Every House Needs a Home (2019–)

My childhood dollhouse remains in my car until my car dies, or my father does. I recovered the dollhouse from my parents' attic in spring 2019 before they sold the West Texas house I grew up in. When I was twelve, my dad spent a week of use-it-or-lose-it vacation days assembling and painting the house. Encountering it again after 20 years, I could feel its value—a significance it had passively accumulated by just having stayed somewhere, being, remaining, being, remaining. I see it holds old messages about duty, work, imagination, perfection, settling, taking care, holding on, letting go, leaving, staying. In recognition of these meanings I am giving it time and space. I look to it to teach me something about how value can be a function of time alone.