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A Matter of Perspective

photography & words by Artu Nepomuceno

cogitation/

JULY 2015 | NESTING

 

'There are no facts, only interpretations.'
 

― Friedrich Nietzsche

 

There is a certain dose of chaotic beauty one may find in the word “Home”. While nesting in it’s rawness is the process of finding a home, it has always been a term endearing to the natural — the search for a shelter to protect the family. In nature, nesting has always been simple: find a place, build a home, protect the home and all that is inside. To humans however, we have decided to complicate the term and evolve the process by not only fulfilling the nature of survival, but constantly searching for a means to make something more and more convenient; to the point that convenience suddenly hinders growth. 

To a bird, nesting is a bunch of twigs placed together hidden in a tree. To a rabbit, it is a hole in the earth. To man, nesting is not a practice.

What home is will always be a matter of personal perspective.

Revolving thoughts and curiosities on the definition of home made me realise that the term is as sensitive as an opinion — one cannot always agree with it. As the term has always been associated with a sense or a feeling, it seems like we’re very far away from finding home. What does home really taste like? What does home truly feel like? While ingenious business owners and creative inventors have found a myriad of tastes that would trigger a sense of home, no one would actually be able to say that their home would feel the same way as another’s. With this realisation came the discomforting idea that maybe my worst association of what home could be like would be a somewhat an ideal perspective of another. 

Home is whatever we grow up to see it as. While I have been fortunate in this lifetime to be provided with a supportive family, I find myself undeserving and spoiled as I look into the lives of those suffering greatly. We have always associated home to the smell of freshly baked cookies coming out of the oven, but have we ever thought that maybe some little kid out there has never smelled freshly baked cookies before? While some of us come home to a family full of greetings, just next door a kid comes home to his parents blaming each other for losing the house. In the constant individual search of what home is, many of us have come to the conclusion that home is where the heart (or the art) is. But I beg to those who are capable, to help others find the heart of their home.

I am not here to sadden you, but I am here to remind you that not everyone sees home the way you wish they did. Maybe we can change that.

I have come to realise that maybe, home to me is finding ways to bring a home to others.