Lost objects … nomadic remains wandering in the world …
I find ‘moving’ beauty in lost objects – emotional beauty in motion, an ever-changing charm, adrift and shattering … Wordsworthian sublimity …
“These beauteous forms / Through a long absence, have not been to me / As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye” (W. Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey)
Sometimes the poetry of lost objects is a chant to negative space – the blank canvas of meditation.
You see, you smell, you feel the past behind a lost object – you are a medium channeling their past lives. I imagine a wrinkly, shaking hand holding the book – the words are in Polish; a number tattooed on the wrist; the book cover of the same color of the star that that hand had to sew on his chest. I imagine a young, male cigarette smoker, on his way to the newest trendy, loud bar (we are in Williamsburg, Brooklyn); indifferent to environmental concerns, the cigarette smoker discards his extinguished lighter on the sidewalk. It contains gas. It initiates fire. Fire cremates. The poetic chance of lost objects is never an accident.
Sometimes it’s just too easy to decipher the metaphor of a forgotten fishnet, with those eye-catching red pearls, the color of a bleeding heart … entangled, like love.
I’ve been finding playing cards on streets since I was a teenager. When I started paying attention to these (apparently unusual) coincidences, I noticed that there was a correspondence between significant events happening in my life and finding a card. Someone gambled. I won.
In the past four-five years, it seems that the lost cards are (en)chanting a different tune for me: let go. Like the cards gone astray from the deck. If you let the past go, the poetry of lost objects will continue to nurture you.
I pin the card(s) on the fridge until I find another one. I stumbled on these two cards this past July, within two weeks one from the other, one in Florida, one in town. Suit of hearts.
… let that tangled net go … On this soundtrack:
All photos @Roberta Tabanelli
(The lost objects of these photos have been shot as they were found, in their natural, poetic chaos)