From the moment we open our eyes, as we walk, as we drive, our senses are bombarded with information. Information of the world around us, of nature and man-made, but increasingly of things with our touch. The unkempt bed, those unwashed dishes from last night, the overflowing ashtray, scattered clothes on the floor, dumpsters overflowing with trash, the skid marks on the road, graffiti on the wall, smeared hand prints on the corners of buildings, plastic and paper dotting the empty patches of green.
The chaotic decaying mess beckons our attention, and though it may seem it is because of our threat to nature, it is our eyes that seek this, that catch the shimmering piece of foil, the blank page on the street, the urine stains on the walls and the soot from fires lit at night. In these acts of man lies inherent beauty, in the disorder lie subtle hints of design and color, of lines and forms, there for those who may see them. However, it beckons the question, with whom lies the right to call it aesthetic, to declare it art? Is it the person noticing it, the one capturing it, or the people who created it, should we even question the idea of ownership, where found objects are concerned? Does ownership even exist, if one were to argue that everything is borrowed, based on experience and exposure to the world around us, that almost nothing is entirely original, and simply an addition of layers to the previously existing ones?