Home is where the heart is used to be a phrase that annoyed me. It’s cliché ring brought to mind images of sayings carved onto cheap wooden boards hanging in living rooms across America. But lately, that phrase has entered my thoughts as a representation of question, a dialectic, rather than a warm and cozy answer. “Where the heart” is could mean literally where that thing beating in your chest resides, or it could mean something more complex. A place of safety, of belonging, of acceptance. Since I moved to Bozeman a few years ago, the dichotomy of this saying has come to life. Being a queer, mixed person in Bozeman I am both of and other. I frequently feel alienated being the only nonwhite person in many situations throughout my everyday life. I lack the sense of belonging, acceptance, safety that I found growing up in the Sunset District of San Francisco. Thus, home has become a mirage, a creation of my own longing and lack of belonging, existing nowhere but on the horizon line.
Mirage is a series of straight and manipulated c-prints of the neighborhood that I grew up in. I have distorted many of the images through double exposure in the printing process.