At what point does a life turn into absolute rubbish? What is the cycle that governs all living and man-made things? Looking at the Christmas trees discarded along the streets and alleyways, I wonder about the process of objects of desire that turn from preciousness into worthlessness. At one time, for a short period of time, the abandoned trees, were decorated and given prominent position in many homes.

We all exist in the interim, between life and death, adoration and abandonment, usefulness and uselessness. I come along and find beauty in the rejected and instill them with new identity and life. Their lives start all over again, but never in the same way. Their rebirths aren't necessarily pretty or hopeful. Often, we don't choose what we become.