It was Blob when I found it, indistinguishable from others littering the beach below Tate Modern, except for four evenly spaced nubs in the hard brown rust.
I took it Home (first Canada, then Los Angeles, then London again) subjecting Blob to all kinds of nastiness… WD40 scrubdowns… Brasso soaks… salty electrolysis baths running volts from converted cellphone-chargers, blasting H20 into composite parts… rust away from Blob…
It took months, but Blob transformed… Blob became an X… iron lines meeting in a center of encrusted ornamentation. Crudely applied dental tools flaked little shards of hard shit from the raised surface of a Circle… no, a Flower… yes! A Tudor Rose.
By the end of this process, I had reached a point where I could no longer tell where Object ended and Rust began, its corruptive permeation was so extensive. I didn’t know if the dent in the petal was the subconsciously applied imprint of my desire, or memory, or the original Object itself. The excavation that seemed so linear took on too many connotations… I wimped out… snapped a pic… posted it to Facebook.