Photography to Pumpkin

Growing up, I used to spend a lot of time at my grandmother’s place. Whether my parents dropped me and my sister off there on their way to work, or whether we gathered there for suppers and occasions, her home was a warmly familiar place for me. I loved how big and bright her kitchen was, how her laundry room had a skylight and those octopus-like hanging dryers, and how her bathroom had two doors, so you could go in one and sneakily come out the other. I loved that I could play hockey in her hallway (surely to the dismay of the neighbors below) and how she would always let me participate in cooking whatever she was cooking, teaching my little hands her family secrets.

There were several objects I looked forward to seeing each time I went to my grandmother’s place: a tiny little Tonka truck that didn’t look like anything I played with at home, a family of wooden elephants from Africa that used to be lined up by size in her china cabinet, discolored pictures of my grandfather, my parents’ wedding day and of my grandparents as children that cluttered the shelves in the small office, and, finally, a full collection of Encyclopedia Americana books that I loved to pull out and look through. 

When I was in elementary school, I went through an astronomy phase. In fact, it was quite possibly the longest phase a child could go through, because it lasted up until college and was the reason I stayed in the natural science stream all through my education. These encyclopedias had a huge part to play in this phase. I would look up everything, from planets to Galileo, and would write down questions I had about the universe. I would even drag a volume to school in my backpack and ask the teacher permission to “do my research” when the class would be working on other activities. This “research” was me recopying or summarizing parts of the encyclopedias, flagging passages in the books and feeling proud that I was a scientist. Looking back, it makes me laugh to think that I knew from such a young age that I wanted to be an independent researcher. My parents would supplement this reading material with other CD-ROMs and books about astronomy, and would amusedly encourage me when I would tell them that I wrote to the author of a book to ask him some of my questions (e.g., if the sun is shining all the time in space, why does space always look dark in photographs?).  

These books are more than just the look, feel, smell and content of their pages. They represent my childhood, my passions, my vision for myself and my profound love for my family. When my grandmother moved to a smaller apartment two years ago, I asked her whether I could have the books, the Tonka truck, the elephants and a picture of my grandfather holding me in his arms when I was about a year old. 

It’s strange to think of our core personalities and passions as unchanging, even as we go through life and choose experiences for ourselves that we never knew existed. We fall into these new chapters, but we are still the writer. It’s comforting to think of our roots, our essence and our inspirations. 

In creating my workspace and my home, I have tried to stay true to these little elements that represent my journey. My eyes land on them frequently and I immediately smile. ​

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From my heart to yours.