For years after the sale of my childhood home I would sneak onto the property and steal lemons from the tree. One night, I walked into the front yard and noticed the house was outlined in chalk, like a dead body at a crime scene. The curtains weren’t drawn and from the light of the street lamps I could see that the house was empty. The following morning I broke into the house and shot several rolls of film. The images I made that day held nothing of my memories. They were as empty as the house had been.

Home changes meaning from mouth to mouth. We may imagine dwellings of similar shape when we hear the word, but the significance of home is formed by personal experience. Home is a vessel in which we keep the experiences that shape us as people. With my work, I tell those stories that escaped my camera when I attempted to revisit my past. They are snippets of life, observations, shaping moments.