finding my way Home

My relationship with the house I grew up in has (and continues to be) complicated. My memory of that place is overwhelmingly occupied with incidents that left a bad taste in my mouth, mind and body. Although I can place the responsibility of my experience of that place on one person, a seemingly-everlasting effect has been a growing anxiety whenever I think about visiting the house again. I arrived home in the summer of 2021, after having lived out for almost a decade, at the height of the second wave of the pandemic in the country. With no option but to stay indoors, I gradually made peace with the idea of a prolonged residence in this place. But I had to make peace with the place itself. I realised the need to (re)examine my relationship with it: re-inhabit it; familiarize myself with its nooks, step out of those corners which had so far pulled me into their depths possibly colouring my relationship with it. I began making images: of spaces within and without, wanting to capture a fleeting moment, a daily occurrence, a spot of light; of the spaces that had been sites of violence in the past, of areas I found and continue to find refuge in; of people who exist and lead parallel and sometimes converging lives in the same space; of memory-relics that although attempt to provide nostalgic comfort often open windows to years of trauma. Looking through the viewfinder, I'm trying to find my way home.