Home came to an end when I was 9 years old.
Home ended again a year and a half later.
I escaped home days after I turned 18.
In 2009, I walked away from the life I was building with another, put everything in storage and no longer had a home of my own. As I couch-surfed from one friend’s house to another, as my work and my wanderings took me from one hostel to another in foreign lands, I thought more and more about the concept of HOME.
I started taking pictures of beds I was sleeping in. From five star hotels to cheap hostels to hammocks to sleeping bags in tents. These beds welcomed the tired and weary me, allowed me to curl up, to dream and maybe even to drool a little.
Home had always been transient and mythical, constantly shape shifting and
slipping out from my grasp. Charles Dickens said, “Home is a name, a word. It is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke or spirits ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.” I cannot recount all the times when I have been lured into thinking that this place, this moment, this YOU, is HOME. Then, there is another shift and I am back in search of it.
I used to feel that I was always in search of HOME, trying to find my way back to that mythical place once again. Gradually, each image, each bed became the whisper of an incantation, and home stopped being a specific, physical place but became rather a state of mind, a broadening of the consciousness. Home is where I am.
“Fetal Position and Drool” is an ongoing travelogue of the different incarnation of home and dedicated to all of the nomadic travelers.
