Cory’s House
She lived alone in the largest house on our block. Sometimes I would see Cory walking from the bus stop, arms weighed down with groceries or bags that looked full of books.
Before the house was sold, I felt drawn to see the interior I had only known from its worn exterior. I convinced the realtor to let me photograph it once it had been emptied — including more than ten thousand books.
With each visit, I found myself projecting into the space, imagining a life left behind. I brought objects, planting small traces of a story I was inventing. The imaginary cat needed to eat, so I set out a bowl of water and opened a can of wet Tastefuls beside a closet lined with cat posters. I draped my dry cleaning over the banister and imagined her voice calling out, “Honey, I’m home.”
I scattered popcorn on the floor as if it had spilled from an overflowing Whirly Pop I’d left on the stove.
Later, I invited my friend Yedda to respond in her own way. Her direction shifted my view, especially in the bathroom, where cool-toned hydrangeas rose improbably from a toilet, framed by richly patterned walls.
These are images from Cory’s house.