Blinked Myself Awake: A Photographic Journey Through Memory, Astronomy, and Bieke Depoorter’s Most Personal Book Yet
Welcome to this edition of [book spotlight]. Today, we uncover the layers of 'Blinked Myself Awake,' by Bieke Depoorter (published by Hannibal Books). We'd love to read your comments below about these insights and ideas behind the artist's work.
It was night in Ghent when Bieke Depoorter saw a man watching the moon.
She didn’t expect that moment to change the direction of her work. But it made her start asking questions, not just about astronomy, but about memory, truth, and how we try to hold on to the past. She began photographing people who look at the sky and writing about a memory she can’t fully remember. The result is her most personal book to date, Blinked Myself Awake.
We talk about how the project started, how it changed over time, and what Bieke learned while making it. She explains why she became interested in stars, how drawing and writing became part of the work, and why photography can be both helpful and disappointing when it comes to remembering. We also talk about personal memory, trauma, and the quiet struggle of trying to understand something that has no clear image.
This interview is about that book and the long process behind it.
The Book
Blinked Myself Awake is Bieke Depoorter’s most personal work to date. A layered exploration of memory, trauma, and the limits of photography. The book weaves together diaristic writing, dream fragments, personal reflections, and photographs of amateur astronomers looking at the night sky. Bieke draws parallels between the fading light of distant stars and the fragility of memory, using astronomy as both metaphor and method. The project also includes historical vignettes about female astronomers and the early intersections of photography and science. Blurring the line between personal research and artistic expression, the book raises complex questions about truth, proof, and what we can and cannot see. (Biekedepoorter.com, Hannibal Books, Amazon)
Martin: Why did you decide to make this book, and how did the idea of mixing your personal memories with stars and the universe come to you?
Bieke: I never thought of making a book or a project about this topic, about memory. But in 2020, I was walking around my neighborhood. I was walking around, and there were no people on the street at night. Suddenly, I saw a guy named Henk, and he was looking through his telescope in the middle of the city, close to my home. He was looking at the moon, and I looked up as well, realizing that I actually never look up myself. I also felt a kind of reluctance to look up, even a bit of fear.
Henk invited me inside. He had photographed the moon many times in his life, and his little room was full of faded photographs of the moon. After this one meeting, I became very interested. I wanted to meet more people observing the universe, so I started observing people observing.
I also became curious about why people found comfort in the cosmos while I felt a bit afraid of it. I visited and photographed more people, first in Belgium and later in the United States. I went to observatories in places like Tenerife as well. I never really photographed the sky or even looked at it closely, but I was photographing these astronomers. At the same time, I found myself writing, keeping a diary and writing about a lost memory, one I don’t have anymore. I was also writing down my dreams and researching astronomy and its connection with photography.
I became a bit obsessed with this until one day it clicked in my mind that looking at the sky might be similar to looking into the past. The light from the stars started many light years ago before it reaches our eyes. I thought, maybe these stars are similar to memories. Perhaps I feel reluctant to look at the stars because I’m afraid to look into the past. I have a childhood trauma, and because of this trauma, I don’t have this memory anymore.
It became a whole research project about memory and the question of whether photography can help us reach the truth, provide proof, or allow us to objectively look at things. In the end, I never thought I would make a book. I also don’t really call it a photography book because the writings became very important. they became the core of the book.
I have photographs of people looking through telescopes, watching the sunset, observing the moon. These are combined with diaristic texts I wrote about researching this lost memory. I also included historical texts I wrote, discussing the history of astronomy linked with the history of photography. I highlight female astronomers who were not believed or who played significant roles in the past.
So, what did you find out? What do you think photography can and can't do when it comes to remembering things?
The whole book talks about it. I have to say, in the past, I never really knew why I studied photography. I grew up without much exposure to art. I never went to museums, I wasn't in contact with art. So, I never really understood why I was so fascinated by photography. Now, I realise that maybe unconsciously I was searching for a way to collect things and to keep my memories. I was afraid to forget things because there was this very important event I didn't remember, and no one really believed me that it happened. In the beginning, I really trusted photography to help me prove things and to hold on tightly to moments. But the longer I am a photographer, the more I think it's not possible, and the more I'm also disappointed with the medium.
In the book, there's a diary entry about a picture I took, one of the first pictures I ever took. It describes me lying in my bed, looking at the moon, and writing about how I felt when I was 14 years old. In the diary, I also wrote about going downstairs to get the camera I got from my father to take a picture of the moon, thinking that people would only understand what I was seeing if they saw that picture.
I think this shows that even when I was 14, I had this hope. I believed in photography as a medium, that it would show the truth, how I felt. But now I know it's really difficult. Even if we take a picture, the memory linked to that image - is it real? Things distort, things change in the mind over time.
It seems like a recurring theme in your work. You meet someone, and that encounter leads to a photography project, right? You did that with the woman you closely collaborated with and before that with visiting people’s homes. Maybe it’s a pattern in your photography projects?
Yes.
Yes, I think many of my projects start with chance encounters. I never really know when I’m entering a big body of work. Things just happen. Sometimes I want to research something about my life, or I meet someone, and there’s always a reason why we’re both interested in each other. Then, it ends up taking over a few years of my life.
So, it evolves into a project.
Yes, exactly. I never actively search for a project. I don’t decide, "Now I’m going to do a project about memory." That’s not how it works for me. Suddenly, I find myself with tunnel vision, doing research, making photographs, writing. Then, when I come out of that tunnel, I look back and realise, "Maybe I’ve entered a new project," or "Maybe this could be a book." I never really know where I’m heading.
Are there many projects you later discard and do nothing with?
That’s a good question. I have many interests, and I start many little things. I believe I have a box here in my studio filled with the beginnings of projects. But I still believe there’s potential in them.
I never truly abandon something. It might sit in a box for a few years, and then I’ll revisit it. My studio is full of boxes of ideas. I never know when I’ll open one again, take something out, and start working on it. Yes, exactly.
In the book, you also included stories about scientists and women who studied stars. Why did you want to include their stories along with your own?
I was really interested in female astronomers at first, but also in how astronomy was linked with photography. When photography emerged, when the daguerreotype existed, Arago (François Jean Dominique Arago) gave a speech in Paris saying that now we might be able to tell the truth because we have a fixed photograph. That was very interesting to me. He also said that with photography, maybe we would be able to map the entire sky. Many astronomers used photography to prove their findings, which I found fascinating.
I also found it interesting that before photography existed, astronomers, were believed based solely on their drawings. For example, Caroline Herschel, the sister of the famous astronomer William Herschel, always helped William map what he observed and record his findings. One day, William went to Germany to sell a telescope, and it was Caroline's turn to look through it. That night, she discovered something very important - a comet. Since photography didn’t exist yet, she drew circles on paper for three days in a row. For her, those drawings were proof of her discovery. It’s a very positive story because she was believed based solely on her drawings and findings. I share a few of these little stories throughout the book.
I’m also really interested in the female computers - women who were responsible for mapping the stars. I once met a man named David in Belgium. He wasn’t just photographing the sky; he was also drawing the stars. He would sit for hours, looking through his telescope, then sit very still for a long time, placing just a few dots on paper. I was fascinated by that and a bit jealous of the sense of calm that seemed to surround him. I thought, "I want to draw the stars too. I don’t want to just photograph them; I want to see if I will remember them better if I draw them." Later, I went to an astronomy farm in France.
I went there just for the idea of drawing. I didn’t want to photograph. Many things happened there, but the owner of this astronomy farm was called Xavier de Beerst. He’s an astronomer, but also a photo historian. We talked a lot about the meaning of photography and astronomy, and he really showed me many things. He was also collecting books. I actually have one here. He collected the most beautiful book I’ve ever seen. It’s like three huge books with prints of glass plates (550 prints of glass plates). The only things on those papers are little dots in numbered grids. It’s called the Carte du Ciel.
Those three books were part of the Belgian Observatory. The whole project, the Carte du Ciel, involved 20 observatories all over the world coming together when photography existed. They believed they would be able to map the entire sky and count all the stars. Each observatory had a part of the sky to photograph.
They photographed the sky using the same camera and the same telescope, each observatory capturing just their assigned part. Male astronomers were responsible for photographing, while women, who were considered good enough and cheaper than men, were tasked with counting and analyzing the pictures. These women were called computers.
The computers sat inside, analyzing the photographs taken by the men. The discoveries made by those women are still very important and are still used today. I talk a lot about these female computers in my book. Part of the story is that they initially thought they would be able to map the entire sky in 8 to 10 years. However, after 60 to 70 years, they were only halfway through and decided to quit. They realised it would never be possible to fully map the sky because more stars kept appearing. It was also incredibly expensive. So, it turned out to be a big, failed astronomy project.
But still, the women were very important because they developed methods for analysis that are still in use today.
You seem quite knowledgeable about this topic. Was it something you were always interested in, or did you find out more once you were deeper into this project?
No, I was not interested at all in astronomy. It was kind of weird for me that suddenly I felt this urge to understand and to know more. After a while, I realised it might be part of digging into my past. I understood that maybe that’s why I’m so interested in astronomy now.
So no, it’s a new thing. It’s a new interest.
This might be more philosophical, but this project explores how people seek the truth and how challenging that can be. What did you learn about truth while working on this book?
I think, in all of my projects, I aim to show that there are many possible truths. There are numerous ways to view something. For example, in my project about Michael, where I'm researching the life of a man who disappeared, I'm trying to understand how he perceived life. I also try to show how others viewed him. My work consistently conveys the idea that there's no single truth, no one way of looking at things.
There's also the matter of memory. People remember the same event differently. I've come to accept that there's no absolute truth, and photography certainly doesn't tell the truth definitively.
Is it subjective?
Yes, always. That's what I believe. Photography is subjective. It starts with the frame we make choices about what to photograph, what not to photograph, what to show, and what to leave out. A photographer holds significant power in deciding what to present. I explored this in another project. We capture many images but often choose just one from perhaps twenty taken at the same moment. The choice of which image to show is mine, and through that choice, I'm directing something specific towards the viewer. That, in itself, is subjective.
What is the reason most of the time? Is it some visual quality or is it the information in the frame? How do you choose what to show?
For me, I think it depends on the story I want to tell. I find my work highly subjective because it's often talking about my experience and exploring something about myself. The choice of the photographs, like now in the book, includes a lot of repetition, people looking up, people looking through telescopes. In itself, maybe it's not that interesting as single images. I don't know. But for me, what is interesting is the repetition. I want to give the feeling to the audience that people are looking up, and we all look through the same sky. For me, it's not about the single image but about this research and the repetition that makes it more meaningful. The repetition makes the photographs and this book more interesting.
What helped you feel ready to include personal memories and thoughts when working on this project? And what advice would you give to someone who wants to do the same but feels afraid to share too much?
For me, it's always been a balance, deciding what I want to share and ensuring I don't overshare with the reader. When I talk about trauma, I do so in a very subtle way. It's a choice not to be overly explicit.
This is something I've been dealing with my whole life, so, in a way, it's not that difficult. It’s challenging to share with a wider audience, but at the same time, it feels natural because it's part of my life. I’ve worked on this book for a long time. My process involves writing, setting it aside for a year, and then revisiting it. I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting on it.
If I were to give advice, I’d say it’s important not to share things you’re uncomfortable with. Don’t feel forced. But at the same time, if something is very personal, sometimes you want to let it out. For me, it was important to let the work rest, then revisit it after some time, after a year or so. When something is very personal, it’s difficult to gain distance from it and evaluate your own project objectively. That was a challenge for me.
I shared the work with a few close friends. Some of them asked, "Bieke, are you sure you want to show this? It’s so personal." Hearing that felt tough because, on one hand, when something traumatic happens, you've already been hiding it for much of your life. I think it’s totally fine to be open about it, it’s part of life, and we shouldn’t hide it. But the real question is how to share it, and what to share.
For me, it was important to keep it subtle. The work isn’t about the trauma itself; it’s about what it causes. Why did I forget certain things? How do you deal with forgetting? How can people believe you when you have no tangible proof? It’s also about how women are often treated, or how I was treated when I was young, and what that means to me. It’s difficult if you don’t remember details, do I even believe myself if I have no proof?
For me, it’s more of a research into all these questions rather than focusing solely on what actually happened. I hope readers can feel that the book is about more than just the trauma itself. It's about confusion, my own confusion, and the confusion of those around me when memory can't be trusted.
Was it like a confession? Did you feel the need to express it through an art form you’re comfortable with?
Yes.
I think this trauma, in a subtle way, has been present in my older projects as well. For instance, in the projects where I spend the night in people's homes. I never thought about it that way, but recently I've started to connect the dots. In the past, I often placed myself in very vulnerable situations.
I asked people if I could spend the night in their homes, and I did this for a long time in different countries. Looking back, I think I wanted to prove to myself that I could be safe. So, in a way, it's also about dealing with my past through my other projects. I never consciously decided to be more explicit or felt it was time to ‘come out’ with it. I was simply working on this, writing, and at a certain point, I thought maybe this could also be considered a work of art to share with an audience. I believe it was more confronting for my environment than for myself.
Back to your projects - you mentioned that you often start a project without knowing how it will end, and it evolves a lot as you work on it. Do you have any advice for navigating a project when you're unsure of its direction, but you feel strongly about pursuing it anyway?
I often give myself the same advice because I frequently feel lost, not knowing exactly what I’m doing. I think it's important to accept that uncertainty. At the beginning of a project, it’s crucial to follow your intuition. I know it can be difficult, but following what you’re drawn to, even if you don’t understand why, is essential.
Trust that there’s a reason for your attraction to a particular subject or person. For instance, I’m currently drawn to astronomy, and there's a reason for that. You only discover the reason when you fully engage with it. The only time you need to have a clearer understanding of your work is when you decide to present it to an audience. At that point, you need to consider the audience's perspective because they need to understand your work without feeling lost.
As long as you're exploring and working on your project, especially in the early stages, just go for it and treat it as research. Often, the side paths you encounter are more interesting. You might start thinking your work is about one thing, but then something small happens along the way, and that becomes the main focus. It can be scary to shift directions, but the best discoveries come when you’re open to surprises.
After many projects and years of working in this field, do you have a process for navigating yourself within a project? Do you have some kind of checklist, like "I need to do this to be able to follow up with the book later"? Or do you recognise when you're in the middle or at the end of a project? I imagine it might be difficult to determine if you're in an open-ended project. Can you wrap things up, or does it never really end? Do you continue working on the project even once it’s in galleries, in a book, or in print?
I think it's difficult for many people to know when a project has ended. I don’t have a strategy at all. My projects are so different, which I’m thankful for, because otherwise I’d find it boring. I have no specific approach. For me, most things are open-ended. Sometimes I might think something is finished, and I’m convinced it’s done. But then I exhibit the work and realise it’s changing again because there’s an audience, people engaging with the work.
Making a book or organising an exhibition isn’t the end product for me; it’s part of the work itself. I really want to treat it that way. For example, I was working on a project in Egypt where I asked people if I could spend the night in their homes during the revolution. That was tricky in itself, each night going into someone's home and photographing in a very complex time and place. I thought the book would be finished when I came home and started making the dummy.
But during that process, I realised something felt weird. I genuinely felt like an outsider. I was uncomfortable with the idea that people from our Western world would look at those images and form their own interpretations of the country. Instead of finalising the project, I cancelled the publication and set the book aside for six months.
Eventually, I came up with the idea to return to Egypt and ask other Egyptians, not the ones in the photographs, to reflect on the work and write directly on top of the dummy. I wasn’t satisfied with the images alone, but that became my book. The project shifted to an exact reproduction of the dummy I’d brought to Egypt, now layered with handwritten reflections. This also allowed people who would never have let themselves be photographed to be part of the book. The book started addressing not just the images but also politics and photography itself. That became the second stage of the project.
When I exhibit this work, the project doesn’t end; it continues. During exhibitions, I print a new, empty dummy and invite the audience to write their thoughts directly onto it, reflecting on what they see. In each country, people think differently about photography and other cultures. This is an example of an open-ended project where the project changes each time it’s exhibited.
I find it important to consider the audience. There’s a relationship between the photographer and the subject, but there’s also the audience. It’s like a triangle of interactions, and I find it important to keep this in mind.
It's also in a different stage, right? I can imagine you no longer go to people's homes to take photos. At some point, you decided to finish this photography part, and then it kind of lived on its own. You did the exhibitions, and then people wrote about it. Did you feel like you already had enough material, or was there a plan to visit 50 homes and then stop? How did you think about that for the photography part?
At first, the Egyptian project was an assignment for an exhibition in Belgium with three other photographers. Initially, it was a project only in Cairo. After the exhibition and making a book together, I felt like I wasn't finished because the revolution was still going on, and a lot of things were happening in the country. I really wanted to visit other parts of Egypt outside of Cairo.
I did this for a few years, going back several times. At one point, I felt like I was not adding anything new. The pictures were just repetitions. At the same time, it became impossible to photograph because people thought I was a spy, and it became really dangerous each time I went back. The last time I went, even if I stayed for three weeks, I could only enter a home two or three times. It became very complicated. That's when I thought it was just not possible anymore.
Sometimes you also feel like you are repeating yourself, overshooting, adding things without purpose. I felt like I was doing a trick (sleeping in peoples homes), and I hated that it became like a trick. I didn’t want to go there at all. Sometimes, my interest wasn’t there anymore, my energy wasn’t there. For different reasons, you cannot keep going. My interest was shifting to other things as well.
So much of your work feels quiet, even when the topic is heavy. How do you create emotional impact without dramatic or loud images? Is that something you think about?
I think sometimes not showing something can be stronger. Just hinting at something might have a bigger effect than shouting. Especially with my book, Blink Myself Awake, I noticed that.
If I was talking about my past to my family, for example, or trying to explain something, I felt that using straightforward language made it difficult for them to really listen. Now that my book is out, and it's very subtle, I think it's easier for my environment to believe me. Or at least easier to look at it in a certain way. That was surprising for me, to see that this book can have that effect.
I also don’t like shouting or being overly explicit. I’m not particularly interested in that. I prefer to leave things open for interpretation. I like for the viewer to fill in the gaps with their own experiences, their own past, their own life. Everyone brings their own perspective when they look at something, and I find it interesting to leave space for that. Then, just gently push them in a certain direction and see what happens.
What's one thing you learned while working on Blink Myself Awake that you wish you had known earlier, specifically when turning private experiences into a visual project? Have you come to realize something?
I think during this process, which I kind of call research in a way, I was really trying to understand how people could feel so comforted by the cosmos. And I did. By photographing those people, talking with a lot of astronomers, observing them, and writing, I discovered something.
The more I looked at them looking far away, the more I looked closely at myself. Along the way, I started to accept, or to learn how to accept the past, to accept not having a memory, and to realise it's fine. I began to accept myself better. At the end of the book, I talk about this: when you accept things, you start to see things. If you're not afraid, your memory comes back. That’s something I learned.
But it’s difficult, to accept, to be in the moment, and to embrace things as they are. That’s really challenging, but I’m learning. Throughout this project, I’ve really been learning that.
So, did any part of your memory come back during the project or because of it?
Yes, it did.
To discover more about this intriguing body of work and how you can acquire your own copy, you can find and purchase the book here. (Biekedepoorter.com, Hannibal Books, Amazon)
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