Home has always felt like a distant and surreal concept. From a large white house in the woods to rundown apartments in the slums, I never stayed too long in one place throughout my adolescence for it to truly feel like home. It was always so strange being a child knowing that your friends had a home to grow up in when my own felt like a distant memory. Sometimes, I would even paint portraits of my childhood home just so I wouldn’t forget it. Whenever I managed to find time to drive by the newly paved road leading up to it, I photographed its exterior from the car window. The older and wiser I got, I realized even if I got to live in that house again, it would not be the place I called home so many years ago.
Despite being uprooted endlessly and constantly searching for a place to call home, I discovered those same feelings of home in the simplest of places. Home now exist for me on the road and in the summer rain. Home is in every abandoned building arch and empty flower field. I found a sense of belonging amongst the pines and liminal spaces of solace. I know I will forever long for that comfort home once brought me, but I will also always seek out the fragmental feelings of home in the places I have been and the people I have met.