During the summer of 2015 they began tearing down Sycamore. What I mean by this is that they began tearing down my Sycamore, the backdrop of my childhood. My fathers’ Sycamore is long gone, and my grandmother's was torn down before even that.
I realized that I had been neglecting to photograph the very place I hold dearest to my heart. This tiny village is my home, the place I had claimed was ‘Heaven on Earth’ while eating watermelon around the age of three. Like most of my artistic endeavors, I knew that if I didn’t photograph the remaining bits of Sycamore still connected to my childhood, nobody else would.
