Ordinarily I do not take photos of things that are not pretty. I am a girl, after all, and my sensibilities are such that I only like to look at things that are in tune with a certain limited, socially acceptable aesthetic. If it doesn’t sparkle or shine, I’m not interested. If it’s not sanitized and filtered, I don’t want to know about it. If it’s not perfectly wrapped in expensive paper and topped with a bow that matches the ribbon, forget about it.
So it was with some reluctance that I backtracked today on my way home from the gym, in order to snap this still life. I held my breath, screwed up my face in disgust just so no one passing by would think I actually like grime and grit, and just pretended it was a bowl of pears and apples that will never be eaten set beside an elegant candelabra that will never be lit resting atop an elegant tablecloth that will never be stained.
Pretended pretended pretended, so I wouldn’t have to worry my pretty little head with unpleasant thoughts about how much this looks like evidence that a baby was quietly bludgeoned on Broadway. A baby that bled spaghetti sauce … except for the one part, just south of center, that really does look like clotted blood.