It’s 7am. As I try to wake up, my feet drag me to the kitchen. The timid morning light sneaks inside the kitchen. From the window, I watch large clouds gathering around Mount Hatis, just outside Yerevan. The birds hover on the morning breeze.
I am in the heart of my house. Here, embraced by these four walls, I spend long stretches of my time, sipping a coffee, chatting with my husband or often doing both. When I am not on an assignment, I regularly gaze at the changing sky through the large window as I review, organize and edit my images or as I cook, write or simply sit idly.
A few years ago, I turned my smartphone camera toward this tiny space; not at protestors or unfolding events, but at my boiling kettle on the stove, my laundry flapping in the breeze, my husband’s shadow by the window. I slowly became a witness of how the outside world infiltrates my house.
The view from the kitchen window is a constantly changing canvas, always in front of my eyes. The hills and Mount Hatis are always the same, yet different every hour. I see an array of red and metal roofs. At dawn, I can see the sky changing color while I serenely sip my cup of coffee.
Then, the kettle boils. The family wakes up and that canvas changes again, like my mood and my pace.
The photographs of and from my kitchen guide me in my search for my relationship with the space around me. By visualizing that room, I analyze my inner and outer worlds as well as the space that surrounds me.
This is a space of my own. It is where I love to be.