The absurd work requires an artist conscious of these limitations and an art in which the concrete signifies nothing more than itself. It cannot be the end, the meaning, and the consolation of a life.
Camus, Albert, The Myth of Sisyphus, 1955
Driving across Victoria to the Hub, I saw this sign on a post at Lawrence Ave last week. Didn’t have time to shoot it then, but today I stopped, and climbed into a snow drift so I could capture this thing that had me thinking since I saw it. The “FOUND” is so bold and the picture or description of the found thing is almost completely obliterated. It seemed like an Existentialist’s poster. Man, I could riff philosophically all day, but I’ll have to settle for this post.
I see art everywhere.