This work was made during the final days that I inhabited my first home, a place where I grappled with years of infertility. For Carl Jung, a house was a symbol of our psyche. Each room was a metaphor. In the West, we worship light, ignoring the tranquility that darkness provides, which many Eastern cultures appreciate. In this place that I called home, the intense Colorado sun pierced through the interior, flooding it with warmth. In the morning hours, the sun would shine through the aspen trees and cast a flickering of light and shadows across the walls. One thing against another. Darkness and light. Intimacy and solitude. Loss and fulfillment. 

The walls in this home, the stones, they vibrated with the intensity of past experiences; ours and the ones that came before us. Those walls knew the weight of unfulfilled expectations. They watched us-- separate and together, in the stillness and silence that lingered in the evening, in the darkness, in between us.