No Expiry:

Preface

This is a project about sexual abuse and assault, and the marks and ripples they leave behind. One of the most important questions photographers need to ask, when approaching a topic like this, is whether or not one even should. Or to be specific, what gives me in particular the right to step into this space, capture these images, and be a voice in the ongoing conversation? When I first began No Expiry back in 2019, I didn’t know enough about the questions to ask the right ones, but I did have an answer to this. I was working in London with fashion & agencies. So while I knew how to set up shoots, I’d never attempted anything so personal, or dangerous. But I had something I needed to say. My childhood sexual abuse had crept back into the present, bringing with it an unexpected level of messy introspection, but also stirring within me a desire to express my reactions to it through art. So, while this may indeed be a project about sexual abuse/assault, it’s also a project made by a survivor, someone carrying a little more damage at the outset than they realised— a creative technician who believed they were operating carefully, but with no concept of how deeply the work would shape aspects of their world as time progressed. Working on this project has been a rare gift in many ways, but I’m also hoping that I’ll never again find myself in the midst of something as difficult to remain detached from as this soon became.

But No Expiry isn’t about me. This is just my preface. And, to be honest, in an earlier draft of the book, this page didn’t exist. You didn’t need to hear my opinions; I wanted the images and brief captions to speak for themselves. I didn’t want any opportunity or obligation to bring up statistics, or the role gender plays, or any of the dry or awful stuff that takes one away from the humans who experienced the things they did. And I certainly didn’t want to spout platitudes about courage, or feed any tropes surrounding depictions of sexual violence or trauma in the mainstream. What I did hope to achieve was to create the chance for a series of portraits to address the many complicated questions people often field regarding awful things that happened a long time ago. All good questions (“Did he get away with it?” “Why did it take so long for you to come forward?” “How has it affected your relationships?”) but all with answers too nuanced, too in-the-moment for words. Through images, I hoped there may be a way to satisfy many of the questions without attempting to answer any of them directly at all.

The kernel of this idea came in a flash, back in September 2018. Dr Christine Blasey Ford was speaking before the U.S. House Judiciary Committee regarding an accusation of teenage sexual assault by a man who would go on to successfully serve as an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court. A difficult moment for anyone to face, let alone how amplified and politicised the moment had become. During one especially maddening line of questioning, I saw it – that thing I’ve sometimes noticed a survivor does whenever I’ve held space for somebody sharing a SA experience. It’s a look people only seem to get when talking about past traumas openly. Not necessarily a sadness, or an anger. More of a tired acceptance, a weight or passenger, one they are very accustomed to being in the presence of. Something that, without a word, has the power to dismiss all doubts or details. How long, or who said, or are you certain that… Details, time… do they even to matter? Shit happened, but here we are now, and here’s where we carrying it. Our bodies remember, and they have their own voices, speaking only the truth should we take the time to notice.

And so that day in September 2018, Dr Blasey Ford stood there before the world, legally compelled to answer a series of difficult questions. But for me she didn’t need to speak a word – there it was: that weight, that passenger. Her strength and honesty was so inspiring to see, and it gave me hope. I wondered if there might be a way to reveal that same composure in others, without the harm, without the media circus, the retraumatising, or the death threats. To find a way to let people’s faces and bodies express themselves with the same honesty, but without the pressure to clarify or explain. Simply be seen, felt, heard, for how things are, right now.

It was always going to be photographs. But it’s all good and well to think like the photographer I was: develop a set of technical and visual rules, put some ads out there into the world, and wait for the project to shoot itself. The reality of the nuance No Expiry demanded was far more challenging. Hundreds of real people in both London and Edinburgh came forward, each with real histories, real pain, and something real to say. Every person needed to be treated with unique respect, each with such varied experiences, arrays of triggers, and at very different stages of healing. What it meant was that many of the straightforward aspects of my existing photography practice suddenly involved a much larger conversation, every time.  Take the basic question of where we would sit during the session. Some people preferred that I visit them at home, where they felt most secure. Others drew a line at meeting with a male stranger alone anywhere indoors, but many were also understandably uncomfortable at having our conversation anywhere too public; the middle-ground was sometimes elusive, the discussions and compromises subtle. And in equal measure, many others didn’t care about the location at all, happy to take a seat anywhere provided I came good on the promise of a decent coffee.

But this example is only one of base-level logistics. Emotions. Trauma. Confidentiality. Safety. After-care. Image use. All important considerations, each with a unique set of factors decided by total strangers answering ads by filling in a rather simple online form. While most of the hundreds who reached out would disappear after a reply or two, there were a handful I wound up communicating with for several months before we met up – I felt quite prepared for those few. Almost. Others I knew almost nothing about (a first name and a five-word summary of their story), an unknown quantity until the moment they’d approach the “tall guy with the tripod” outside the coffee shop. Somehow we’d always find a way to connect on the fly, like a couple of very old mates catching up. Others I’d stand waiting for outside the coffee shop, but then not hear from again. If we did make it to a session, once we sat, some would need more time, while others simply couldn’t wait to get talking. Some would need that box of tissues I always carried. (A couple of times, that person was me.) Others brought their partners along for support, which sometimes lead to wonderful group discussions once I’d packed up the camera. Sometimes we got rained on. Sometimes the flash didn’t work. Sometimes an emotional moment would be interrupted by a curious retiree wanting to talk about my camera. Or sometimes we’d suddenly be joined by a curious dog, in a flurry of licks and laughter. (This happened more than once.)

Despite the project being governed by its loose set of rules, the sessions became defined by the fact that no two ever felt the same. While there was never a conversation I would describe as fun, there was always something comforting about the mutual connection that would form, even for that brief time. I wasn’t their therapist, and they weren’t mine. But people seemed to find it refreshing to have a place to talk about these experiences without needing to explain, or have a particular intent to work through. It’s true what they say: sometimes folks just want to feel heard. So I’d share a little of my own story to get the conversation rolling, but then I’d sit back and listen. I’d snap the shots. Then I’d go home, develop the film, and keep the project moving forward.

But perhaps mistaking this rhythm for safety was where I got things the most wrong. By the later shoots, my outlook had changed. The stories clung to me more, their accumulated weight sometimes dragging my state of mind lower than it should go. Where I would once approach each session with renewed momentum, I began waking on shoot days shaking off a sense of dread. Some sessions I’d leave feeling quite upset afterwards. Decompression time with my wife crept longer, and both could feel No Expiry impacting my mood, impacting her, and us. A lot of big (normal) life stuff happened during the life of the project (the covid years, a divorce, a new neurological disorder, a new city, a new love, new family), but all the while there was a part of me tied to thinking about these strangers, these stories, and our shared trauma. Sometimes No Expiry would add just enough weight to a below-average day to pull me further toward the dark. And oddly, as the project’s end grew near, I wound up doing sessions more often, with less recovery gaps between them. It seems foolish now in hindsight. But the project wasn’t over, and too much time and story had passed between us to simply stop.

The work itself also began revealing ideas and patterns that were never part of my initial uncomplicated intent. For example, when people asked me about insights gained from listening to so many stories, the word that began coming back was how unnecessary it all was. All of it. None of these things ever needed to happen. Someone, at some point (usually a man), did a thing they could have chosen not to do, and now here’s all this suffering, decades later. Why? When one is best served by learning some version of acceptance of things we cannot change, the word unnecessary is an unwelcome guest. But again, this is where we are. This kind of thing is normal. It’s everywhere. Further, while I’d entered the project hoping to capture some sense of visual resonance to that gestural authenticity Dr Blasey Ford had demonstrated in abundance, what about all the other patterns that had appeared? Like how often people are now less angry at those who did them the initial harm than they are of people in their support network who failed them? Or how often this failure was a parent? Or how we all generally understand that much of this kind of thing happens via people one knows, but that this stat is far too simple to cover how complicated those relationships can become. Or how often people have to find a way to coexist, situations where an abuser remains present in their lives or families. Or in my own case, how can one reconcile the need to grieve for positive parts of the relationship they had with their abuser, being ok feeling sad for what was lost, even when so much was taken? How do all those things fit into a neat little series of tryptiches?

They don’t. Not everything needs to fit. Life is messy. All this pain, all this trauma is unnecessary. But it is what it is – it happened, we can’t change it, and all that we’re left with is what is. Sexual abuse and violence breaks people, breaks families, and sometimes leaves damage that can’t fully heal. Decades later, no matter how much we have in common with others like us, how good our coping mechanisms are, the true fallout is ours alone to bear. And it should never be compared. I learned very quickly that there were no degrees when it came to the kinds of things people can endure. Whether I sat with someone who’d had something occur that lasted moments, or spent an entire childhood living amidst fear and violence, the end result was still an individual feeling pain, feeling some form of suffering, left to figure out how to cope with its lasting impact on their lives. There are no prizes. There is only trauma, and how much a person is able to adapt to the feelings and choices they’re now left with.

The truth of the matter is that perhaps I dived a little too deep into the deep end with this one, and was unprepared for what came up from the dark. I thought I was going to be ok, but as a survivor, I was always going to have cracks for something to fit its hooks in through. I’ve kept my word and not reproduced any version of what was told to me in confidence by each participant — just the photos, and if they chose to supply one, a caption — but I remember it all. What I really needed was a rest, and a chance to forget the faces and the stories for a while. Fortunately this was the advice I received; eventually I listened, and rest I did. The photos, the stories, an unfinished book… it sat quietly in a box for a year, part of me wondering if I’d ever pick any of it up again.

But time is such an important part of this project’s soul. And so here you are, now, reading these words. Several years have passed since Dr Blasey Ford stood up there in 2018, and it’s even been quite a while since I sat with my camera and a fellow survivor for this series. But now feels like the right time to finally set No Expiry free. Mostly, this last part has been about letting go. Yes, of the stories, and of the inadvertent intertwining of the project with my healing journey. But also of more trivial things, like seeking out any egotistical thoughts of how this work might serve me personally, and letting go of those too. And to let go of any sense of obligation to finish this work for any other reason than it being the right time for it to finish. No Expiry means more than metrics, or reputation, or expectations. It just needs to be here, existing as a hard copy, somewhere out in the real world where it might make a difference. If one person – even just one – finds something in this work, these people, that gives them any degree of comfort, or communion, or company in the dark, or makes their day 0.037% better, then this will have been a resounding success. Maybe that person is you. Or maybe it’s nobody, ever. I’ll never know either way, and I’ve let go of that too. All that matters, is that these wonderful humans came forward, shared their stories for us, for themselves, but also for all those who didn’t, couldn’t, or never will. So that all their hard-to-describe feelings might be heard, might be seen, and perhaps even understood.

On that note, some gratitude needs to be given where due. First and foremost, a huge thanks to all those who saw the ads, and stepped forward. Especially those hundreds who might have only shared with me via the online form submission, and left it there. You all mattered, you are all part of this fabric, and I genuinely hope you’re all doing ok. And to those with whom I wound up sharing a living-room, a bench, a coffee, and a roll of film: my eternal gratitude for your time, and for the telling of your story. I’ll not forget any of you. Thanks also to the earliest support crew back in London – Cat for the initial bounce-off, and for the time and space. Ella for listening, then suggesting the captions, along with Anthony and Claire in our wonderful creative space where so many good ideas percolated. Online, to Matt and the rest of the GC crew for years of quiet, heartfelt support between punchlines, and to Jonathan for just… being. In Edinburgh, to Annie for the valuable advice about rest and readiness (I needed that), to Paul for being a crash test dummy, and to David for showing me how find and walk the path. To Karolina for the exemplary mental health support, someone I wish I’d had in place from the start (better late than never).

But most of all, special thanks must go to my wife, Helen, whose ideas, emotional support, artistic opinions, and steady guidance were so critical in bringing this piece to life. (Worth noting that it was natural she be the one to take my three shots – those decisive moments were hers.) Your unwavering love is a torch held high in the dark, and this work owes its everything to you.

Demis Lyall-Wilson

September 2024