I feel a deep sadness when I see a home that looks as if time was suddenly interrupted. As though in the middle of fixing dinner or getting the kids off to school, some monumental shift occurred and the residents were flung from their home without time to pack or prepare. The past continues to live in these forsaken, ruined, and empty spaces.
I make up stories that involve eviction, foreclosure or death-in-the-family. These are stories with chapters of pain and loss and uncertainty surely. I long for the stories where the family leaves for a bigger home, a new job, a better life, and yet this seems unlikely. Who were the people who lived and worked here? What were their lives like? What happened to them in these spaces? When the contents of the home are left behind, is it because there is no choice or because there is nothing worth keeping?