I was able to spend a few days at my parents’ house, also fondly referred to as “Home home,” where I revisited a lot of spaces that seemed to have been preserved perfectly in time. Perhaps the repetition emphasizes a sense of comfort, but aside from the people living there, I do not feel a particular connection to the physical space; so it becomes more of an attempt to compensate for something that has slowly disappeared. A time capsule in the cul-de-sac, quietly observing the rapid development of its environment, seems quite stagnant in comparison. Clutter has not exactly translated into tranquil either. I have not been able to recognize my room for over three years since it has gradually transformed into a cozy storage space. The fancy plasma television in the living room, which is always too loud, literally shields the attention from plastic middle school trophies and dusty medals of academia. It is only natural that things have accumulated like dust: clothes still waiting to see the Goodwill, last season’s porcelain/cutlery, golfing magazines – but the smell and the feelings remain the same.
I believe this is where my interest in empty environments was born, especially with the Isolation series; embracing the ability to connect with something intangible. Opposed to photographing a cluster of junk that means nothing, I would much rather provide a space to breathe; the room for thought.