Confessions of a skip-diver
Call me disgusting, but I like rubbish, and I like it best from a skip. I am also in good company. In his 1967 poem, ‘The Bin Men Go on Strike’, Raymond Queneau riffs on the fantasy of bins stuffed with works of art, the ‘Mona Lisa’ lying askew by the spent toothpaste tube, or a Géricault smeared with pigeon shit, jettisoned by an ignorant philistine. This is an elaborate joke, bien sûr, designed to make us reconsider aesthetics in general, but its point holds: can we conjure art from the soiled and fragmented? Can we overturn economic values – and even meaning – as the ragpickers or, as Baudelaire