In 2016 my furnace exploded. The faithful old thing belched soot from every vent in the house. A fog of ultra fine ash lingered in the air for days and settled on the drapes, the furniture, and into the carpets. I lived in a hotel while a disaster recovery company gutted my home and studio back to the two-by-fours. It was the most wracking event of my life. I photographed in the empty house on weekends. When we no longer have our material possesions screaming out who we are, what then? I wanted to insert myself into this emptiness in a way that would be emblematic of how I had occupied it. I wanted to imprint a phantom presence through camera work that would linger long after me. I wanted to make work that would wrest my anxiety and frustration from the very emptiness that had caused these emotions.