What We Took & What We Left: Unit No. 18

Nostalgia runs as a constant thread throughout my practice. It weaves together memory, place, and the overlooked stories that live in everyday objects. I’m drawn to the spaces in between – the quiet, liminal zones where meaning blurs, and things are not quite one thing or another. It’s in these spaces that I find the most clarity.

This piece of work centers on the deeply personal and universally relatable experience of moving house—a process that, while seemingly mundane, holds a profound and often overlooked psychological weight. For me, this narrative isn’t abstract. It is lived, repeated, and embedded in the rhythm of my life. Having moved 17 times in just 23 years, I’ve witnessed my surroundings shift in and out of focus, my sense of “home” become fragmented, and my belongings—objects meant to ground us—become dislocated, strewn across unfamiliar rooms, left in odd corners to gather dust.

The work stems from a place of memory, of emotional and physical transition. It’s a reflection on how our shelters are not just structures but containers of identity, memory, and habit. They hold the silent echoes of arguments, laughter, late-night thoughts, and the banal beauty of everyday life. With every move, these shelters get rewritten. And with every move, parts of ourselves get boxed up, transported, and sometimes left behind.

This project began serendipitously as my family embarked on yet another move. Their reasons remain elusive, perhaps lost in a long list of justifications. Yet, for me, this became a form of primary research—lived, not observed. I found myself not just packing things away but packing away memories, emotions, tensions, and reflections, all of which seep into this piece of work.

This piece of work aims to articulate the claustrophobia and restlessness that come with such transient living. It captures the peculiar silence of half-empty rooms, the slightly absurd and melancholic moments—like a TV resting face-down on the floor or books squeezed between the fridge and the wall. It’s a voyeuristic space, where the viewer is invited to peer into both the physical remnants and emotional residue of constant movement.

In essence, this is a study of shelter—not as a fixed point, but as an evolving concept. A layered, liminal space that speaks to comfort, displacement, nostalgia, and identity. It’s an exploration of what it means to inhabit spaces, to say goodbye to them, and to carry pieces of them wherever you go.