Established 2005 Registered Charity No. 1110656

Scottish Charity Register No. SC043760

current issue

October – November 2026 : Express yourself READ ONLINE

RECENT TWEETS

No Fixed Address

October 01 2026

A new photography project explores the realities of experiencing hidden homelessness. By Sam Singleton


A self-service launderette at Portbury services. © Sam Singleton


The first picture that made No Fixed Address feel like a project came from Portbury services.

I’d showered, washed my clothes and gone back out. The launderette sat beneath the service station lights, bright and empty. I pulled out my phone and took the picture.

At that point, I was living in my car and still working full-time as a mechanic. Home had stopped being safe, so I left with a few clothes, my laptop, two cameras and whatever else I could carry. For five nights the car was my bedroom. After that, I recovered my camping equipment and moved into a tent.




The backseat made into a bed. © Sam Singleton


The photography began before I’d fully decided what the project was.

I called it No Fixed Address because that was the simplest description available. The name was literal, but it gave me a direction: photograph what having no fixed address actually looked like.

I’d only taken photography seriously for a few months. Once I was homeless, it gave me something smaller to concentrate on than the whole situation.

Whenever I lifted the phone or camera, the question was simple: what is actually here?

Sometimes the answer was the back seat made into a bed. Sometimes it was washing up in a sink outside, a camping stove or a five-litre bottle of water in the footwell. None of it looked especially dramatic. That became important.




A tent as a temporary home. © Sam Singleton


Photos of homelessness often show it at its most visible: A doorway, a sleeping bag, a person carrying everything they own. My experience looked different. I still arrived at work in uniform. My clothes were clean. I had a car. For most of the day, nobody looking at me would’ve known I had nowhere to go when the workshop closed.

The photos had to hold that contradiction without turning it
into a slogan.

Many of the early pictures were taken on my phone because it was already in my hand and attracted less attention. Other times I used a camera, usually when I had enough privacy to slow down and think properly.

I took wider pictures to show where I was, then smaller details to show how I was living inside those places. The car beside the sea. An underground car park. The launderette beneath the service station lights. Cooking equipment on a campsite table. A folded sheet pushed away before daylight so the bedroom could become a car again.

Occasionally, I put myself in the frame. Mostly, I photographed the traces I left behind.

Taking pictures of yourself while trying not to advertise that you’re homeless is awkward. Sometimes people were nearby and I felt like an idiot setting up the shot. The useful response was usually the same: just take the picture.



I didn’t stage anything to make the situation appear worse. I also didn’t want to pretend I’d accidentally found a romantic creative retreat. The campsite had trees, quiet mornings and occasional moments of freedom, but it also had awful phone signal and very limited hot water.

One dramatic image didn’t properly define my experience. Hidden homelessness is repetitive. Sleeping, washing, charging, carrying, waiting. The same objects return because the same problems return. A bottle of water isn’t only a bottle of water when it has to cover drinking, brushing your teeth and washing before work. All of that needs to be seen to understand the daily routine.

Someone who’d lived through something similar might recognise those practical details without being told what to feel. Someone who hadn’t might see how easily homelessness can remain invisible.




After 23 days, a fixed address. © Sam Singleton


After 23 nights, I paid the deposit and rent on a room. I had somewhere safe to sleep again, but that didn’t make everything feel normal straight away. On my first walk from the flat, I kept checking my pockets because I wasn’t carrying everything I might need to get through the day. Going back to a room felt odd in a good way.

The project didn’t end there. At first I’d been taking pictures to record where I was sleeping and how I was getting through each day. Once I had somewhere safe to sleep, I started documenting what the experience had changed: how strange it felt not to carry everything, how ordinary objects had another use, and how a temporary situation could start to feel normal.

Those details are getting quieter now, but I still notice them.

< Voice of the people Comics : Issue 164 >
October – November 2026 : Express yourself

CONTENTS

BACK ISSUES
BACK TO PAGE TOP