Untitled (2019)
Here I am again, crouched, head down, fingers pushing out white putty into the tarmac, covering dulled greys of old chewing gum splotches with bright white porcelain that looks freshly chewed. People pass by, if they see me they verve round the dots that litter the hill. I’ve never known what it means, tracing these accidental decorations to the street. It feels the most natural place to be, kneeling in determination and red velvet, with strangers asking me what I’m doing. But that book was right. The street is the every day. The patch of land between the home and work and all those other places. I wonder if other people look down while walking, like I do. Perhaps I won’t be able to collect the imprints of the people like me, who cautiously place their feet upon the earth, avoiding any mess on hard concrete soles. I only capture traces of the people who haven’t noticed. The watchful go by unrecorded, too vigilant to leave a mark. I map out all these human-made marks on the street, visible and available to answer questions, I go back and remove the porcelain imprinted with unknown shoes and wheels, fire it all together in a big kiln until its hard and shiny and beautiful and chirrups when you hit it with a high fine singing note and then…