Living House

            Most people have homes that are important to them.  For me, it was my grandmother’s house.  I always felt comfortable there in a way no other home in my life has made me feel.  As with all things in life, though, it had to come to an end.  Selling my grandmother’s house was a defining moment in my life as well as my family’s life.  It meant we had changed in a very permanent way in which none of us were prepared to accept.  Even now, nothing I can say here, nor the photos I have taken can give you any real indication of what the house was like or what it meant to me.  It is just a dream that has dissolved in my memory and runs through me like blood in my veins.  All I can give you is a glimpse of it.

         “Memories of the outside world will never have the same tonality as those of home and, by recalling these memories, we add to our store of dreams; we are never real historians, but always near poets, and our emotion is perhaps nothing but an expression of poetry that was lost.” 
                                                  -Gaston Bachelard, Poetics of Space