Letter from a vanished past to a Passerby
What is more painful than writing a letter (a tangible evocation) when one is on the point of disappearing? Here I am, before you, shining lights of a bygone day. Forgetfulness and collapse have conquered and defeated my vanity. I don’t know by what subterfuge these dead leaves have managed to penetrate my display windows. It looks untidy. I suffer from this decline. But who will hear me today in this street that used to be so bustling and commercially successful? I can’t count on any support from my neighbors. They have suffered the same fate. We are here, extending our display cases like ships in search of an anchor. What story should I tell this woman who takes my photograph? Yes! Look at me! See my wallpaper, the sole sign that still evokes the harmony between myself and the quality goods that used to fill my windows.
The delicate floral motifs, for a long time, made me feel that I was in Paris. Why not the Champs Elysées of yesteryear? But I am losing my train of thought. In reality, what did I have to offer? My memory fails. Extravagant hats, fancy shoes, diaphanous dresses? It pleases me to think of these stylish women looking with envy at my window before opening my door, which is now forever closed. I can still hear their laughter and cries of admiration in the fitting rooms. I can still remember how they hesitated when passing by the cash register. But, Hallelujah, nothing is too excessive when you will sing the gospels at Sunday mass.
The wounds inflicted on my pride bear witness to my fragility. I flattered myself that I had a destiny that let me boast: Be seduced by my elegance! Enter! Come in! But fashions change and memories fracture. The wrecking ball awaits at the end of the street. Will it reach me? Will it crush my desire to survive? There is no status as a refugee for a building. I can’t pack my photo album, the souvenirs of my moments of joy. And, my dear passerby, in writing these few words of nostalgia, I ask myself if you will also be forgotten forever or if your memories will infiltrate the dust of history.
Photos taken in 2017 with a Lumix in Florence, South Carolina, in the African American Historic Downtown Business District.
Photo taken in 2019 with an iPhone. Signs of gentrification.
