As I was remembering places to draw from memory, I noticed that many of my most important memories happened inside the homes of my childhood friends and even more relevant was that I realized that I had many things that I kept for a long time that I wanted to tell them: greetings, regrets, confessions, thanks.

There was a separation with these people, not only geographical but emotional, which is narrowed by sending a letter. These envelopes contain drawings of their houses, the scenarios of our memories. For these drawings, formal precision is secondary; they seek to encapsulate a scattered memory with flickering fidelity. The envelopes contain latent messages, things meant to be said but never overtly expressed: bas-relief markings that were never written in ink.

I sent these letters to 7 friends, close or estranged. The envelopes are me, a container of memories and emotions, in transit to important people with messages written under my skin, finally opening to be read aloud. 

Personal information has been redacted.