Years ago, on 'Law and Order, CSI', there was an episode featuring two characters -- young boys -- who had been adopted from a Romanian orphanage and brought to America, where of course -- it being Law and Order, after all -- one of them committed an awful crime. I forget what. In the climactic scene, the big detective asks one of the boys to empty his pockets onto the table in the interrogation room. The boy does so, and out tumbles an odd assortment of stones, bits of glass and string, and a few other things.
'Aha', said the detective, 'this is just what I expected -- children who've been institutionalized almost always have a compulsion to collect bits of junk off the street. It gives them...' and here the actor did something odd with his neck, like he seems to prefer doing, 'it gives them the sense of order and control that they so desperately need.' Or something like that. Then there was a commercial. I forget the rest. But it did make me think. And I filed this away...
Today, after too many days of spending too much time in the house, I finally took myself for a walk. Just the mile down into the center of South Orange, for a very expensive cup of coffee from a charming young man behind the Starbux counter, and then the mile back. I was supposed (supposition supplied only by myself of course) to go to the gym today, but I just couldn't manage that. The walk would have to suffice.
It was nearly five o'clock, and the setting sun was starting to gild the upper stories of the houses I passed. Even though I was wearing five layers of clothing on my upper body, I wasn't sure it would be enough. I had on a celadon green polar fleece pullover (Salvation Army), a soft blue flannel shirt (Salvation Army), my royal blue polar fleece zip-front jacket (actual store purchase), and over everything, my light-weight, bright orange shell, with the hood that rolls up at the neck (also bought in a store, though at steep discount). Even though I felt chilled at first, I left my jackets open -- I like wearing strong colors and showing them off. After several blocks, though, I had to zip up the royal blue jacket, to keep my neck warm. I wasn't even halfway to my destination.
When I'm walking, no matter what the reason or destination, or whether I'm too warm or too cold, I'm always alert, if only peripherally, for... stuff. Things that have fallen off, have dropped out, or were tossed aside. It's amazing to me that, in spite of my need for increasingly strong reading glasses, I can still spot a bit of black rubber tubing from two blocks away. And, if the discarded objet is just right, into one of my pockets it goes. Counting all combined garments on today's walk, I had six pockets in which to stow things. So what did I collect today, in that brisk round-trip jaunt of two miles, with a stop for caffeine in the middle?
I have... one black latex glove. I thought it was a balloon, but it clearly has fingers. I like using gloves in my sculpture work -- they emphasize the issue of touch, which is especially loaded for glass work. And the overt shape of the hand makes things seem more immediate -- as though, in the work, a procedure has just been interrupted, and the viewer -- that would be you, of course -- will imminently be called upon, in this odd emergency setting, to step in, pull on these dubious-looking hand coverings, and resume whatever mysterious things are being done.
I have... a bundle of dull red rubber bands. All the same size, about five inches around. I thought they were something else -- maybe a coiled length of red twine -- but the group of them was intriguing enough to warrant rescue. Into the pocket.
I have... a piece of what looks like the torn edge of an automobile tire that went flat, or fell apart. An irregular length of black. At first, I thought I'd found a synthetic hair braid, but this was too tough and resilient for a hairdo. Even though it just looks long and thin, it has a wonderful topography -- there's a tuft of greyish fiber at one end, and a steadying white stitch running all along the whole irregular strip. It's just a little longer than the distance from my elbow to the tips of my fingers. Is that a cubit? I think Noah knew something about those.
And I have... what I think is a circular vacuum-cleaner brush attachment -- a dull black plastic circle, about an inch and a half across and maybe half an inch deep, with a skirt of stiff nylon bristles two inches long. If I stand it up on the bristles, it looks like a hula skirt for a chubby doll. If I put the circle part down, the thing becomes a sea urchin, with wire-thin spines.
For me, even for a little two-mile hike, this is a modest accumulation of detritus. Years ago, I had to schedule a regular emptying of whatever vehicle I was using at the time, because I found so many interesting things. Most were small, but sometimes, I latched onto larger interesting things. When I was teaching in Philadelphia, I had half a mile of city to cover, from parked my car to the classrooms. And I often showed up at work with my hands and pockets filled with new acquisitions. Or, if I was trying to discipline myself, I would make a mental note of the Interesting Thing, if it was still there when I was making my return trip, it got scooped up, to become part of... the mass of mystery.
In fairness to myself (though to a much more limited extent than I would like) I do manage to incorporate some small percentage of my rescued materials into my art work. I think of this slender portion of the collection as the artistic 1%. The rest lies about in various heaps, or in a few bins, with things separated by color. The black bin is always fuller than the others.
There are zip-lock bags too, with bits of auto rubber, or loops of wire, or the tightly-coiled cord of a cell phone, flattened by who knows how many cars, before I stepped in to snatch it up. In fairness to myself, I have plans for all these items, involving photocopy machines, and drawings based on the (fantasy) photocopies... Big plans. Years in the making. Like major motion pictures. Only without the ticket sales.
For today's harvest, I see them incorporated into papier mache masks, to help make those creations as frightening and creepy as possible. Actually, it's quite possible that, unlike many of my ideas, this one may actually to take shape. Stranger things have happened.
Let's go back to that TV show, and the theory about kids who've lived in institutions being compelled, without even noticing it, to pocket things they see around them. I don't think that plot detail was invented by the script writers -- it's too specific. But that idea, of a sense of control, sounds like a psychiatric specialist's invention. That idea seems to me like something developed by someone who never spent a single night in an orphanage, lying on a strange bed, trying not to make too much noise, but unable to keep from crying.
I collect things because, in addition to their (very vaguely and remotely) possible use as art materials, there is an instantaneous transference, when I see a shape and texture in the gutter, or off to one side, under a hedge. It's recognition, if you will -- 'I know you,' the twist of plastic might as well be saying. For me, bending down to pocket this worn out artifact is a rescue operation -- though less dramatic than those involving hovering helicopters. My little scrap, that maybe only a week ago, had identity and purpose, resonates with me. Picking these things up is actually a consciously unconscious effort at repair -- revaluing the thing that's been brought back from disaster, and seeking to mend my own self. If my body worked just a bit differently, here's what would happen when I've made my find. I would simply drop this little morsel into the dark place beneath my breast bone, and let it sink at its own pace, to find its proper place inside of me.
I wonder what I'll find tomorrow.
© 2012 Walter Zimmerman
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