She was the likeness of Annie Lennox in her graduation fashion show at the modelling school my mother had just enrolled me in. I, sixteen, watched from a chair in the back row, and ached to one day exude her coolness. A year later I was at the 'House of Doom', as the sign on the black-painted, pressboard door read. It was a basement apartment of high school punk-rock runaways, their major electronic appliances all painted black and a folded card labelled each one: TV of Doom, Telephone of Doom, Toaster of Doom etc. My Annie Lennox legend sat beside me on the couch showing me her album of photos of her dead parents, modelling photos, and copies of desperate love letters she had recently written to Pete, the guy I was on a date with, my connection to the House of Doom -who was sitting on the other side of me. I asked her for a photo from one of her contact sheets. She was happy to cut one out and give it to me. I taped it to my bulletin board when I got home that night. That was the last time I saw or talked to her. (I saw Pete one more time after that.) Unknowingly, a year later I went on a date with her brother, Tucker. Four years ago, I bumped into a person from high school who shared some common friends. Coincidentally, he mentioned his friend Tucker's sister -who died of an overdose a year prior. I've held onto her photo, pictured above, for 18 years, through more than 7 moves -including trans-continentally. I re-found her photo two months ago when throwing out an old boyfriend's letters and photos. Her photo ignites memories of a person I was, a person I wanted to be, a person I still am; it is an epitaph -and the inspiration for this site. For all those bits, pieces, and things stashed in shoeboxes at the back of the closet, re-found is their voice. Kat Riordan March 1, 2007 Click the submissions tab to tell your Re-found story |
