There's No Place Like Home

Faded photographs from the 1970s, wrapping paper (from gifts long forgotten) lining your kitchen cupboards, bric-a-brac and souvenirs some you care for, some you display out of love.

There is no mess, only clutter, a scattering of pieces of a life. A small bell from a chocolate rabbit hanging over your mother long-since-disappeared, and the last remaining flake of tobacco placed carefully back in it's non-silver tin.

My investigation of your artifacts and history, we both enjoy ballet, its loves and its tragedies.