Smashed cans — the ones that have been tossed on the ground and run over repeatedly — have long held a fascination for me.
I collected them for many years without knowing why. I thought maybe with hundreds of them I could create something interesting.
It turns out snapping photos of them where they lay has been an art in itself.
It’s the incongruity of placement. Something that should have been recycled — or discarded properly — is out in the raw. It’s not where it should be. It’s weathered, it’s worn. It’s crumpled, flattened, roughed up. It’s original form is gone. It’s been made new.
Last week I walked through a run-down area . . . trash strewn just off the sidewalk for my entire stroll.
There’s beauty everywhere, I reminded myself. You just have to look for it.
I looked up, there it was, an expansively blue sky. I looked down, and there it was again: Found art. I snapped the photo to share with you.
(Of course, I could have looked inwardly too . . .:)
For you —
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