We surround ourselves with objects that mean something. We arrange them, we clean them, we let them hold our pasts. They are relics, and we allow them to control our memories; we feel that without them we don't have homes.
A space is not ours until we pin up that contract we made our brother's sign at the age of ten swearing them to secrecy if they were ever to discover the tricks we employed in a specific magic show. A space is still the apartment we're renting for a year until that seashell rests just so in the corner of the window pane...until it is placed with the delicacy and assertiveness that only the owner of said seashell could place it with. Our homes are not yet our homes until we put that bucket of change just close enough to the door so as we are the only ones who know where to drop pennies when we walk in; until that funny drawing is hung; until the three dying plants are arranged just so; until two frames are aligned in just such a way; until that fake piece of pizza is barely resting on the dresser, balanced between falling flat on its pepperoni face and being lost forever behind a chest of drawers.
This is what my work is about. It's about how you will never understand these things, but how you understand your things. And because we are both just trying to create temporary homes that can hold our entire lives, you can look at a cluster of stitches, and say, "The smell of cooking onions makes me want to go home, too."
"Tables and chairs, beds, mirrors, a clock to remind the happy couple of the passage of time, and armchair for an hour's pleasant daydreaming, carpets to help the housewife keep the floors clean, linen tied with pretty ribbons in the cupboard and dresses of the latest fashion and hats with artificial lowers, pictures on the wall, glasses for everyday and others for wine and festive occasions...Are we to hang our hearts on such little things? Yes, and without hesitation."
~a note from Freud to his future wife