When I was three years old, we discovered that our house needed repairs. Nineteen years later, the house remains unfinished and chaotic. The complicated feelings I had towards the house became an obsession that runs deep, and the unsolved relationship I had with it was something I needed to explore and uncover. Since I’ve moved out of the house— something I’ve wanted to do for as long as I can remember— bittersweet memories reminded me of times I spent there, how I coped, how I made it home. Even though I don’t live there anymore, I see my house everywhere.

My work explores the nostalgic tendency of memory, and whether or not the memory is something that has root in reality. Our memories follow a narrative pattern that is oftentimes romanticized, fragmented, edited, or haunted. The complexity is overwhelming at times, especially when it comes to my home. The unpleasantries have become learning experiences, the documentation of things I don’t remember become coveted moments, and just when I thought my feelings were resolved, it turns out they never will be.

Why is it that we only want something when it is gone?

May, 2015.

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