This is not rebirth. Not yet. Act I occupies the fracture—a split second where identity hasn’t reassembled but has already begun to disobey. Shot in wind-beaten alleys, parking lots, and the overlooked liminal zones of suburbia, these images refuse polish. Instead, they document rupture: the veil dragged, the floral gown skewed, the gaze no longer performative but evasive, feral. You are not looking at a woman reclaiming space. You’re witnessing her abandon it. The Vanishing Point rejects the binary of muse or martyr and forges a new category: witness-as-provocation. These aren’t portraits. They’re perimeter breaches.

A woman reclines against a sunlit concrete wall, dressed in a sheer, floral gown. The shadow she casts is fuller than she is. Her posture is poised, but not soft—this is survival in silhouette. The grass is brittle. Nothing blooms here by accident.

A sheer veil half-shields her face, tangled in wind and intent. The gaze cuts through fabric. Behind her, a weathered fence and climbing ivy. This is not concealment—it’s resistance in gauze. Elegance stripped of artifice.

Prologue

Act ||