bridge, something about the way the darkness enclosed me, with only a thin gap revealing the sky above, pulled me back to a life that feels both distant and near.
A past where the shadow wasn’t cast by a bridge but by prison walls. Where the only glimpse of the outside world was through a small barred window. A patch of sky—just enough to remind you that freedom existed, but not enough to reach it.
I wasn’t there for long, but long enough to know what it means to be trapped. And long enough to never forget those I left behind. Journalists, activists, voices that refused to be silenced. Some were released. Some remain locked away. Some—too many—will never walk out again.
For so many of us, the greatest dream wasn’t anything else but simply to step out of the shadows and feel the fullness of the light. Again.
Fragments - 02
nenadstojkovicart.com/shared?type=album&id=3
YOU CAN FIND LARGE NUMBER OF PHOTOS UNDER CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE ON MY OFFICIAL WEBSITE. THE KEYWROD SEARCH IS IN THE UPPER MIDDLE CORNER.
Since the text turned out long, I put the full version in the comments. I know not everyone enjoys reading that much, so thank you to those who take the time.
at munich's gateway to the world, the airport thrums with a quiet rhythm in the off-hours. amidst the sprawling, pristine halls, there's a warmth to the scene—a couple, hands intertwined, walking together. they move through the clinical precision of the departure lounge, a human touch in stark contrast to the cold geometry of tiles and the mechanical glide of walkways. their closeness whispers a narrative of shared journeys, a personal story unfolding silently in the vast, impersonal transit space. it's a moment of connection, a small narrative of togetherness, in the grand theatre of travel.
This moving image captures a moment of remembrance at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. The weathered newspaper headline, "Lifelong Pals Killed in Vietnam," tells the story of William Jacob Goldberg and Owen Niel Garnet, both from Miami, who lost their lives in 1968—Billy in Quang Nam Province and Owen in Bien Hoa Province. Their names, etched into the black granite, reflect their ultimate sacrifice. Visiting this memorial reminds us of the personal stories behind each name and the profound impact of their loss—a humbling tribute to courage, friendship, and the cost of war.
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in a quiet moment before the mirror, where lines and stories merge on his skin, the tattoo artist seems to be in conversation with his own reflection. the black-and-white light heightens the contrasts, making the tattoos appear like a wordless diary, telling of experiences, passions, and inner struggles. the gilded frame around the reflection adds a timeless quality, as if this moment hovers between reality and a deeper, hidden self. this portrait captures not only an image of the artist but also a quiet question posed to himself and to us: who are we behind the images we show to others?
this was palma during semana santa. not the polished view from postcards, but the moments in between – when the procession pauses, when a glance escapes the robe, when the mask slips just a bit. behind every tradition are people, gestures, breath. i wandered, asked, waited. sometimes they noticed, sometimes they didn’t. but i felt the weight of ritual brushing against the mundane.
This is the tenth in a chronological series of art-journal pieces I'll be sharing on my Flickr site. The pieces, which document my life from the summer of 2011 through 2012, explore the complex feelings I was experiencing at the time regarding my relationship with my boyfriend as well as ways in which I knew I was betraying myself by staying with him . . .
Black and white portrait of an elderly woman wearing a headscarf and patterned blouse, smiling warmly in an outdoor setting, Hungary, 1950s.
In the vibrant Chinatown Lunar New Year festivities of 2024, a woman captures tradition and modernity, adorned in red, clutching a dragon puppet amidst a bustling crowd, immortalising a moment against the backdrop of fluttering red lanterns.
in the shadowy corners of plaza bendinat, where the quiet, worn steps of the staircase offer refuge, i found two students tucked away, seeking solace from the demands of their day. their relaxed posture and whispered conversations spoke of stolen moments of freedom, away from watchful eyes. the image, captured in stark black and white, highlights the contrast between the cold, hard lines of the staircase and the warmth of their camaraderie. here, amidst the mundane setting of a small, somewhat shabby mall, these fleeting moments of youthful rebellion and friendship are immortalized.
On display at the Smithsonian National Museum of American History in Washington, D.C., this weathered, handmade raft stands as a haunting, deeply moving symbol of human determination and the desperate quest for freedom. Crafted from foam, wood, and salvaged materials, the small boat was used by Cuban migrants attempting to reach the United States by sea—a dangerous and often deadly journey.
Set against a projection of gently undulating ocean waves, the raft is part of the museum’s American Stories exhibition, which showcases artifacts representing key turning points and narratives in the nation’s social and cultural fabric. This particular artifact tells the story of Cuban balseros—rafters who fled the island during waves of political unrest, particularly in the early 1990s following the collapse of the Soviet Union and Cuba’s resulting economic crisis.
The raft's construction is stark and sobering: styrofoam hull, layers of cracked paint, salvaged lumber, and hand-lashed oars. There are no navigation instruments, no safety features—just hope and the will to survive. It was built for one purpose: to float long enough to escape. It tells a raw truth about immigration: that it is often an act of courage, desperation, and hope all at once.
Displayed under glass, the raft invites quiet reflection. Visitors circle the artifact slowly, confronted with both its fragility and the enormity of what it represents. The surrounding exhibit panels detail personal accounts of balseros, U.S. Coast Guard encounters, and the political policies that shaped their fate—including the now-defunct “wet foot, dry foot” policy that once allowed Cuban migrants who reached U.S. soil to seek asylum.
This image captures not just a physical object, but a story of risk, loss, and the pursuit of freedom. The vivid blue ocean background reinforces the peril of the voyage and the vastness of the journey these individuals undertook. It also serves as a reminder that immigration stories are woven into the heart of American identity, and that freedom has never come easily for those seeking it.
Whether viewed as a piece of political history, a human rights symbol, or a meditation on resilience, this raft is one of the museum’s most emotionally resonant artifacts. It speaks not only to Cuban-American history, but also to global struggles for liberty and survival.
This photo stands as a poignant visual reminder that every object in a museum once had a human hand behind it—and a human heart within it, hoping for something better on the other shore.
Alone in her home now. All her family members passed away in the recent Ebola epidemic.
March 2015 we visited Liberia to do a story on Ebola and its survivors for UNFPA. Interested in the complete video story on surviving Ebola? See the video here: vimeo.com/121027067
In this journal entry I discuss my newfound sobriety (as of last month) and my ambivalence about it (which led to a brief slip, although I reclaimed my sobriety rather quickly afterward). I also describe what it's like to have to use the tapering method to get sober, since--believe it or not--no detox facility (at least in this area) accepts anyone with an active eating disorder.
“We walked during the night and hid during the day so that the armed groups wouldn’t spot us. It took us several days to reach the border. I crossed with five relatives who helped me carry my young children as we fled.”
In late 2017 and early 2018, as violence escalated in the Central African Republic, close to 30 000 new refugees crossed the border into Southern Chad, seeking safety. Bertine, a 24-year-old widow and mother of 4 children, is one of them. As part of the assistance provided to the newly arrived, to which EU Humanitarian Aid contributes, she has been receiving food every month. At the distribution point, she gets to choose between different products.
“Today I took more millet, rice, oil and salt. Pasta, sardines and other similar goods are a luxury I cannot afford. But rice and millet are more economical, and I can make porridge or white rice with them all month long.”
© 2018 European Union (photo by Dominique Catton)
Survival rates when getting Ebola are slim. The disease is a painful event that takes around three weeks time. In a quarantined environment, you see people around you die every day, just hoping that you won't be next.
Jewel is a survivor, but many family members around her died in a period just over two months time. When returning home, she was rejected by her community out of fear of spreading the disease to other people. Forced out of her home, she now lives with her sister.
Ironically, people that survive are immune to the Ebola virus, making them the perfect personnel to work in a Ebola Treatment Unit (ETU) seeing people encounter the drama you've just been through too. Jewell is working for a six-months period in the ETU she was staying, trying to overcome the horrific experience she has been through.
March 2015 we visited Liberia to do a story on Ebola and its survivors for UNFPA. Interested in the complete video story on surviving Ebola? See the video here: vimeo.com/121027067
Walas Bibi and Zubaida often spend the day together. They play and have fun with the other children or with the flowers that give the hospital garden so much colour. This is how they try to forget the pain of the wounds caused by a war that keeps making so much noise outside.
© EMERGENCY 2019. All rights reserved. Licensed to the European Union under conditions.
Helena Henry (30) and her brother where first of her household to get Ebola of a small cousin who was staying over. He died (age 4) and soon after more people in her family became ill. "After calling for an ambulance for over 12 days, they finally showed up. But in the meantime my younger brother already died here in house".
She went to the ETU for treatment, but some people were afraid to go there, so they remained at home. After three weeks fighting for her life, she survived Ebola. When returning home she found out that her husband, her sister and another brother, her aunt & uncle and their daughter and sister-in-law also got the virus. "None of them survived. Now I live in a empty house, taking care of my two children, four children of my mother and one of my brother".
Currently she is receiving food aid from WFP to get by. "When this aid stops, I don't know how I can feed 7 children".
March 2015 we visited Liberia to do a story on Ebola and its survivors for UNFPA. Interested in the complete video story on surviving Ebola? See the video here: vimeo.com/121027067
Only her grandchildren remain, all other family members passed away through Ebola, including her husband and all her children. She is the only one that got the virus and survived.
March 2015 we visited Liberia to do a story on Ebola and its survivors for UNFPA. Interested in the complete video story on surviving Ebola? See the video here: vimeo.com/121027067
When fighting broke out in Kipese, in North Kivu province, Sylvie Kahindo was at the market while her husband was in the fields. They fled quickly to the mountains nearby, leaving everything behind.
"After the war, I didn't know what to do. My husband and I no longer had the strength to go to the fields because we barely ate. My children cried all the time,” recounts Sylvie.
Sylvie received cash-based assistance that allowed her to meet the immediate basic needs of her family and herself. "Now that I have just received help, my family and I have been eating well and we will have the strength to go to the fields and my children will no longer be hungry, at least for a while,” she says.
© 2018, NRC/Martin Lukongo. All rights reserved. Lisenced to the European Union under conditions.
Husna and her family have been in Ongonyo camp since the floods struck her home in Kenya’s Tana river County in April. Her baby, Esha, whom she delivered in a nearby hospital is doing well but her 3-year-old son Abubakar is not feeling well. She came at the mobile clinic, run by Kenya Red Cross with EU humanitarian support. “We came from far away on a motorcycle. Life is difficult. Everything, things such as milk, cost money. We did receive plastic sheets, cooking pots and some food. We will stay here because there is still flood water in our village. There is no house, nowhere to go back to and nothing to do.” Husna and her husband were growing crops but everything has been destroyed. Husna’s son was given antibiotics by the clinical officer.
©2018 European Union (photographer: Anouk Delafortrie)
March 2015 we visited Liberia to do a story on Ebola and its survivors for UNFPA. Interested in the complete video story on surviving Ebola? See the video here: vimeo.com/121027067
Walas Bibi and Zubaida are hospitalised at the EMERGENCY Surgical Centre for War Victims in Lashkar-Gah and walk together around the hospital corridors.
© EMERGENCY 2019. All rights reserved. Licensed to the European Union under conditions.
"People were talking a lot about the disease. You shouldn't shake any hands to prevent getting the disease" Mammie Bindah (38) says. Still her husband got the disease, who was working at a clinic. Mammie took care for him for about two weeks before he died. In the process, Mammie contracted Ebola. She was throwing up blood when she got to the ETU. This is where she fought the disease for 20 days. "After 12 days I started feeling a bit better. When I recovered I found out that my children ran away, out of fear. I took a while before they returned back home."
March 2015 we visited Liberia to do a story on Ebola and its survivors for UNFPA. Interested in the complete video story on surviving Ebola? See the video here: vimeo.com/121027067
“Here, war was terrible. Our homes were set on fire. It's why we had to flee." This is what Francine Kanzanza recalls of the conflict in her home village of Kipese, in North Kivu province, in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). Francine, a mother of 3, and her family found refuge at a nearby village.
Through EU humanitarian aid funding, the Norwegian Refugee Council (NRC) can provide vulnerable people affected by conflict in eastern provinces of the DRC with immediate food aid and cash to buy food and essential household items like pans, clothes, and blankets.
© 2018, NRC/Martin Lukongo. All rights reserved. Lisenced to the European Union under conditions.
The father of Vivian Kekula (26) was working in a local clinic as a nurse. That's where he contracted Ebola. When he got sick in June, her family didn't think about Ebola at first. The ambulance brought him to an ETU, but in the process he spreaded the disease to Vivian's mother, sister and a cousin. And then to Vivian.
People where suffering from internal bleeding. "This was hard to watch. I was crying because I was scared. But people that where treating me where encouraging me, that gave me strength". When she got out she heard that all family members somehow survived the disease. "That's when we celebrated".
Now she has a six month contract working for Save the Children to talk to survivors and hear their stories to see what aftercare is needed.
March 2015 we visited Liberia to do a story on Ebola and its survivors for UNFPA. Interested in the complete video story on surviving Ebola? See the video here: vimeo.com/121027067
Kavira, 35 years old, was left destitute by the armed conflict in Kipese, a small town located in North Kivu province. "My house was burned down, all our belongings were gone. We could no longer hold out because of hunger and the cold at night because we were living outside," she says.
Kavira is hoping to rebuild her life. "Now with the money I received, I bought food and sheets for my new house that my husband will build. I am very happy.”
© 2018, NRC/Martin Lukongo. All rights reserved. Lisenced to the European Union under conditions.
Receiving vital assistance restores smiles to people who have endured suffering and hunger because of conflict.
The North Kivu province in the DRC has faced inter-ethnic clashes and political instability for years. More than 1 million people have had to flee their homes for safety. It is the highest number of displaced people in one province amongst all regions in the country.
Having lost their homes and belongings, displaced people suffer from food shortages and lack basic essential items. Some may eventually decide to return to their homes, only to find their houses pillaged or destroyed. On top of the volatile security situation, North Kivu province is one of the 3 provinces in the DRC where the affected by the Ebola epidemic.
© 2018, NRC/Ephrem Chiruza. All rights reserved. Lisenced to the European Union under conditions.