I once had the sad and daunting job of dismantling the house where my family had lived for generations. Probably because of this, such old houses have for me a particular charm and resonance. In some, objects accumulate and settle in organic, unselfconscious muddle. In others, clocks seem to have stopped altogether: an 1880 parlor; a 1940 nursery. Even houses stripped of furnishings have their story to tell. In the connective tissue of these rooms, time and kinship are made manifest. And every now and then, alone with my camera, I can almost hear the feathery conversation of ghosts.