The glimmer of a smile on a work-worn face; an arched back holding a hammer aloft; a proud chair standing alone and abandoned: this is the stuff of human existence. This is what we call ordinary.
Yet where should beauty be found if not in banality, in the fleeting gestures and repetitive rhythms of daily life that fade so far into the background that they become workaday, unlovely – in a word, imperfect?
We tend to think of beauty as flawless. Yet perfection is often so perfect, it becomes bland.
The longer I spent in Madagascar the more I was touched by the elemental energy of a societywhere everything we throw away is revered and remade in an endless cycle of creation.
A hymn to human ingenuity in a land where machines are not yet king, where life still has soul.