“The Waiting”: A Study in Absence by Marc T.

“The Waiting”, an exclusive photographic series by Marc T., is an exploration of suspended time, an intimate study of what exists in the quiet spaces between action and resolution. Rooted in themes of absence, solitude, and emotional distance, the work reflects the psychological weight of waiting, where stillness becomes both a refuge and a form of tension.

Photographed within a single house over four days, the space transforms into a character of its own, shifting, enclosing, and echoing the inner state of the subject. Each room functions as a cinematic fragment, carefully constructed yet emotionally raw, blurring the line between reality and staged narrative. The visual language draws from film, using light, framing, and repetition to heighten a sense of isolation and temporal ambiguity.

At the center of the work is the human presence, both physical and introspective. The figure inhabits the space without fully belonging to it, caught in a moment that resists closure. This dissonance reflects a broader emotional landscape shaped by alienation and quiet longing.

The accompanying text, written immediately after the shoot, serves as a direct emotional response to the experience. It offers an unfiltered counterpoint to the constructed imagery, grounding the work in personal reflection while expanding its narrative beyond the visual frame.

“The Waiting” invites viewers to confront the discomfort and beauty of stillness, to sit within uncertainty, and to consider what it means to exist in a state of anticipation.

The Empty House (written by Dovile Paris Jankauskaite)

It was a morning like any other morning.
We didn’t make love and didn’t even kiss goodbye.
Sometimes I regret it.
Whenever I feel lonely,
even though that’s quite rare, I’ll look through the window.

I’ll stand there and watch people and that will make me feel less alone.
I’ll be happy I’m home and not out there, like them.
There are different ways of hurting.

Sometimes I wake up in the morning and burst into tears.
Because I remember that last night I cried myself to sleep.
Sometimes I’ll cry on the inside and nobody will be able to tell.
When it gets dark, but not yet dark enough to switch on the lights, I can hear him.

It’s the same thing, every time.
He opens the front door, takes off his shoes and heads upstairs.
Then it all stops, not a sound till the following evening.
I’ve never dared to go and check if I could see him.

I guess I’m afraid I’d somehow break something and it would end.
He’d never come back home again.
I'll wear his T-shirt, sleep on his pillow on his side of the bed and yet... I can measure nights in nightmares.

“Do you know how much I’ll spend on therapy?
Do you think this is easy for me?” he yelled.

And all these years later, it’s me who’s in therapy and it’s you selling real estate.
Not a day goes by without me thinking about what happened that summer.
It took me by surprise.
There was nobody to draw the curtain in the morning.

The room was steeped in darkness and without sunlight it gets really cold, too.
Nobody opened the window so the air became thick, saturated with dust.
You could clearly see it at a certain angle and in a certain light… you would have seen it, if it weren’t pitch black

All the leaves turned brown in mid-summer that year.
I’ll drop to the floor and weep.
Rivers of hot tears digging into my cheeks.
Moans and howls.

I’ll stare at the door, praying for it to just open a crack.
Just one last time.
It never does but it’s still worth trying.
People are dangerous and I know why.

I believe that every villain has their reasons, however horrible their acts may be.
I believe that all they desire is to be interrupted at the right moment by somebody who cares.
To be taken into that someone’s arms, to be told that everything is going to be all right.
That they are safe, loved and they matter.

Can you imagine how excruciatingly painful it must be to stand there, pointing a gun at another human being and hoping, until the very last moment, that somebody you love will show up?
But they never do, and you pull the trigger, and the bullet hits you right in the heart but you’re doomed to live on.

It was a morning like any other morning. We didn’t make love and didn’t even kiss goodbye.
Sometimes I regret it.
For a while, actually for quite a while, I had no problem keeping up. Then, at some point, I ran out of breath and they left me behind.

Nobody looked back. But that’s all right, I thought. Somebody has to win so that others can lose.
Winning is easy. Losing, on the other hand, takes practice and hard work.
Not a lot of people can do it, time-after-time.

Usually once or twice is more than they can bear.

I lost count.
Later that year they moved away.
Or we did.

In any case, things changed.
Nothing was the same.