A World at My Feet
The house where I live borders a parish playground. Every now and then, soccer balls come flying over the wall and land in our yard.
One day, one arrives that is so worn out that all that’s left of its original shape are the threads of the fabric and, in one spot, the inner bladder is visible.
Although there’s very little left of what once was a soccer ball, I find it beautiful, and I decide to photograph it. To give it some dignity, I place it on a pedestal as if it were a trophy.
Not even a week later, another one lands. This one even has a bulge on one side, making it look like a pregnant woman.
That latest find makes me decide to search for more to photograph.
Finding them isn’t easy, because balls in such a worn condition are hard to come by — they can usually only be recovered from parish playgrounds.
Little by little, over time, their number grows. Each one has different characteristics.
Each marks a different era: from the classic black-and-white balls of my childhood to the various designs and colors typical of the periods in which they were used.
