Sitting in a corner, the tabletop against my shin reminds me that I have entered a world where the average eye level is just three feet tall. Along with two kindergarten teachers, I am an exception among the many small bodies here.
In this environment of perpetual flux, curiosity and the unexpected lead both children and myself to the next thrilling discovery. Bookshelves and tabletops are constantly redrawn in an endless collision of wet paint, glue and colored marker. Slumped over drawings of alligators and rabbits, sprawled on the floor reading, or screaming, children run around the room at a dizzying pace.
Stillness, and her sister, Reflection, rise to the surface momentarily before submerging again. With my camera I excavate their remains, searching for their traces among the cities of wooden blocks that litter the carpeted room at my former kindergarten in the Hudson Valley. With my grandfather’s handmade gift, my older brother and I created similar skyscrapers and police departments to those at my right awaiting their latest renovations.
Part of a series focusing on children’s classrooms, this photograph serves as a twin to the knock on my shin in its ability to break an implicit illusion. Amid the nostalgia of toys I also played with, there remains no possibility of ever fully perceiving the world from that limited, lighthearted playfulness that a three year old experiences.