As I inhabit the house now it’s almost finished, I am positively subdued by the subtlety of it. The way light comes in, sharply it seems sometimes, but playfully, edges vacillating with movement from something beyond its’ control. Along with the trees and the remaining old glass in the windows, the house reaps reflections and really lives.
I didn’t notice the light in the house when I bought it. Unlike my first house where the upstairs bedroom sang out to me like angels when I first saw it; the January light filling the bedroom like it was September in LA. Instead Parchment captivated me with its’ forlorn, disconsolate state. Like an abandoned puppy you could not help but pick up, I took the house into my care without thinking twice about the responsibility. I wonder now, after the grueling renovation, that Parchment House is maybe sighing, exhaling, simply breathing back the lost 11 years of loneliness to give me such a light loved space?
It was my father who taught me first to consider light so particularly by looking at photographs and paintings. Later in college and the discovery of darkroom chemistry I truly fell in love with the magical and beguiling ways of light and shadow. I wish with all my heart that I could sit with my father at Parchment today, build an afternoon fire and watch the journey of light around the house, flickering along with the flames as both darkness and light dance together into each room. He’d have enjoyed that.