It all eventually finds its way to the basement: old stuff and broken stuff, keepsakes to be kept but not seen. School projects too, and toys no one wants to sell or throw away. But it also widens, eventually, this soft migration. Objects appear over time, orphaned from the half-forgotten homes of our other lives. The dreamscape lives.
The worlds before floods.
I've been tackling the basement for several days now, and it's slightly depressing how far I still am from being done. It's better though: walkable again. Come on...small victories, folks ;)
This was my dad's toolbox. I can picture it on his workbench for years and years, and then in the garage after he passed away. Clearly our mom barely opened it because, when I did, I found a time capsule. Air from the 1980s, still trapped in musty wood. Rusty nails inexplicably stored in a drugstore box. An old ad flyer.
Do you think the spreader/seeder photographer knew about Eggleston's tricycle? I don't know. There's a certain kinship in that low-angle, wide shot. Not as low and not as wide but, still...
Smells Like Hero Spirit.
