As a child I loved to draw houses.

Strange structures that defied gravity, practicality, and common sense. I wanted to be an architect, so my creations weren’t your average two-dimensional infantile doodles, but complex blueprints made with rulers, drafting triangles, and compasses. I was a professional, or at least as much of a professional as a ten year old with no understanding of geometry could be. Rarely though, were my houses truly made to be lived in. They were homes, but uninhabitable ones, made rather, to be lived through. 

I was a lonely boy, extremely introverted and unpopular at school; a poor Polish immigrant in rich 80’s America. Due to my parents marital, financial, and substance abuse problems we moved a lot. I quickly spiraled into homelessness. Not in the sense of lacking a roof over my head, but a base. Hence my drawings, I was never given a home and needed to make my own. 

My childhood houses were my first escapes, they were my only true friends. Each possessed its own specific psychology, character, and ambience. I talked to them. They were my portals, literally, living spaces that helped me cope with extreme alienation and abuse. Although I spent hours locked alone in my room tracing these habitats, I never finished a single one. Just like another favorite childhood game of mine: preparing countless expeditions to an imaginary country called Berdet, which I never reached, the process of planing the trip (packing, researching, mapping, and etc.) was more important and interesting than the destination itself. I also pretended I was a bird sitting on eggs in nests made out of blankets, pillows, and quilts. The eggs never hatched, and surprisingly, I never wanted to fly.