Opening
In 1994 I was a ten-year-old boy in Kaliningrad with a door made entirely of football. Not covered, not decorated — made: the door seemed to have been reborn as a dense mosaic of faces, most of whom I did not know by name. The wardrobe next to it got the same treatment. There was no smell of glue in this construction, since I used none; the object itself smelled — the sticker: a mix of printing ink, thin film and something else I still have no name for.
Somewhere there, between a Brazilian in yellow and a Swede with a moustache, should have lived the one I was missing for a complete album — but honestly, I no longer remember who it was. I remember only the feeling of something missing. Thirty-two years later it turns out that was the only thing in this story that ever mattered. My mother, incidentally, liked the door about as much as anyone likes a door their child has independently turned into a collage: not at all.
