My eye caught on a specific pile of dust on the floor. Through some bizarre pattern of foot traffic or air currents the threshold to the upstairs bathroom serves as a catch-all for lint, dust, and tumbleweeds of cat hair. I ran for my camera.

With my belly on the oak floorboards I spun the aperture dial to let in plenty of light, narrowing depth of field and intensifying the pure, white sunlight making fuzzy highlights on every stray hair.

Of course for a time I troubled my mind over the validity of photographing the intimate details of my house. I expected most photographers proved their worth by way of innovative subjects, new places to shoot, seeking and finding. In the end I couldn't deny my captivation with domesticity. I stole many sunny mornings before work to document the quality of light across the floorboards, the particular arrangement of a stack of library books on the table, crumbs, a dish out of place, a warm halo around my bedroom lamp exposing a deep, blood-red wall.

As I fumbled around on the floor to frame my shot I was briefly concerned about getting my sweater dirty. Had this much dust really accumulated in a week? With each smooth motion of the shutter I reinvented my space. I saw my home anew. At once I wove an elaborate story and documented my surroundings simple as they were.

I continued on my way eventually, replaced the lens cap and vanished into another household project. Those images I created stayed frozen in the camera, waiting to be pulled out and pressed and polished, made into something altogether unique and not at all the mundane bits of dust settled on the floor.