The Lake House
My grandfather passed away September 10, 2001, just before the world shifted with the crash of four planes.
He lived next door to me as I was growing up in rural Maine, and we spent many hours sitting by the lake, watching the waves roll in and the leaves flicker overhead. Through these quiet moments, he taught me how to observe and be present.
Over time, his home, which has been in my family for over 100 years, has slowly deteriorated. Watching time, neglect, and nature reclaim the building and its contents had led me to reflect on what we leave behind, how objects can hold family histories, and how a place can carry deep feelings of love and loss.
This is a work in progress.