I remember walking on ceilings when I was a kid. I’d lie down on my mother’s tightly woven, cream-colored twill cushion, stretch my freckled legs in the air, and squint. I’d imagine being teleported into someone else’s household. In this new house, everything was white and clean and glistened with all the colors of the sun. All the surfaces seemed to be soft, smooth, and inviting. The space was exciting because it was new. It provided me with an escape from a place that I called home, a structure that otherwise housed feelings of isolation, disappoinment, and anger.
As a product of the socially constructed notion of the American Dream, I dream of a space that will comfort me and make me feel at home, a structure where the perfect family resides. In these images of houses, I find myself returning to a child’s world of endless possibilities, but I come with the understanding that even in dreaming, we can’t escape our past. At once beautiful and unsettling, these images lie somewhere between a daydream and a nightmare, between contemplation and melancholy, between fantasy and reality. This body of work attempts to move through the personal to the general, projecting an intimate account of home into the images I create to question the fantasies in which we all live.