Going through my mails, I discovered an old memory in the shape of a shoe.
When I was young and beautiful, in NY, I started a project called “Rolling Stories”.
I printed out a hundred shoes on coloured paper and hid them around the city: in library books, cafes, bars, on trees and benches. I always had a paper shoe and some tape ready in my bag.
I invited people to write a story of their own and join the game of hiding it around town.
I got back one poem on a napkin from a guy on the subway and an email from a girl named Maya that wanted me to know she found a story in Central Park and that my idea didn’t go unseen.
Somehow I stopped scattering my shoes after these two responds. They fulfilled my wish and I was happy with my napkin and a girl who had my name.
I still have all the colourful leftover stories at my parents place, a pile of naivety, of honesty.
With years, it became harder in my mind to write, to film, to dream – everything needs to have a purpose, a greater effect other than just pure fun. Studying art, making art – changed the game for me. It was as if someone had locked my playground and swallowed the key.
Nine years later, virtually stumbling upon my own fantasy, I miss that girl and her big bag full of shoes.
Looking for the key and a pair of new slippers, simplicity that needs to be seen again.
