As a child, whenever it was time to go to bed, my mother would either make up a story or read a storybook to my sisters and me. If she had to go out of town, she would record herself on a cassette and we would listen to it and not have to miss out on either the story or her voice. As I got older, I lost myself in the world of books so completely that I often missed out on what was going on in the world around me. In learning photography, I learned how to be present and see the world again. I became aware of the the momentary dance of a leaf’s shadow on a wall or the quiet light of late afternoon slanting through a window. When I see this light falling lightly on a faded blue recliner, my mind begins to spin a story, perhaps of an old woman sitting quietly reading a book while an old man shuffles into the room and hands her a letter, and just like that, a story begins. These imagined stories impel me to make photographs that explore constructed human space, the trace imprints of human experience left upon domestic/public interiors and urban landscapes. My imagination navigates these spaces where so many stories have gone untold, and when these details combine with the right quality of light, I feel impelled to photograph. History remembers the past actions that affect large groups of people, the news remembers the present in a like manner, but the spaces we construct hold traces of the small stories of individual people and brings the past into the present, layer by layer, like the strata of rock that create mountains.