At the scariest point of the pandemic I sought comfort in my childhood home to escape the isolation and fear emanating through New York City. I kept returning to the joy that my dollhouse, meticulously crafted by my grandfather and mother, brought me as a child and wanted to recreate that feeling as an adult.

My mother and I adventured deep into the dust-ridden attic to uncover my dollhouse, carrying the large structure down the wobbly ladder to set it up just as I had years before. We spent days cleaning the dusty tiles, adding adhesive to the peeling wallpaper and fixing the damaged balcony to restore the dollhouse to its original grandeur. We talked for many hours about the stories I invented as a child, the strict rules I established (only my grandfather was allowed full access to the dollhouse) and what objects belonged in each room. I added photographs of my grandfather throughout the house to convey how his spirit and influence is still felt throughout the structure.

Each image was meticulously crafted to show how the care that my grandfather and mother took when building and decorating my dollhouse deeply affected my childhood, and how it continues to be a source of comfort in my adulthood.