Haunt (v.) –
Haunt (n.) –
I am making haunts. Both my mother and fathers childhood homes and the first house I lived in – all three gone to us now. The places we began. My parents homes represent a life before they were aware of one-anothers existence (a concept fascinating to me). Mine is the place where the three of us, together, started our journey. All are symbols of childhood, innocence, precious memories of the starts of three very different yet internally connected lives. The homes are different, different styles in different towns (or lack there of): a city, a village and the country. I hear my parents speak fondly of their places, see their faces sadden when we drive past where they once stood. I try to image them as children, running barefoot through their yards. One is now overgrown, the other a parking lot. To those passing by they are nothing, but to my parents they are everything. These places hold the key to who they became, they nurtured them as they grew and were once filled with life and love. Others who pass these lots don’t see it, but I do. It makes me wonder about all of the other places that seem to hold no life; what are their stores and who are their people? What lives were molded around their now empty contents? I have heard so many stories about both homes and every time I pass where they once stood I try to imagine where exactly these stories took place. Where were the stairs that my mother and her sisters raced down on pillows bouncing off of the wall? Where were the ponies kept that my father spent his youth riding, the tree that they always walked under? These plots of land hold so many rich stories that I will never know, and I am, in my entirety, connected to all three. I want to explore and to learn, but they are now closed off to me. These homes have become haunts, once frequently visited, now remaining with. They can only exist as memories, but to those that they haunt, they mean everything.
Here are a few in process shots.