I don’t know why I’m thinking about this now, but I’d like to go back to where I came from. Which is not the place where I was born, because I don’t remember much of it. A few memories, perhaps, but they don’t seem to be related to the place. Where I come from is where I grew up, where I lived from when I was about six years old until I left home for college. A neighbourhood built in the early seventies, bungalows mostly, with an air of chic, at the time at least, but badly constructed in fact. I remember the cracks in the wall and stains of moist on the ceiling. Houses were arranged in a sort of courtlike set up. Cars were allowed, but with only a few connecting roads, traffic was low. Lots of families with small children, like us. But the streets were quiet most of the time, especially on Sundays. I liked how this neigbourhood was surrounded by meadows and farms. In the summer weekends, I often went cycling with my dad, bird spotting, feeding the horses. I never realised though, that the place where we were living, used to be meadows and farms as well. And that soon, there wouldn’t be any meadows and farms left at all, consumed by urbanisation.
I’ve been back in the neighbourhood once before, some fifteen years ago I think. It looked cheap and a bit run down. Lots of greens though. I don’t remember the greens, the many trees were just planted when we arrived, tiny as they were, and I don’t think they were fully grown when I left.
I’d like to photograph this place. See what I can make of it. Not much, probably, because it’s the most unspectacular place ever, and I don’t think that me having roots there, and memories, is going to make a difference. But perhaps it will. I’d like to do this sometime before summer arrives, if possible. Because I don’t need the greens. And the meadows are gone anyway.