Ultimately, it is the mechanics of light that determine the affective qualities of the spaces we inhabit.  It projects from its source, reflects off of mutable or shiny surfaces, transmits and refracts through glass, and diffuses and diffracts into a space that it illuminates.  The color of the light, determined by its wavelength, changes the mood of the space it fills.  A warm glow signifies homeliness, but if it is too bright it ultimately becomes an assault on our senses that elicits a kind of dissociation that a person might feel in the desert, for example.  In the domestic spaces where I am photographing, we normally have one of three experiences of light - daylight, lamplight, and darkness. 

But there is another experience that is only accessible photographically - there is the light that subtly crosses thresholds and is almost imperceptible to our vision but can be collected over time in an image.  The domestic setting of my images is familiar, but the light in the photographs is alien, leading to what architectural historian Anthony Vidler calls a sense of the architectural uncanny.  The only potential real experience we have of the kind of light that is visible in the photographs is the temporal space between the time we lay down in bed to the moment we fall asleep.  This is when we are in the dark, mentally drifting, but also aware of our surroundings since our eyes have time to adjust to the murky apparitions in the room.