I have always fallen too quickly in love with the image–with anything that looks like a song or draws me in such that I am up close and cross-eyed.

I was ten when I inherited my great uncle's sketchbook. It was filled with brown-ink drawings of his various observations: women's figures, the terrain of New Mexico, the tops of his feet. What possessed me most was the line. It was so sure of itself, excelling in some places yet slow and methodical in others.

I was ten, too, when my grandfather died, and I was passed down an album of family photos. They were old, fragile, and only sometimes labeled—images of my great-great so-and-sos—primarily farmers and their staunch-looking wives. These were not just photos but objects that teased my sense of time, space, and belonging.

I love images and objects that bind the air around them—ones that breathe, even when you're not looking. Achellier Home is an extension and expression of this adoration, and I welcome you to its collection of works that, for me, hold power, mystique, and timeless beauty. 

— RPL