It’s Always Winter in the Kitchen
There is a fine line between infatuation and repulsion. Before I bought my house, I remember driving by at dusk and noticing a yellow glow emanating from the windows, which contrasted with the crisp, blue air outside. How homey and wonderful, I thought, I would do anything to live there.
Of course, now that I do live here, that wonderful yellow glow means someone left the lights on. The beautiful door that once enticed me inside, now mocks me with its broken screen. The quaint Victorian, with its vertical living, feels like three different seasons on three different floors -- it’s always winter in the kitchen.
I began taking these photographs to find peace in my home. I wanted to discover beauty in a house that drove me nuts much of the time. I searched for light and angles that gave me simple pleasures: a textured surface, a shadowed wall. Perhaps because cleanliness is so fleeting in my home, I felt I had to photograph it.
As my rigidity of subject loosened, I began to photograph my family’s artifacts: random cords, paint brushes on a carpet. Whereas seeing the whole still seemed overwhelming, if I took a deep breath, perhaps I could find the humor in the state of my daughter’s room.
These photographs illustrate my own conflict. I spend a lot of time in my house not thinking of my surroundings. Home is just home. But when I do notice, it often bothers me to see the never-started projects and reminders of tasks incomplete. Someday I will do something about my house: clean it up, renovate. Then I think, tomorrow, and I take out my camera.
