Value doesn’t necessarily relate to dollars and cents. My plaster Native Americans were a garbage pick, and yet they give me no end of pleasure. I photograph them through the seasons; try to guess what they are thinking, imagining conspiracies, turns of mood, and the vagaries of friendship. Recently, one tumbled off the deck (probably the result of a hungry squirrel’s movements). It was shocking to see this guy all by himself. They had moved around the yard, but never been separated. Of course, I had to ask: What happened? Was there an argument? An ugly remark? Or has the fallen given over to an unseen grief?
Some garbage picks end up back on the curb. Even though ANY possession can be thrown out, we ought to feel a particular ease putting something we found in the garbage BACK into the garbage. Alas, such is not always the case. To cultivate this ease, I have developed a clutter-clearing mantra especially for found items: (to be said in the voice of a graveside pastor) — “Here you go, thing, curb to curb”.