There's a community garden near the intersection of Mosher Street and Carrollton Avenue. It's hidden behind the houses, a veritable hole in the doughnut of the West Baltimore neighborhood of Sandtown-Winchester. The garden consists of old bathroom appliances and painted tires that have been repurposed. I loved that garden when I lived next to it. I chased the chickens in that garden. I worked on my book project (which is still incomplete) in that garden. I spent many nights drinking wine and talking to my ex-boyfriend in that garden. I got to know him in that garden.
This collage was supposed to be an anniversary gift for him. The more I spent time on it, though, the more clear it became that I was making something he might not like. There were quite a few butterflies on the frame, and I figured he would find that off-putting. So, I put this collage aside and made him something different. I returned to this collage after his gift was complete. I added a few more layers to it. Some of them were unexpected. For example, I found gold foil rub-ons at the dollar store and managed to work them into the collage. That's what I like about making collages. I walk into them not knowing what I'm doing, and I walk out of them knowing what I'm doing. Let me tell you how little I have applied that to real-life situations.
Today, I returned to the garden to take a picture of the collage at its place of origin. There were new chickens, and two black ducks had joined the posse. The row of vacant houses that once sat across the street had been knocked down. A community park had sprung up in the void they left behind. It was a good but uncomfortable transition. Most people are resistant to change. It scares them. More often than not, though, it yields an exquisite outcome.
There are community gardens in many of Baltimore's most difficult neighborhoods. They're not a sign of progress but a sign of endurance. They are proof that people who are surrounded by hardships are determined to create beautiful things in dark spaces, to survive their environment. Three years ago, someone with an ax to grind broke into the chicken coop in that West Baltimore garden and killed four of them with his bare hands. I remember hearing a strange noise from my home office set-up that day and writing it off since it wasn't consistent or gunshot. I later learned that it was the sound of a chair ripping open a hole in the chicken coop. I didn't even look out of the window to explore my curiosity. Maybe if I'd looked, there'd be one more chicken left alive.
That's what I think of when I look at this collage. It took several weeks to make it.