senka loosemore
Exposure Syndrome is an ongoing investigation into mental health and neurodiversity.
The work draws on personal experience, exposing and reframing multiple diagnoses in order to normalise difference and create moments of recognition.
Exposure Syndrome is an ongoing long-form photographic project that interrogates the psychological consequences of living in a culture shaped by hyper-visibility, self-performance, and emotional exposure. Positioned between fine art and documentary practice, the work combines autobiographical imagery, constructed still life, and conceptual portraiture to challenge dominant narratives around identity, mental health, and authenticity.
DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL
In many cultures, psychosis is understood not only as a mental illness but as a form of spiritual emergency. My own experiences reflected this perspective. At times it felt as though a veil had been lifted, revealing a deeper reality where perception, emotion, and meaning intensified. I could see, hear, and experience life in ways that felt profound and revelatory. Yet alongside this sense of awakening came fear, uncertainty, and a loss of stability.
Over the years I have encountered several “Dark Nights of the Soul.” Some resembled a form of ego death; others felt like the re-enactment of unresolved trauma. During the night represented in this work, I became convinced that my daughter had been killed, that my legs were broken, and that I was blinded by fear.
With time, reflection, and treatment, I have come to see these episodes as both a rapid spiritual journey and a serious mental health condition. This work reflects the need for a deeper understanding that bridges these two perspectives.
uncomfortably numb
My manic bubble bursts. I feel it go—sharp, sudden—and I know I am going down. I try to hold on, fingertips gripping at something that isn’t there, hearing the scrape of my own resistance, like nails dragged across a blackboard. I know where this leads. I always do. I try to slow it, to soften the fall, using whatever energy remains from the last rise to prepare for the descent.
There is a point where holding on becomes pointless. The effort drains. I let go. I fall back into bed, into something that feels less like rest and more like a pit.
At first, the contrast is unbearable. The speed, the clarity, the sense of movement—all gone. In its place: heaviness, repetition, exhaustion. My gaze turns inward. I stop looking out into the world and become acutely aware of my own thoughts. Guilt follows close behind. Then even that fades. Everything flattens into something quieter, more distant.
My Depression more like absence. A loss of energy, of motivation. It becomes a long, grey tunnel. A fog that settles in and stays. Sometimes I can move through it unnoticed. Other times it leaks out, colouring everything—how I think, how I speak, how I am with other people. It spreads, contaminates, distorts.
This is where I spend most of my life. A place that is so familiar and deeply known. Like an old blanket: heavy, worn, and impossible to put down.
24 HOURS
Life gave me a good battering, and until 2017 I kept getting up and pushing forward. I resisted abuse, neglect, mental illness, my own and others’, grief, and the weight of single parenting.
People called me “the smiler.” It became a mask I wore well. Behind it I worked hard, loved deeply, and moved through the world with curiosity, determination, and resilience.
Then I hit a wall. A virus knocked me down and left me bedridden for six months. I could barely move. Fatigue is not simply tiredness, it is a collapse of the body’s ability to function. It feels like batteries that never fully recharge, no matter how much rest or willpower you give them.
In this work, I have dropped the smile. What remains is the reality underneath: a slow, persistent exhaustion that repeats itself endlessly, 24 hours a day, every day, year after year.
THE DISHES
All my life, I was told I was careless, lazy, distracted—a dreamer, a loner. Misaligned. Out of focus. Never quite “normal.” These judgments followed me through childhood and into adulthood, shaping how others saw me and how I often saw myself.
In the early 1990s, I launched a promising design career, working with Royal Mail and alongside David Hockney. Yet the same criticisms continued, and so did the setbacks. Everyday tasks—brushing my teeth, making tea, washing the dishes—felt strangely impossible to sustain. Building simple routines or habits often seemed just out of reach.
In 2017, I was diagnosed with combined ADHD. That moment reframed my past. Behaviours once understood as failure began to make sense in a different light.
This work reflects that shift in understanding—how recognition can transform struggle into insight, and how what once appeared chaotic can also contain its own form of creativity.
Exposure Syndrome is an ongoing long-term project developed through exhibitions, publications, and site-responsive installations.