The Stories We Sleep In

In I am currently studying Arts and Health, and one of my subjects this semester is a photo essay. At first, I wasn’t entirely sure what a photo essay was, but now I understand. It is about using images, paired with small narratives, to tell a story, one that makes people think, feel, and reflect. 

Originally, I wanted to focus on Brisbane’s housing crisis, but the theme didn’t quite fit within the Arts and Health framework. Instead, I have decided to share some of my favourite images here in this blog post. Before you scroll any further, please be aware that some of these images may be confronting. 

One day, I set out on an expedition to explore local squats and abandoned houses, looking for the places where people sleep. I became fascinated by the concept of a bed, not just as an object, but as a symbol of safety. From the moment we are born, we are placed in a cot, warm and protected. As we grow, our bed becomes our sanctuary, a space where some of life’s most defining moments take place. 

We bring our newborns home and snuggle them in bed. We share our first bed with a romantic partner. We retreat to our beds to cry when we are heartbroken, sick, or in need of comfort. Many people take their last breath in their bed. A bed should be a safe place. But when housing is uncertain, that basic sense of safety is taken away.

 This connects deeply with Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Safety, security, and community are at the foundation. Without them, how can we move forward? 

When I was homeless, I spent a long time couch surfing. There was a brief period when I lived in a squat, and the bed I slept in was originally mine. The house had started as a share house before eventually turning into a squat. That experience shaped my perspective as I took these photos. 

The first image is of my couch. For a time, it was my only bed. 

The second image is of a bed on a veranda of an abandoned house on Ipswich Road, possibly in Moorooka. Despite being exposed, someone had still taken the time to lay out a sheet and a sleeping bag, creating a small semblance of comfort. 

The third image shows another abandoned bed, but this one is split into two, stripped of covers. The garage it was in was littered with used syringes and debris, a stark contrast to the idea of a bed as a safe place. 

The final image is of a discarded mattress on a street corner in West End. It is a reminder not just of something left behind, but of the people who once slept there. Did they feel safe? Did they feel at home? Did they feel wanted? 

I am really enjoying the process of taking and editing these images. Photography has a way of telling stories that words alone cannot. Through these images, I hope to provoke thought, emotion, and a deeper awareness of what it means to have or not have a place to sleep. This version maintains your tone while making it as polished and engaging as possible. 

My Couch 

A couch is not a bed, but for a time, it was mine. Resting but never truly resting, always aware that at any moment, I might have to move again. 

The Veranda Bed 

Even in displacement, there is an attempt at comfort. A sheet, a sleeping bag, a small effort to create something resembling home. Just beyond the reach of safety.

The Broken Bed 

Once a place for sleep, now surrounded by decay. The remnants of life and struggle remain, but the warmth is long gone.

The Abandoned Mattress 

Discarded, forgotten, left to the elements. Whoever slept here is gone, but their absence lingers like a ghost on the pavement.