A one way ticket & a polaroid collection
My reflections on moving away from my childhood home, Documented in polaroids and notes
Listen to while reading: We might be dead by tomorrow / Soko
Acting on my sudden wave of nostalgia, I picked up my polaroid cam and went around my childhood home, snapping photos of the things that sparked memories - and those who represented routines that soon would be only talked about in past tense. Polaroid seemed like a natural choice of medium; because of the limited numbers of film, you’re forced to consider exactly what’s worth photographing. I would also say they offer another level of intimacy with the idea of a photograph representing a present moment you can never get back. Within seconds of the moment passing, a printed version appears in front of you and you have to wait for the colors to grow stronger.
That rainy Wednesday afternoon, where I let the bright flash from my camera shine upon all these mundane and beloved pieces of my every-day life, marked the single week I had left before I would leave my wooden, pale-blue coated house with a one-way ticket in hand. I made a mental note on how strange it is that we’re able to attach so many feelings and memories to certain objects. Now, in retrospect, I find the whole situation even more remarkably odd: how perplexing is it that something completely ordinary without any original value can suddenly hold so much emotional value?
Although I'm now 900 kilometers away, I know the designated spot for all of these familiar pieces and where you're most likely to find them in this very moment; My father’s tennis shoes are left on the tiled floor in our hallway after his last practice, while my brother’s guitar is leaning against the wall in our living room, just beneath our Dolk poster. In the corner on the opposite side of the room stands a lemon tree, bathing in the sun from the window next to it, and on the commode is a Virgin Mary statue we bought in Greece one summer. Considering that it's made of delicate porcelain, we were sure she would break at some point on our way home, but somehow we made it - and since then she’s been a trustworthy witness to everything that’s happened inside these four familiar walls.
These are all bits and pieces that seem nothing but ordinary to an outside viewer, but to me they represent a sense of familiarity that makes me sigh and is why I experience a sense of melancholy each time I shuffle through my polaroids. At first sight, this little stack of photos will look nothing but superficial, but to me each one holds so much meaning. A red pear photographed on our kitchen table is not just a pear. It reminds me not only of all the breakfasts I’ve spent by that very table with my family, but also of the time my father thought me how to fall in love with pears. He told me that the best ones were the ones with red spots, and to this day I can’t resist a pear with a red spot when I come across one in the grocery store.
A month has already passed since I packed with me my few possessions and said good bye to the most parts of my life that I knew well. And there is no doubt; separating yourself from the things you’re used to, will teach you a lesson or two about appricaiation. I brought this little bundle of polaroids with me, they’re light and can fit in my palm, but they can make me both smile and cry.