Humiliating the Objects

Objects are more real than us; stronger than us. Here is a rock mound in a Welsh town. It sits there, and the town has to deal with it.

That's what objects would say if they spoke. 'Deal with it.' But obviously they don't say that. They don't say anything. They're silent. And their silence is a part of their strength.

This is how we get our own back on the world, on objects. We soil the world, we humiliate the objects. We bring them down to our level. Unstable, unsure, unnecessary.

We drop all of our shopping out of our Tesco bag and we just leave it there, on the floor. Our unbagged broccoli, our pre-washed salad, our Ripe and Ready avocados.

Or, on a larger, more collective scale, the detritus of our actions washes up on a beach. Brought together by longshore drift. Our jerrry cans, our mop buckets, our condoms.

Maybe if I want to make inadequate objects then I could take my cue from the everyday humiliations we inflict on objects.

Here's a discarded Christmas tree (isn't the name humiliating, a tree defined in terms of a human festival), wrapped in a bin bag and thrown onto the street.

Wrapped objects. Bagged objects. Objects whose skin is deemed too weak for the attentions of other objects. Objects that need protection from the elements.

Rose bushes wrapped for the winter, to protect them from the frosts.

A bronze statue wrapped in tarp, awaiting repair.

Gagged objects. Bound objects. Objects whose sole function is removed. Objects whose abilitities are constrained.

Slippers placed on fence posts, unable to walk.

A postbox wrapped in hazard tape, unable to accept letters.

Shamed objects. Ridiculed objects. Objects that are made dirty by our spillages. Objects that are misused, brought into contact with other, lesser objects.

A trainer covered in cinnamon, aromatic and dusty.

A towel used for drying tomatoes, trapped underneath the organic matter.