While creating the images for this project, I increasingly wonder if I am actually capturing my own frustrations, fears, and madness, rather than his. The boundary between his world and mine is blurring, and that sometimes makes me uneasy. Perhaps the entire project is ultimately a reflection of my own psyche, my own struggle to be understood and to find a way to express what remains unspoken.

Nevertheless, I feel that this struggle—both Nijinsky’s and my own—reveals something important about the human experience, about the way we try to hold on to our sense of identity amidst chaos and the invisible wars we wage in our minds. In a world on fire, where wars rage and people kill each other, the inner conflicts of one person might seem insignificant.

But just as Nijinsky’s eyes, which he drew shortly before his admission, were the eyes of soldiers confronted with the darkness in humanity, I see in this project an attempt to understand that darkness—both his and mine.
This project is a search for seeing, for understanding, for a moment of stillness amidst the chaos. A moment when we don't have to pretend that everything is normal, but can allow ourselves to surrender to what truly lies within us.

Lately, I've had more time to work on my new project, In Search of Nijinsky, which I hope will become my second book. I'm still in the phase of a lot of reading, writing, and creating images—or rather, sketching images. In fact, I think this might be the most beautiful phase. Seeing how something takes shape as you work on it, ideas that suddenly pop into your head when you're not even thinking about them, but also being open to different perspectives and ideas.

This won’t be a documentary project—there are already enough of those. A lot has been written about him, and there’s even a film made about him. What I want to do is translate into images the time when he spoke little or not at all, even with his body, when he was admitted to a clinic. What was going on in his mind? Did he still dance in his head when he thought about his feelings and his life? To me, that is a missing part.

Was he lonely, was he frustrated? And if he were to translate these feelings into dance or movement, what would that look like?

His wife, Romola Nijinsky, documented much of this period. She describes how he was sometimes withdrawn and at other times had disturbing outbursts. She also wrote about his deep-seated fears and despair, as well as moments of apparent clarity when he tried to communicate.

His well-being during this time was very fragile. The schizophrenia and the treatments he received, including electroshock therapy, had a significant impact on his physical and mental health. Much of his creative expression seemed suppressed or lost, although in his diaries and letters, he occasionally reflected on dance and movement, suggesting that his artistic spirit was still active somewhere, even if his body and voice were no longer able to express it.