The Meaning of Found Objects
When I was in my twenties, I collected objects I found on the sidewalks of Los Angeles. An early find was a hand-written letter from a mother to her incarcerated son explaining why she wouldn’t bail him out of jail. “I have the money,” she wrote. “But you need to learn a lesson. You need to save yourself.” I felt as if the note was intended for me.
On another occasion, I found a series of 35 mm film negatives depicting an old man with a young boy. The images reminded me of my grandfather whom I loved dearly. I enlarged the negatives and made them into greeting cards for family and friends. My grandfather mailed me back a card. On the inside he wrote, “Keep your heart pure and you’ll find your way.”
I found a CD of bird sounds. I went home and discovered the beautiful song of the Swainson’s Thrush. I played the disc so often that birds gathered outside my window.
The search for objects was like a treasure hunt and each find felt important. I told friends about my hobby. They wanted to know why I was collecting trash. One friend recommended I get a tetanus shot. Another said I should consider “talking to someone.”
While walking through Los Feliz, I found a book on a bus bench. I recognized the cover. It was a nutrition guide written by my ex-girlfriend’s aunt. This was a lighting strike moment for me. I’d been reeling…
