Okay, I don't know what happened, and I don't know why, but I've been trying and trying and trying to write this article about Peace Center, but nothing's smooth going, and whatever's been written doesn't sound right, so I'm just going to plonk the pictures here and let them speak for themselves.
Thing is, I don't come to Peace Center very often.
There's no reason to.
But when the chance comes by that I do, I don't let up.
Hardly is there a time that I don't whip out the camera..
Hardly is there a time too that I don't make a point to walk around, look at the shops, see what's gone, what's stayed, what's new, what's open, what's closed. I look at the glass panels, the fluorescent lights, the peeling paint on the walls, the dusty ceiling boards, the toilets, the floor tiles... and the staircases.
There's something about it that intrigues me.
Even if all of it is before my time.
Time doesn't matter, not in a place as this where it seems to have all but slowed on its own, and where the walls, the ceiling boards, the toilets, the escalators and the staircase banisters made of wood have their own story to tell.
I see the ladies, their high heeled shoes clicking proudly over the tiled floors. I see their handbags, dangling from straps over jacketed shoulders and broad-padded blouses. They wear makeup, these ladies- an arsenal of foundation, blusher, lipstick, eyebrow pencil and eyeshadow- and they have hair well permed, beautifully coiffed, held in place by hairspray and the humble bobby pin.
Then there are the men, their shiny polished shoes, their neatly ironed shirts, their sharp pressed trousers, their watches, and their combed, slicked back hair.
All of this is more than mere nostalgia.
It is even more than a memory.
Because the shops that were there then are still there now. Because the posters that stood on the walls there are still there now. They haven't gone away. None of them have. The seamstress shop is still there. The tailor shop is still there.
And though tenants may come and tenants may go, that atmosphere, that existence of hope- HOPE- She hasn't gone. Oh no, not at all. For there she remains, strong, powerful, emphatic, stubborn, day by day drifting past the walls, the corridors, the tiled floors, and the stairwells.
Thing is, I don't come to Peace Center very often.
There's no reason to.
But when the chance comes by that I do, I don't let up.
Hardly is there a time that I don't whip out the camera..
Hardly is there a time too that I don't make a point to walk around, look at the shops, see what's gone, what's stayed, what's new, what's open, what's closed. I look at the glass panels, the fluorescent lights, the peeling paint on the walls, the dusty ceiling boards, the toilets, the floor tiles... and the staircases.
There's something about it that intrigues me.
Even if all of it is before my time.
Time doesn't matter, not in a place as this where it seems to have all but slowed on its own, and where the walls, the ceiling boards, the toilets, the escalators and the staircase banisters made of wood have their own story to tell.
I see the ladies, their high heeled shoes clicking proudly over the tiled floors. I see their handbags, dangling from straps over jacketed shoulders and broad-padded blouses. They wear makeup, these ladies- an arsenal of foundation, blusher, lipstick, eyebrow pencil and eyeshadow- and they have hair well permed, beautifully coiffed, held in place by hairspray and the humble bobby pin.
Then there are the men, their shiny polished shoes, their neatly ironed shirts, their sharp pressed trousers, their watches, and their combed, slicked back hair.
All of this is more than mere nostalgia.
It is even more than a memory.
Because the shops that were there then are still there now. Because the posters that stood on the walls there are still there now. They haven't gone away. None of them have. The seamstress shop is still there. The tailor shop is still there.
And though tenants may come and tenants may go, that atmosphere, that existence of hope- HOPE- She hasn't gone. Oh no, not at all. For there she remains, strong, powerful, emphatic, stubborn, day by day drifting past the walls, the corridors, the tiled floors, and the stairwells.