Artwork: Polaroid Little Puffy Cloud, by Grant Hamilton
I looked to my left without knowing why. Only to see, stuck on the wall papered with paste-ups posters, ads for gigs, a Polaroid of cotton-wad clouds, a hint of sky, and handwritten with an ink-black Sharpie in the white space beneath—
between us, only light
Daily, I walked past this wall on my way to the bookshop where I worked. Perhaps it was the blue against washed out flaking paper that caught my eye. Standing before it, I reached out without thinking, my fingers slipping beneath to pry the Polaroid free. It was light, could fly from my hand. Inexplicably, I pressed it to my chest, as if hiding it from the world. Wanting it to only exist for me. Not feeling guilty for taking it, I hurried on my way, oddly excited.
Propped on the desk at the bookshop, customers milling, the image of the sky drew my eye: Why create this? And what was it saying? The words pierced, a shaft of the light spoken and captured, so simple yet moving. And walking later back the same way, glancing at the wall, there was now an empty space where the image had been. I should feel guilty, but I didn’t, as if finding treasure and claiming it for keeps was my right.
That night as I was about to turn the bedside lamp off, the photograph glowed, the gloss of paper catching the light and holding it briefly, as the room went dark.
The next day, unexpected, yet I was attentive, it was there—another Polaroid of charcoal clouds a bruised sky, the words written again—between us, only light.
Heart struck it was so dark, the image a wound.
Constantly the previous day I wondered, was this a message of loss or love? To someone here, or gone? Such thoughts tunnelled like heartache. I snatched it, furtively liberating it from the wall.
Each following day a new Polaroid was pasted, the exact place on the wall the mood altering, the words ever the same.
between us, only light
I collected them all, carried them as a secret and a little shame. They weren’t for me, but they spoke to me. Until the day something changed, a word added, a name—
Yohji
Later, I laid them out in a row, a story of clouds and the sky. Who was this Yohji? An artist? A traveller? A romantic? The obvious things came to mind, and then deeper: Were they lonely? Kind? Empathetic? Obviously thoughtful, even poetic. Did they hunger for connection? There was a yearning to these images, a longing I felt almost as my own.
And I was not surprised, had hoped, perhaps that when I looked at the space expectantly the next day, a person stood as if waiting. I wanted to run, hide, instinctively knowing this was Yohji. Was he here to confront me? A thief! But an accuser wouldn’t smile hesitantly, wouldn’t reach out his hand holding a Polaroid to give to me?
Stepping closer I saw a brilliant hue of blue, clouds mere wisps of air and the words still the same—
between us, only light
As I took it, hand shaking and heart escaping the cage of my chest, meeting his gaze for the first time, I knew instantly nothing could ever be the same again.
© Angela Jooste
