A studio project about houses with stories to tell.
There's a place that is unknown to us now, but seems so incredibly familiar. It comes to us in déjà vu moments and tingling gut reactions. It’s a dream space that we are conditioned to doubt and explain away with logic. It feels like home and I always miss it.
works on wood
The home was built long ago. Rooms were added as the family grew. Today, three generations live within the house but curious movements of lace curtains and phantom cool breezes down hallways prove that dozens upon dozens of relatives still live under the roof.
There were so many places she felt at home that she couldn’t decide where she wanted to live. She put wheels on her little house so she wouldn’t have to make up her mind.
The boy’s favorite spot was the breezeway under the house. He would lay on his back, hands clasped behind his head, engulfed in the smells of the village, the relief of shade, and his family’s muffled shuffling above. He was alone but part of something bigger at the same time.
Some girls dream of spacious foyers, spiral staircases, and manicured rose gardens but for her it was all she wanted in a home. It was solid - the walls and roof could stand up to any storm. It was small – having just enough space to hold the essentials and her small collection of heirlooms and found trinkets. It was surrounded by land - in every direction was ground and sky sprinkled with a grove of trees, a slow-moving stream, and her very own plateau.
She held her young son’s hand as they walked down the dirt path. “I can’t wait for you to see, it is the most perfect little house”, she whispered. They rounded the grove of trees and all at once it came into view. It truly was the most perfect little house. “Wow”, he said softly with wide eyes.
She felt a great sense of pride the first time she camped alone. The slight fear that had been buzzing in her chest faded as she dozed off to sleep. By morning time, as she boiled water for coffee, she could conquer the world.
“Just because it’s on wheels, does not mean our house is temporary. Home is permanent no matter where it goes”, she explained to her young son.
Her favorite thing about that old house was being able to walk thirty paces and dip her feet into the stream to escape the heat of the day.
Like a beacon in the prairie, the tipi stood solid and strong, waiting patiently for its inhabitants to return.
The little steeple-topped house has been a friend to the family, holding babies as they grow up and elders as they grow old.