When I was thirteen, I got a new piano teacher. Once a week, I would go to her home after school, take my lesson, then wait for my mom to get off work and pick me up. While I waited, I would explore her home. I loved her home. It was full of handcrafted items and mementos, all beautifully arranged. My absolute favorite thing was the heritage gallery in their main hallway. I loved how all the generations were sort of jumbled together and none of the frames matched, and yet it looked really cohesive. It even contained items that were meaningful, but weren't actually portraits or photographs.
I eventually talked my mom into letting me create a heritage gallery in our dining room. I studied lots of shelter magazines and gathered up nails and hammer and, of course, lots of pictures. I gathered some unusual things, too -- like a round copper shadow box that I filled with grains and stuck a little sepia toned school photo of my Dad into. My mom thought that was a little weird, but she liked it in the end.
I eventually talked my mom into letting me create a heritage gallery in our dining room. I studied lots of shelter magazines and gathered up nails and hammer and, of course, lots of pictures. I gathered some unusual things, too -- like a round copper shadow box that I filled with grains and stuck a little sepia toned school photo of my Dad into. My mom thought that was a little weird, but she liked it in the end.
That was the beginning of my obsession.













