Found Objects

I found a shoe off the highway. On a corner where sex workers often wait to turn tricks. The sketchy side of town. But what is art? And what is performance? Was the woman who wore this shoe last night an actress? Or a whore? Or both? And if you sell a part of yourself, as we all inevitably do, where’s the line?

Is there one?

Ex-Mormon girl who is still, in many ways (other than her coffees), more Mormon than not stares into the ether today and wonders:

Maybe lines are inventions. Wishes. We want there to be more distinctions and categories in life than there really are. Polarities are convenient. But they don’t reflect life the way it is lived. Last night, this was a bit of glitz, an attempt to class something up. Today it’s trash on the roadside. Tomorrow, staged just right, it can become art.

When, really, it’s just a shoe. But delivered into the right context, it is reinvented. Recast. Less about perspective, meaning is more about the uses to which we put things. And the judgments we apply to those uses.

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