Lost, 2024
Wayward mylar balloons, fused plastic, broken cables of connection, forgotten Letraset, thread, binders board, paper
Unique Edition
In December 2023, I visited a non-touristy section of Jamacia for a friend’s 50th anniversary. Every morning my husband and I exercised and swam at Lysson’s Beach—part public and private beach near our accommodation.
The contrast between the two sides of the beach startled me. The private section looked like any beach you see in a magazine: clean, raked, nearly pristine with picnic benches and tidy restrooms. The public beach? Strewn with plastic bottles, old tires, toothbrushes, pill bottles, other bottles. A beach clean-up would take truckloads of waste away. Who knows the last time this beach was maintained. I watched a tube of toothpaste float by me while I swam.
This is not limited to this tiny beach on Jamaica. When I visit my family in Florida, beach entrances invite me to take a bucket and pick-up trash as I walk the shore. Sea glass and seashells might be a thing of the past.
When I returned to my landlocked home, I vowed to regularly pick-up trash along a three-mile section of road that I walk regularly. Every couple of months I fill a 50-gallon bag with water bottles, soda cans, spent lottery tickets, fast food debris, nips, and all kinds of random shit. And I live in a rural part of New England.
This book, LOST, was crafted from some of my finds, “treasures” waiting to become something.
Ultimately, this book is about lost connection to our home, Planet Earth.
