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The definition of a home.
 

Is it an address? Maybe it’s a feeling. Do you risk entrusting the role to another person? How do you respond when the person walks away, the feelings are shallow, or the addresses shift and disappear too quickly? How do you maintain your stability when you’re foundation-less?
 

This piece exists in the pause between being asked where you’re from and an ambiguous response.
 

Bright red, the color of a childhood home, recently sold, offsets the green and neutral shades of the maps making up the majority of the piece. It honors a broken memory and the blind trap of nostalgia. An unattainable label of being local. While a crumpled map is crudely stitched back together, the same thread holds a surreal goodbye, and encapsulates a new home. The installation snakes its way around a corner, organically adapting to its environment in the way you establish a niche for yourself wherever you  live— be it a rock by the water, a red cliff's edge, a library, or a twisted bench.
 

Evie Nootenboom, 2021