Garbage Sculptures

There is a sculpture made of garbage being built in the stairwell of my apartment. I noticed the origins briefly when it was a plastic water bottle with some liquid in it wrapped in a gallon plastic bag. For some reason, I remember a pink substance paired with it, or on top of it, but it's hard to remember what was real when it began. This noticing was back in the early days of January, or perhaps the end of December.

In the last month, the sculpture, or installation, made of found garbage in the stairwell has grown. A triangular rock sat in front of the water bottle and bag. Then days later, a dead leaf was added with a peanut resting on the leaf, or perhaps it was a rice crispy. George called it a peanut. Someone added a red straw with a flared-out paper tip at the one end. This stuck out of the plastic bag. A twig protruded from the rock. A strange semicircle made of unknown material laid over it. Again, I do not know how long it took me to realize this was an unspoken project created by an anonymous artist in my 5-story building. While I notice it as art and call it an installation, other residents likely think it is simply a pile of trash.

I do not know if this is an installation by one or more people in my building. Are we silently coming together and leaving behind garbage in an organized fashion? Or is it just one person's project? George and I were excited to contribute.

A couple weeks ago, he found a black scrunchy on the ground outside. It was covered in hair. He placed it on the left side of the water bottle. I walked down the stairs one day drinking a raspberry and hibiscus tea and took the satchel out, still dripping, and placed it on the right side of the water bottle. This gave the creation a frame. One day George added a small paper wrapping behind the peanut, which added detail and depth.

We waited to see if there would be more.

*

In my Passion Planner, I selected 3 words which represent my core values for this year. I selected these words from a large list of others, words like integrity, wealth, fun, generosity, etc. I chose authenticity, dedication and connection. Authenticity—to keep myself true to what feels right and honest. I think this is true for my writing and working. Dedication because I don't want to lose focus. Dedication is how I draft and edit and complete books. I chose the third word—connection—out of the need to engage in community.

As an independent Aries, I excel at serving myself. I am great at solo projects. I can collaborate in workshop forms, or in theater. But I can sit alone in a chair for three months and create something alone in my head without feeling bothered.

However, community, friendship, connection is how I will get through the next four years and how I will survive the ailments of life. There's a reason why it feels good to log on to Zoom in the morning and write in silence with the Morning Writing Club. I need them, us, supporters and readers, and I need people to support. They are the people who tell me what to read, what to pay attention to. They've helped me develop a keen eye for special books; and helped me see the webs and networks between books. It's all connected.

*

I forgot to mention, in the gallon bag, there are four or five Skittles. Red, orange, green. They surround the red plastic straw as if they're gathering around it, celebrating something.

A couple days after I left the tea satchel, an unknown collaborator moved it to sit at the top of the water bottle.

“Okay, editor,” I said to it. I don't know if I agree with the placement. What I saw as the edge of a frame, another resident saw as a northern point. A cherry. I didn't move it back. It sat atop the trash deep. I think my collaborator saw the flecks of colorful tea leaves as sprinkles in a bag. I surrendered my vision and accepted the suggestion.

*

My apartment complex is new. It comes with never before used appliances. It smells like wood and paint. It is also a little disorganized. We didn't have mailboxes the first month. The hallways are vacuumed once or twice a month. I often find strange substances in the elevator. Goop unknown. And the stairwells are unfinished and never cleaned.

I am used to living in unfinished spaces. When I was a child, my family home was often unfinished with DIY projects, a torn-up bathroom waiting for a new shower, a torn-up bedroom waiting for a new bed. I don't need spaces to be complete. However, this relaxed way of being leads me accepting a lack of care and upkeep in the apartment stairwell. No one is cleaning it besides us.

I try to be a good resident. If I drop something, I pick it up. I don't leave unknown liquids in the elevator. I can't say the same for others. I can say no one is paying attention to us, or our trash, unless we ask them to.

And if someone did clean up our organized garbage statue, I would be so pissed. I would feel a little hollower and I would wonder if there would be a way to organize again.

*

I thought this was the creation of my neighbor, Justin. Justin is nineteen, works at a burger shop down the road, and ran for City Council. He lost. During my witch-like vote casting, I voted for Kamala, Allred and Justin. I really hoped one of them would have worked out. None of them did. When I ran into Justin last week, entering and exiting the building—the liminal space between home and not home—where I am most likely to run into my neighbors, I asked if he was the one who started making the art out of garbage.

He said it wasn't him, as if this was a disappointment to him and to me. It was.

I reminded of him that he could contribute if he wanted. There were no rules.

And then we dispersed to more defined spaces. Him to the elevator and me to my car.

On Friday, George, our neighbor, and I walked down the stairs to our evening gatherings. It was then that we saw the sculpture of garbage dismantled and strewn about the landing.

I felt I’d manifested this because I was already writing about it, thinking it would be there forever. I thought there was no reason for this garbage to be taken away from me. I did feel hallow.

However, all the pieces were still there, even the peanut. Even a new contribution in the form of the plastic ring from a Ring Pop. They were all there. My tea bag, the stone, the folded-up piece of wrapping, the hairy scrunchie.

The objects followed a line like a river, the plastic water bottle, still in the plastic bag with the Skittles, stood as the beacon. A beginning of a river. Perhaps it was more like a waterfall.

What looked to be someone tossing the sculpture around in frustration turned into a new way of playing. And why not a scattered look? After Monday and the executive orders, the sculpture seemed to represent the gloom of disconnectedness. This could have also been the actions of someone annoyed with the trash art, and wanting to take matters into their own hands by destroying what we made. Whoever it was, felt it needed to change.

I can speculate what this resident artist may have felt. I felt a sense of doom on Tuesday. It was possible I felt the residual anxiety from Monday's national transition. I also started working a job that Tuesday (I now am a Working Girl). The town of Bryan received a dusting of snow, which shut down the southeast part of Texas. This is a new chapter, albeit anxious and unknown. My fellow artist made a choice to represent that, whether they knew it or not, in our shared garbage.

I return to the piece today and rearrange the objects. I don't like my choice either, but my choice radiates, rather than flows, like an explosion or a star. The choice feels too obvious.

I wander outside my building for a bit as I write this. I also look for new materials. There's a neon pink lighter just below the last step. A partially consumed caramel apple sucker wet in the grass. A purple soy sauce packet on the concrete. I am particularly fond of the soy sauce packet. It adds color without being sticky or lost property.

I tuck the soy sauce into these notebook pages then place the full squishy packet beneath the triangular rock to connect two pieces of the sculpture that would otherwise have no connected parts. I place the lighter not with the materials, but on the same ledge, so the person who lost it can see it better the next time they go down the stairs.

I am not trying to make something better. I don't think it is. I make another pattern to signal to whoever is out there that I still care. I am telling them let's keep trying.