For several years, I shot the windows of a yellow house on Block Island. The island is tiny, about 9 square miles, and it's 12 miles from the mainland. The family of the yellow house came to the island nearly 3 centuries ago. One hundred fifty years ago, their sea captain came home, going blind, and built the house. He carved raised edges along the clapboards by feel. The house is nearly 3 stories high, and it's got a front porch with windows.
The window glass is so old that it has rippled downwards like water falling in slow motion, everything is wavy. The reflections are uneven overlays of color and shape. Depending on the cast of the sun, the reflections shift, forming new abstractions. Morning light is a climbing tree that morphs into clouds, evening light is blue shadows and a bare window shade cord. Same window, different time, different images. They are transient.
The windows are not just a representation of an experience, their abstraction creates an experience. One can hover or float between planes. The mood can by mystery, dislocation, movement, stillness. Feelings of memory come from historical notes like cleats, bolts and overpainted frames. The windows are the blank slate for a personal experience.