Each morning, the rooms are reset. Beds are made, trash is emptied, and the personal clues left behind are thrown away. The room is returned to anonymity, ready for someone else to inhabit it. But it never resets completely. Dented walls, dust, scratches, stains, and worn carpet hold the traces of people who have passed through. Lives occupy these rooms cheaply and privately, sometimes for a night, sometimes much longer, and then disappear. I’m drawn to that space between the personal and impersonal. A motel room belongs briefly and intimately to someone, then almost immediately to no one.