I do not exist without my history. My forebears, those who lived a century ago and those who live still, have given me more than DNA. They give me companionship. They surround me, watch over me. They tell me their stories. They visit me in dreams, from which I awaken feeling simultaneously dissatisfied with, and grateful for, modern life. They call to me from my grandmother's crumbling albums and dusty trunks.
Discarded paper people cry out from forgotten boxes buried in junk shops, craving adoption. I am compelled to rescue them and discover their secrets. I bring them to life at will, respectfully but chiefly for my own enjoyment, like girlhood paper dolls.