Shadows
I took a picture of myself sitting on a chair, looking at the imprint my body had left on the floor. I’d had an idea: scattering photosensitive powder on the floorboards and then lying on top of it naked to see what kind of image it would record, what version of me. And what emerged was a shape, something resembling my body, but still distinguishable from other bodies, a man’s, for example. Those are a woman’s curves (my curves), and that is a woman’s back (my back). Yes, that is a woman’s body. That is my body on the floor.
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But is it me? Well, it’s obvious that the shape isn’t really me because the real me is sitting on the chair. Though, if you think about it, the me on the chair is also not really me, just another image. In reality, the real me is the one looking at the photo and talking about it now — the “I” writing these words, “I” thinking them. But this “I” may not be that me in the photograph either. It may be someone else, a stranger speaking in my voice and so not me after all …
I could go on like this, finding new versions of myself until “I” disappears completely and the only thing left is an image of my body and its imprint on the floorboards. A shadow. And maybe that’s all I can expect to leave behind: shadows of myself.
