These three bags of rubble are all that remains of a ‘renovated’ building. By chance, though, I took a photo of the building as it was being demolished.
The difference in the colours of the rooms caught my attention. I wondered why people had chosen to paint each room in different colours. Maybe the blue was for the children? And the green was for the kitchen? And what about the red and the yellow? These colours tell the story of a family, a story that just ended when their home was demolished.
I don’t know if the inhabitants have simply sold the house and moved elsewhere, or what they have done with their lives. But what struck me most was the realisation that if the house had not been demolished, I would never have been exposed to a very private part of someone else’s life.
I don’t want to romanticise these images. Buildings are torn down and rebuilt every day, so this case is no different from any other. At the same time, though, when I look at the three sacks of rubble, I can’t help thinking that the memory embedded in these coloured walls is gone forever, as the people who created it.
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