For the last half year, I’ve been contemplating the definition of home. I thought, in my naive way, that I could find the answer through investigating it by photographing how other people display family photographs. Especially since, I love love snapshots and I’ve been studying its history and how it relates to art throughout my college career. Instead, I had removed myself from the photographic process and as a result, I pushed and pushed but the work just become this distant vacant thing devoid of anything that resembled me. I, then, thought the solution was to build still lives to add personal involvement. I created two or three nice lovely photographs that still erased my presence.

I don’t have a solution. I yearn to understand the meaning of home. I’m tearing myself into pieces trying to understand, to relate, to make sense of anything and everything. I feel in a sense homeless. I live in a lovely rental with some of my favorite people in the world but it’s temporary and unrooted. My hometown is nothing but nostalgic yet painful memories. My blood relations is but blood. I love Albuquerque, but its only a temporary until I move on. Where do I stand? Will I always be an outsider? Will I ever belong?

How does someone photograph loss? Unease? I know it can be done. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen photographs of it and immediately connected to it. But can I overcome
this block, this mess I made and create that feeling in my work?

In the beginning, I thought I could. Right now, I feel like everything is pressing down against me and I’m throwing myself into this spiral of hopeless doubts.

Wow, I’m a mess.