I take rubbish pictures in every sense. My subjects are static, abundant and nearby. I don’t try to find beauty in them, I’m not a professional photographer.
Take a look at the contents and fittings of your home: beds, chairs, sofa, tables, cooker, fridge, toilet bowl, wardrobes, cabinets, carpets, rugs, shopping trolley, suitcases, laundry basket, curtains, blankets, duvets, clothes, television, washing machine, doors, toys, shoes, bric-a-brac, framed pictures and the content of the rubbish bin. They are all in my photos: mostly on pavements and in front gardens, occasionally on the street.
There is an apparent contradiction in rubbish dumping. The poorest the area, the greater the number of objects that are used for only a short stretch and then turfed out onto the pavement. Walthamstow is one of the many suburbs in the tourist-free, grimy belt that surrounds central London. A scruffy, dirty mishmash of traffic choked streets, overcrowded tenements, shabby shops and high deprivation. It has a dense, transient, low-income population that rents privately and tends to buy cheap stuff that doesn’t last or may not be suitable for the next tenant. Environmental degradation and respect for public spaces are not high on the agenda of either landlords or tenants. That said, a small posse of private developers, estate agents and creative-corporate types, are forever telling me that I live in a vibrant, urban paradise. My photos are in part an attempt to reconcile the cognitive dissonance their claims cause me.