The art of rubbish

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art

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I found these paintings in the garden.

Under a tree.

Someone bought them because they were art.

Someone threw them away because they weren’t.

So when does art become rubbish?

And who painted these?

Did they do so for passion?

Or money?

Perhaps both.

Then I took a photograph.

Which sat on my memory card for a few days.

Unseen.

And to paraphrase Schrodinger.

For that brief period it was both art and not art.

Both states existed.

Until I opened the box.

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The task is to think what nobody has yet thought, about that which everybody sees. – Erwin Schrodinger

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