Since childhood I’ve been interested in looking through strangers’ windows, in seeing what is available but not intended to be seen, in learning what I otherwise couldn’t. But when I moved into my current house—with its endearingly large front window—about a year ago, I started to reconsider the assumptions I’d made about the people I’d seen inside while walking through the neighborhood. I started to wonder about my elderly neighbors and what assumptions they might be making as they looked through their windows, through my windows, at me. What if I wasn’t the man who lived here. What if, perhaps, I’d woken up in a stranger’s home and been caught walking undressed on my way to coffee. There are so many details we can’t know.
In The Men in My House, I consider what we assume when we see. What impressions we build of our neighbors when we peep through their windows. How voyeurism shapes our ideas about each other.
This is complicated by the model’s primary function of being seen during and after the making of photographs—and further by the glimpse of what the model can see, provided by the house’s double-pane windows.
What happens if we stop looking. What happens if we keep looking but see dozens of different men looking back at us from the same window.