When tearing the photo...
ROSSELLA LEPORE Production Manager, Italy
When tearing the photo taken at the end of the school year, the wish was to show off or to exhibit, but what? Year’s end, this morning I left home,
cream puff for breakfast, I had to go along the narrow street with small flowering trees, at the end the fascist school, the spinster teacher wearing the black apron, lines up the students, in the classroom the teacher of letters tells about her babies in the double bed, I’m longing for something good and tender but in the class only pinpricks, the blooming girls’ juniper thicket, the roses with plenty of thorns, what shall we do this morning? The school year is finished, this morning we shall receive the photo of the class. The wave of rage is growing inside, but why this rage? Buzz of black aprons, the second secondary class finishes. Long hair, orderly desk, confused thoughts, a glance out of the window, walls and windows of the school-barracks, is a storm coming? The photo of the class is in the young hands, white and black, is this the balance of a poor school year? I feel I’m lowering my guard. This morning before leaving home I have broken the tea cup. It’s a matter of balance; I tear the photo and throw it in the waste paper basket.
