It’s a small island I live in. The people have lived here in generations and it’s not the easiest thing in the world to get in touch, making new friends. I had lived on the island for about two years when I started walking around with myself as a paper doll under my arm. I was so fascinated by the quirky houses, and I wanted to get inside them, see how they lived, what curtains they had, if they liked small porcelain animals in their bookshelves and so on. In my running rounds at night time I glance into their windows and imagine how it would be if I were the one sitting in that pink velvet sofa drinking chamomile tea with my husband, maybe named Lennart. So I took this photo of me, printed it out in life-size, cut it out and walked around and randomly knocked at doors, asked them nicely if I could come in and put myself behind a window and then I walked out and took another photo as if I was the one living in the house. I think I visited for about 12-15 houses and it was only one who didn’t let me in (a grumpy little lady in a yellow house). I find it interesting how we make the decisions of who we trust and what attributes one must have to be accepted.

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