Caroline Vincart

21 december, 2010

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The locked shed. The crowded rooftop filled with dry dead branches of what used to be a bright and colorful natural wild growth. I imagine flowers, green leaves. If I close my eyes I try to remember the smell of it. I open them again and what I see is the closed metal door with fading green paint. It feels cold and hungry for what lays behind.
 

Can you imagine what it looks like on the inside? Now and back then.
 

Can you guess it’s full original cause? Once and the time before that.
 

It’s probably just a working shed with a place just enough for one small car. You cannot work along the working tables when the car is pulled in. More than this. It used to be a place where someone would retire to – from time to time – either to seek shelter for a vehicle or to seek refuge to a work in progress.
 

It is, has been and will always stay a solitary place. If you regard it from it’s functional or it’s social aspect, even us, the lookers-on, stay clueless to its residue. Looking is an isolated act.