I enjoy the how these objects are treated as artifacts, serving more purpose. Reminds me of Whitmanism, give importance to everything.
It all relates back on the surface level to anthropology, archaeology, and archival processes. I can imagine these as artifacts preserved by future civilizations, precious depictions of what made up the lives of modern man, what we are made of. Much of this collection to us is nothing more special than second hand items, used goods, even trash. By placing them together in this context of 'Asterisms" or constellations, documenting them in way that gives them a heightened sentimental/philosophical value. Thus, deserving of consideration by the viewer, to pose questions to oneself, to perceive the world of the in-between. I find it worth noting that unlike typical archaeological digs that include the trash heaps of ancient cultures, like the "oyster mounds" left by native americans here in Florida, these objects were not reclaimed from dumps/landfills. They were found in the wild, as discarded litter and the common clutter that surrounds us all and even contaminates our natural "untouched" places. Very ironic that Orozco travels to a place where man is forbidden and yet still finds the evidence of man in the form of trash and debris, brought in by the ocean to the furthest reaches of our planet. In a different sense I do not believe Orozco simply intends to shed light on litter and make commentary on consumption and waste, but rather it is about expansive materiality of our world and the connections to be made between it all. It is the system at play that is truly represented just the objects themselves. Those are pieces of the whole and he is wanting to weave a story of sorts.
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Everything there has a connection back to a person, place, time. Specific events that could have been insignificant as a grassy wad of chewing gum as impacting as a lost bracelet charm or broken shoelace. Each piece is alone in its own narrative and yet connected as a whole by the AstroTurf. Perhaps it is a metaphor for the fabric of space time, of society, and yet again irony to be found in the fact that it is not even real grass but plastic, artificial, just like much of the objects found within its shiny green tendrils. The people, relationships, memories those artificial artifacts represent, though, are very real and authentic.