Afterimage by Duy Nguyen:

As a photographer, I often think about the pictures I can't take. We live in a world where almost everything is documented, especially with the internet and social media. Everything is instantly shared and broadcast, especially in these turbulent times of war, genocide and more. It almost feels like nothing is off limits to be documented. I often feel that my brain and emotions are not built to consume it all at the current rate.

Like many others, I'm often looking for a way to escape the real world and our documented reality. One place of refuge for me has been club culture, and as I live in Berlin, one of my most frequented clubs is Berghain/Panorama Bar. A place where I often meet people from different backgrounds, sexual orientations, gender identities, ethnicities and so on.

Not long ago I was there with two friends visiting from Norway. Taking a break from the sweaty dance floor, we found ourselves standing against a wall facing a group of sofas where clubbers come to smoke, rest and chat. The room was filled with all sorts of almost naked bodies piled on top of each other, lightly covered in cigarette smoke. As different coloured lights fell from the ceiling on each of them, it really did look like a grimy version of a Renaissance painting. At that moment I wanted to take a picture. Of course, I knew I couldn't, because that would defeat the purpose of being in a place where you can escape and no one can document you. Instead, it became a mental image for me and my friends as we stood there, archiving time. I suppose when you know you're not being recorded you can be more yourself. Or at least a version of yourself that you can't be in a documented reality.

A space is just walls (physical or not) - and what everyone brings to it makes up the space. In Berghain, we all agree that the experience shouldn't be documented, and that's part of what makes it special. Maybe you see better when you can't photograph it, or maybe you see beyond your eyes when you're not just looking through a lens. In any space, you get what you give. That night, I gave everything I had on the dance floor. When my legs couldn't take me any more, I left those walls feeling inspired by the pictures I couldn't take.

Afterimage is an ekphrastic series about that one image you see when you close your eyes, the one still lingering in your mind. We invite artists and writers to reflect on an image they can't shake. This column has been a part of Objektiv since our very first issue, originally titled Sinnbilde in Norwegian. As the sea of images continues to swell, the series explores which visuals linger and take root in today's endless stream - much like a song that plays on repeat in your head. Whether it's an image glimpsed on a billboard, a portrait in a newspaper, a family photo from an album or an Instagram reel, we're interested in those fleeting moments that stay with you and refuse to let go.