It’s too easy to say that wastelands have been cursed as we push out the borders of the city, attributing a specific purpose to each square meter and every element of the urban landscape.
It wouldn’t take much, perhaps simply the regard of an observant pedestrian, or an undisciplined passer-by, for minuscule incidents to pierce the scrim and erupt onto the freshly painted stage. A food truck, for example, selling fries, or an overturned flower pot, an improbably misspelled graffiti, a barrel cut in half emitting the scent of chestnuts, an indecipherable message printed out in wads of gum on the sidewalk, a group of not-so-young youths suburbanizing a doorstep… and everything would be set for the apparition of images and for the amateur of wastelands to notice that incertitude is covering the neighborhoods with its silent tsunami.
