My Living Room Photo Studio/Art Installation

I’ve fallen in love too many times in my life to count. Yet, I’m only 27. What human in their late 20s can say they’ve fallen in love more times than they can count on two hands? How did I get so lucky? 

I remember the first time it happened like it was yesterday, I was just 13. It felt new and exciting, and like history to the touch. Like it was our own world and no one could penetrate it. But, It was the way Guy Montag spoke that really got me. Ray Bradbury’s words leapt off those pages, and into my imagination & I thought about that book for weeks after I read it. It was the same wonderful feeling the second, third, and every time after that.

When I was 17 it was James Patterson + Nicholas Sparks books I picked up at garage sales (which I’m a little ashamed to admit), and they fed the fire of my longing soul. I romanticized a relationship with a partner that would move mountains to be with me — that would say and show (with grand gestures) how they felt about me. In the most transformative period of my life I retreated to those relationships, in hope that one day I’d have someone who loves me as fiercely as the people in those novels loved. 

In college I stopped reading for any reason other than school. It was a bright fresh awakening and I was finally the protagonist of my own novel, or at least that’s what it felt like. I had started to see my life take shape instead of being another human lost in the crowd or my own head. In the midst of mingling, finding myself, spending money on things I shouldn’t have, and “studying,” I still found myself drawn to the written word. Jim Collins’ and Simon Sinek’s theories on business danced in my head from the moment I picked them up from the bookstore before the first semester of my senior year. I applied their ideals to my daily life, I watched their TED talks, I wanted to be in the same room with them. I wanted to be them.

And that was it, I wanted to be them.

Was I in love with the stories themself or was I in love with the idea of making my life narrative mean something to more than just me — like the characters in my books. Is that the whole thing?

When I first decided to create this concept, and even while I was setting it up with my roommates, I found myself monologuing about how unrealistic books can be. About how unfair it is that I’ve read and dreamt about incredible stories that I will never be able to make a reality for me. That as a child I had a false sense of hope that anyone can make anything happen for themself, but that truth will never occur on an earth we’ll live to see. I wasn’t wrong, but, I think I’m just bitter. I’m 27 years old and I want a life like I’ve read about. I’m unsure how long it will last and I’m sure it stems from the fact that I’m some ridiculous stupid romantic, but that’s the truth I’m living with currently.

That’s the feeling behind every page I taped to my living room wall, the colors we used, and the burning of the book at the end. Enjoy xx.

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