This is my Blogproject. Sit down, stay awhile. Feed the fish, and read some art.
If you like what you see or have any questions or critiques, please let me know.
Yours, Truly.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

To the Former Athletes of the Year

Photography is rather like magic. A flashbulb, a Nikon and a “wizard” who knows how to press the shutter release are the only ingredients needed to freeze time, to capture a moment of life, to make a photograph. Now you can say: “That’s me. I was there.” Wherever ‘there’ is or was, you have proof.

You like to immortalize the best moments: when you score, when you look great, when you are on top of the world. I am glad for your happiness, your matte smiles conveying each day the same sense of acceptance. You seek to welcome and include as many individuals as possible into this small corner of the corridor. You invite such visitors to your hall-of-fame to share in the thick layer of nonsensical jokes you plastered the game-ball with. “Somehow,” you thought, “these will never go stale.” Alas, the day has come and gone.

Your faces—triumphant snapshots of dribbling, reaching, running, smiling—have been dismissed hundreds of thousands of times. You wanted everyone to see you in your splendour and feel inspired, maybe jealous—dammit they should feel something! But black and white can only reveal a shape, a shell, a shadow of humanity; never a man, a woman. It is in the way that your accomplishments are presented, spread out in an unconvincing attempt to please, like appetizers, meant not only to be admired, but also experienced. With hardly a glance at the various offerings one can dismiss them as “identically passé”.

You wanted to be remembered in more ways than the superficial act of keeping your pictures on display but, in this hallway, you had little chance from the start. The expanse of natural light—rare but desirable in a school hallway—outshines your glory days. The main attraction to your area is the girls’ bathroom, after the gymnasium. You would think supporters of physical education would understand and honour their predecessors; however, their minds are set upon their own goals.

Once again, you have been forgotten, neglected, passed over, ignored. It has come down to this: If you want to be remembered, it is your job to do the remembering—and now, mine.

Yours, Truly

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Crying Baby Upstairs

Please shut up.

You are cute, you are fluffy and pudgy and you have adorably minuscule fingers and toes...
But I am sleeping.

Please shut up.

I understand you cannot speak for yourself yet and when someone leaves you wet or hungry or soiled or you fall down after your experimentations with walking upright, you need to let it out...
But I am writing an essay.

Please shut up.

I don't remember your name. If I did I would say "Augusten," for that is a most dignified name to have, "please stop crying, you are young and as someone with more experience let me reassure you, things will get better." ...
But I don't remember it, and so I am left with:

Please shut up.


Yours, Truly

Friday, July 23, 2010

Ornamental Orphanage

Dear things on the wall (which is not my wall),

There is a strangely appealing order in your chaotic masking-tape-tic-tac-sticky-border-madness.

I love the motley mosaic of postcards from places I've never been, but now wish to go— though I'm sure I will miss seeing the stylized city labels flaunting their attractions from amidst the always-azure skies of granulated cardboard.

From perfume to Paris to a page from a Chinese calendar there is something for everyone hanging on your every (illegible) word. You are not perfect, but your dinosaurs watch over my fragile sleeping form and your posters offer a variety of blushly-lipsticked goodnight kisses.

You tell me: I am confident, I am beautiful, I am desirable. And I believe you, who could mistrust your blatant bright pink pandering...

Tell me again?

Yours, Truly