The House Remembers
Memory, absence, and continuity – a friction every person experiences. Centered within the physical house built by my grandfather, this project documents his and my process of navigating the profound quiet left by my grandmother’s passing.
Throughout my childhood, this home served as a sanctuary, once alive with the somatic memories of catching bullfrogs and dragonflies by the surrounding pond that my grandfather carved out with his tractor. At the end of each blistering summer day, my grandmother would bring me kakigōri, a sweet shaved ice dessert. As a kid, I never wanted to leave the melodies of the outdoors, though I equally loved the indoor tunes of my grandmother’s harmonica.
Following the passing of my grandmother, my grandfather and I sifted through hundreds of old photographs to document a meaningful glimpse into her life in Japan. As a Japanese-American, this journey to understand her past has bridged the partial isolation I've felt from my Asian side, leading me to an even deeper connection to my heritage.
Now, observing those same childhood landscapes framed through the empty house’s windows, the space transforms into reflection. The chatter and laughter from family gatherings have faded, leaving a profound absence. I captured the spaces he moves through alone: my grandmother’s personal artifacts, the ineffable weight of each room, and the physical testaments to his everlasting devotion. Among them is the message of remembrance he hand-painted on an outside wall.
As I photographed, I found there to be some form of beauty within this silence. Whatever it is, I will always know it. Ultimately, these images explore how the past lingers in the present while inviting viewers to confront their own deep connections to love, loss, and the spaces that hold our collective histories.
The House Remembers
Memory, absence, and continuity – a friction every person experiences. Centered within the physical house built by my grandfather, this project documents his and my process of navigating the profound quiet left by my grandmother’s passing.
Throughout my childhood, this home served as a sanctuary, once alive with the somatic memories of catching bullfrogs and dragonflies by the surrounding pond that my grandfather carved out with his tractor. At the end of each blistering summer day, my grandmother would bring me kakigōri, a sweet shaved ice dessert. As a kid, I never wanted to leave the melodies of the outdoors, though I equally loved the indoor tunes of my grandmother’s harmonica.
Following the passing of my grandmother, my grandfather and I sifted through hundreds of old photographs to document a meaningful glimpse into her life in Japan. As a Japanese-American, this journey to understand her past has bridged the partial isolation I've felt from my Asian side, leading me to an even deeper connection to my heritage.
Now, observing those same childhood landscapes framed through the empty house’s windows, the space transforms into reflection. The chatter and laughter from family gatherings have faded, leaving a profound absence. I captured the spaces he moves through alone: my grandmother’s personal artifacts, the ineffable weight of each room, and the physical testaments to his everlasting devotion. Among them is the message of remembrance he hand-painted on an outside wall.
As I photographed, I found there to be some form of beauty within this silence. Whatever it is, I will always know it. Ultimately, these images explore how the past lingers in the present while inviting viewers to confront their own deep connections to love, loss, and the spaces that hold our collective histories.