My attraction to deserted houses is a deep-seated one, one which has fueled my creative and expressive priorities for nearly fifty years. 
The obvious issues of abandonment and decay come with these discarded dwellings, but it is the echo of past human presence that appeals to me the most strongly. This is what I felt when I visited the empty apartment in Amsterdam in which Anne Frank once lived and dreamed, what I experienced when I walked through the Old Manse in Concord, Massachusetts, where Emerson and Hawthorne lived and penned their extraordinary literary visions, and what moved me so deeply when I looked down on William Faulkner’s simple bed at Rowan Oaks. For me, the empty house presents a splendid paradox; that which is so barren is also so replete.
