Learning to Leave (2014)
Until the age of eight, I lived on a quiet street facing nothing but trees. It was in this house that I made mazes out of cardboard boxes, towns out of pebbles, and where I fell off a see-saw, head first, on carpet grass.
The childhood home, like kin, is an inheritance borne not out of choice nor effort, but sheer happenstance. It is the literal starting point of our life stories, the knot from which the rest of the thread unravels. My childhood home, and my early experience within its walls, shaped me indelibly, for better or for worse.
I moved away when I was eight, and returned after 16 years to document the remarkable emotional resonance of place. This is not nostalgia.
Using childhood photographs superimposed onto newly made photographs of the site, I tried to compress the years between the family that was and the individuals we are today.