Published via Ecency

"Deer Stag" in flaky paint on old rusty metal

Age weathers us. It takes our smooth, clean design and scratches it, rubs it, tugs at it. Wrinkles come and wrinkles stay. Scars as memories of things perhaps we shouldn't have tried. But in doing so it lends us character. Stories written in our skin and movements. Being weathered means we lived.

And that is how it goes for our stuff as well. Not the breakages that lead to trash bins but the battered old teddy-bear that nobody would buy yet has such value, and those comfortable aged clothes that fit just right. Even the battered books are a tone better than new.

Beyond that lies the stuff of society that has its own brush of weathering. Our structures, our signs, our walls, our benches are blasted by wind and rain and sun and bums. Sometimes to the point where I wonder if it was deliberate. Exquisite little patterns that appear out of nowhere. So why don't we appreciate it?

Perhaps due to the lack of personal attachment. But also the belief that new, clean and tidy is a better state.

There's life in that wall of flaking paint. An intricate landscape with depth and skies. That rusty old metal skeleton of something that once had use bears the colours of autumn and the glow of sunshine. The grime and grit around it makes it hard to see these worlds. Our expectations of a controlled environment turn our heads the other way. Then the bustle in our ears and minds makes it even harder to see what else dwells within those worlds of weathering.

There is a wildness.

"Meerkat Lookout" in more flaky paint on old rusty metal