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.