Kathleen Holloway

“Where is Home?”

After 53 years, my aging mother sold our family home. Months of clearing out furniture, decorations, and various items that had been accumulated over the years, I finally stood in the empty rooms and was amazed at the personal history that still lived within these walls. Like ghosts that refused to be driven out. Each room spoke to me of endless memories. This was where my parents raised 4 children. Where birthdays and graduations were celebrated. Awards from school and crayon drawings were proudly hung on the refrigerator. I could still hear doors being slammed by teenagers striving for independence. This is where I took my first steps and where my father drew his last breath.

Now that this place belongs to another, where is home?

When we shut the doors for the last time, I felt that the pin in the map of my life had been pulled out and the threads that connect me to this place, that had linked me to many pathways in my life, all fell away from this spot. My center point was gone. I had no safe harbour in the storm. This place that I would come back to celebrate triumphs and where I licked my wounds after failures was no longer there. No longer a respite where I could gather strength before taking on the world again. A refuge to heal broken hearts and disappointments in life.

So, where was home? Where is that center point?

A house is not just a building where you reside. It is the silent member of the family. Another child that also requires love and care. A parent that surrounds you with a warm embrace. It is where my memories remain like projections on the wall. Their vibrant colors have become pale, their sharp focus is softened by time. When it was time to let go of this place, I knew that it will always be with me like a sliver of wood nestled under the skin.

To convey this feeling, I photographed each room with projections of family photographs, most of which were taken by my father throughout the years. Using only natural light and the light from the projector, I had to employ a slow shutter speed to get the balance in the exposures right. I chose to leave the random picture hooks in the wall, the plaster that had started cracking, and a broom to show that once there was life here.

A family leaves their finger print on a home. It remains in the plaster, hidden between the joists, not just in the sticky pages of photo albums.