Sometimes I wonder why the look of decay fascinates me.
Shouldn’t I rather like the glossy, new, spotless surface of a freshly painted wall? The silvery shine of a smooth metal surface, cool to the look, even cooler to the touch? The noble polish of a wooden table, warm and pleasant, heavenly classy?
I like those as well, yes. But much better I like them after life has left its traces, after paint faded, metal rusted, wood dried and rotted. Not that I’d necessarily want decay close around me (feels pretty good to possess well preserved furniture and things), but I like the patterns left behind by the passing time. The rusty bike, chained to the lamp post, the wooden fence with only a trace of its color left, the soft brown of the sheet metal door, where oxidation has painted a face (if you look with your eyes squinted and your face tilted to the right).
It is as if the materials slowly emerge back to their original appearance after we have tried to make them fit into our schema of beauty, have them dressed to our liking and made them fit into our personal style.
But one day, they will go back from where they came from. They will shake off the imposed image of perfection and will rise from heteronomy. They will proudly be what time meant them to be: old materials with scars of time, worn and tired, but proud in their heart.
Maybe this is why I like to look at them: They tell a story of life and loss and pride.
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