I speak of geographic space and also of the hollows in my mind, of the warm house and of my cold body.
The corner furniture is sometimes depressed. The rooms and some walls don't breathe like they used to. My room lately feels very lonely and talks in the wee hours of the morning about closets that aspire to be bookcases. The creaking of the doors is the language of my furniture; they define their behavior and talk about the next tremor that will come to visit them very soon. Surely in the month of November, for the wood shines brighter in the darkness. These days the houses in the neighborhood look at each other with an innocent smile, eyelids like curtains and a black roof that works as an elegant hat. Lights and shadows play with each other to the rhythm of the endless leaks in the bathroom in the background.
Each home that is alone converses to itself (a kind of monologue) and speaks part of what is not spoken in the instant in which silence permeates every corner. The house becomes home again as soon as it is inhabited or someone breathes its oxygen. A home without individuals becomes a designated space, configured with structurally united but empty rooms that neither speak nor laugh. A home is someone or something that waits for you when you are not there and also says goodbye when you leave.
My home is a place that separates me from reality.
My home is a “reset”.
Photography by Ellen Hutchinson
