We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it, if it were not the earth where the same flowers come up again every spring that we used to gather with our tiny fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves on the grass. What novelty is worth that sweet monotony where everything is known and loved because it is known?
I read this and instantly connected. Never has anothers words so perfectly described my feelings towards home. I love where I am from. My memories of this place paint it as perfection. As I age, leave and then return, I am beginning to see its faults, the seemingly obvious imperfections. Yet I remain in love. This is because Sycamore holds my innocent years, that perfect, brief, season of life before evil exists. This land is where the imaginary and tangible collide. It represents a time I long for in a world I wish to return to.
These are the twelve children with whom I began and ended my education, printed using dirt from the field behind my childhood home (4x5in). This is the starting point of what I believe will become my thesis work.