In the months of February and March 2017, I had the opportunity to begin what I hope is a lifetime of work. I developed a methodology to discuss a person’s things in their home. What was quickly revealed was the openess and depth that came from talking, looking, and touching a thing. A shy, tight-lipped woman unfurled lengthy, intimate stories of her mom while holding a stainless steel bowl. A paralegal quietly confessed wanting to redecorate the home he grew up in as his non-english speaking mother sat and watched TV in spanish. And while packing my bag to leave at another apartment, an artist pulled out the last remnant of his wife, a framed packet of Forget-Me-Knot seeds that were found deliberately placed in her desk drawer, waiting to be found, waiting to be remembered. As the Forget-Me-Knots were a gesture of immortality, this book was created as a piece of evidence. Evidence that these people and these things existed, at this time, and in this place.
These are not just things.
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