I love my house. I am my house.

My first experience of architecture, a nearly universal case, was that of the house I grew up in. A century old, black & white clapboard farmhouse out- side of Kingston, Ontario was where I called home. Having grown up and left it behind, I find I have developed a certain amount of nostalgia or home- sickness regarding my mostly positive memories and recurring dreams that take place there. The house is not lost, in fact my parents still live there, and I return several times each year to retrace my childhood rituals, sleep in my old room, dream in my old bed, eat, play and reminisce in my old home. I can return to my home, but not my childhood, and yet the two seem inseparable. This space houses my dreams and memories of childhood; floorboards, doorknobs, and wallpaper are all triggers for recollection, the ornamentation of the home is a connective entity into my past. As my parents grow older, they are finding they don’t want to be so isolated, alone in a house too big for just the two of them. The possibility of them selling the house looms heavily on my mind. I don’t want to lose this special place. This is a study of the way in which an individual becomes bound to architecture, psychologically and physically, using the home to which I feel so connected as a guide. I’ve grown apart from my house in the years since I moved out, and much of the connection has been broken. In place of this connection, at my return, there is a certain sense of the unfamiliar in this familiar space. How can I make this intangible connection both apparent and relevant to someone else