Artist

The park was empty since it was still pretty cold, which was an unusual sight. Huge parks are always unsettling when empty. It was one of those parks with huge empty grassy areas, surrounded by dozens of benches and protected by rows of oak trees, there was a playground in the middle with swings and a slide; even a basketball court somehow fit there, and nothing felt crowded or out of place.

To me a huge empty park is creepier than a graveyard. Graveyards are meant to be these sad, somber places. That’s how we decided to honor our loved ones, that’s how we deal with death. Parks, on the other hand, are here to honor the living. A celebration of life, a place where children play, teenagers loiter, a go to meet up spot for lovers, a safe haven for poets who cry about being dumped. It’s a place where families go to have a picnic, where athletes and amateurs alike play sports together; where old people meet up to reminisce about their lives and young folks dream of a not so distant future.... It’s in essence a place where you can walk, talk, shout, play, a place to forget about your worries, be it under the sun or under the street lights.

Passing awkwardly through the park I spotted a beautiful pair of party shoes just sitting abandoned on a bench. They didn’t look washed up or damaged, not from the angle I passed them by anyway. For a second, I thought of whipping my phone out and taking a picture of them. Just pretending I’m some famous photographer that just can’t help but take masterful photos. I mean this is the sort of pretentious sight that artists love to show in their works. Ultimately I decided to pass on the opportunity; halfway home I started regretting it though. I mean I can just see it now, my photograph hung in an important art gallery; people lining up to see the picture of a pair of delicate, lonesome black shoes with rivets, propped up on a dirty bench, while in the background trees sit bear and cold, a hint of frost is covering the branches and the surrounding landscape; it’s all there to give you the tiniest glimpse and taste of the cold we had to bear that morning. I could also pretend how the photo holds some significant meaning that your “tiny unrefined brain can’t even hope to fathom”. That’s what a truly pretentious artist does, bullshits and lies for days about how their work captures innocence lost... It’s always the loss of innocence that gets these people hard. If it’s not that, then it’s losing a partner or crush, bonus points if it’s both.

And everybody always pretends to understand the author’s intent, as long as you wear a suit and sound like you know what you’re saying, everybody will believe you and happily fake a knowing smile and a nod. You just have to play the part.

Take these shoes for example. The first question you would pose is who is the owner and why did the owner part with a perfectly fine pair of shoes. Judging by the design it’s probably a teenager or still teen at heart, probably wore it at their first real party to look older and bolder. The sheer fact that the shoes were left in a good state, at a time where the previous shoe owner would be wise to keep them on for warmth, might be a clue that the shoe bearer in question left in a hurry. Probably not for a pleasant reason. They perhaps got incredibly drunk and passed out on the bench. Or alternatively the teen might have had a crappy date and sat here to recollect; she might have been so hot and bothered at that point that on her way home she took off the aching shoes. Maybe she was scared off and in the heat of the moment the shoes were left abandoned on the bench; left to the cold indifference of the outside elements. The next question you would ask yourself is “what is the ultimate fate of the orphaned footwear?” Now this question is opened to interpretation and left to the imagination. But there is a lot to comment on the views of the author on the matter, which we can deduce from the framing of the picture in the first place. Since the author decided to so expressively point out the coldness in the background, we can deduce that it’s intent was to highlight the pessimism over the whole ordeal. Winter, of course is a season of loss, where nothing grows, nothing roams outside in the unforgiving cold. Yet the shoes are glistening, the only sign of life in the otherwise dead or sleeping surroundings. The name gives us another clue as to what was the desired effect. The photograph is named “March”,a month of change, the shift from winter to blooming spring; a straightforward nod and wink to the observant viewer that the young female after undergoing the life-changing experience of the party and the bitter coldness of the following dawn is heading towards the inevitable warmth of spring.

Of course, if I choose to share my view, everybody will believe that that’s the only valid interpretation of the work. If I for some reason withheld my interpretation of the photograph sooner or later some expert will come along and offer his, which will subsequently become the official and widespread way of viewing the work.

Yes, those shoes would have stayed framed on that wall, forever then stagnant and non changing. Other viewpoints and interpretations wouldn’t be allowed within the four walls that would encapsulate the work for the rest of time (or at least until the gallery gets rid of it).

Alas the picture does not exist; the shoes are probably already gone; the frost has already melted. Though the slowly disfigured and subjective memory of the shoes exists in my mind; oddly filling me with wholesomeness and pride. Being a participant of the uniqueness of the moment, which will never be able to fully and identically be revived and relieved is something special.

In the absence of physical proof, the curious sight is subject to variability and weldability. The story I can tell of the shoes is moldable, therefore potentially forever unfinished. When the picture isn’t framed, the photograph is able to expand and grow. The constant telling and retelling of the memory is what gives it complexity and meaning, to me, but also to anyone who listens to my rambling. That cold morning I felt while walking through the park is something that only I experienced, but the subjective feeling I felt then, my thoughts about the situation and the way I decide to frame the story changes in much the same way that the listener’s understanding and feelings shift depending on the mood and context they are hearing the story in. Which is a fitting way of making that morning last forever, a day like any other told in such a way for it to last at least a bit longer.

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