Home is a construct. We build; we break down; often simultaneously. The construct exists as much in the imagination as in reality. The boundaries are indistinct. Home is often evanescent and intangible.
Life, for me, seems to be a pattern of strange coincidences, most auspiciously around home. Due to unfortunate circumstances I had to sell the one home that I had owned. Concurrently I returned to my place of birth (home), upon the death of my Father. I stayed on and helped my Mother sell that house. Both residences were signed into other existence on the exact same day.
My photographs are from an intimate, personal record of my living situations. Many were taken in the basement of my home of origin at the time of my Father’s death. When my siblings and I were cleaning out that basement we found laundry that had been hanging on the line for fifteen years.