Muck of rust shines in the light,
old curtains now faded, lamps that are broke.
Stealing down alleys with the luck of the spy.
Pale colored spindles that rise to the sky with rotating balls like globes being spun.
Travelers on foot with two arms to hold, looking for loot once bought and once owned.
Gears jam as fast cars slow, tailpipes idling in the getaway breeze.
A new journey awaits- a second stage of life-
plugged into outlets and painted over twice.
 Crib #3
 Crib #9
 Crib #10
 Crib #12  Crib #13  Crib #16
 Crib #17
 Crib #22
 Crib #25
 Crib #27
 Crib #28
 Crib #30


Cribs: A New Birth of Birth

The cribs came to me at a slow pace over 13 years. I found them in front of people’s homes on garbage clean-up day, or just thrown out with the regular trash-- baby cribs that the household had outgrown. I had to have screwdrivers with me at all times to disassemble the headboard from the rest of the crib on the spot—before the owners came out.

The cribs signify a birth, and once the headboard is turned upside down it is re-born. Today, when I look over all 30 of them, I’m amazed that I stuck around so long to find and re-create them.  And I’m glad, because now there are no more cribs to be found in the trash—now that the change is here and the source dried up.
Over those years, after people realized I was painting on cribs, they would call me when they came upon one, or just rip it out from the trash pile themselves and bring it to my garage. They themselves became the scavengers, and I think it came to them naturally because people are basically scavengers at heart—it’s something tribal. I wonder when or how things got to the point that people don’t do that anymore. Now they just go to Wal-Mart.