The parking lot of Dunkin Donuts, and fifteen minutes to kill. This is bad. Try to resist going inside. Try to resist eating three glazed doughnuts with a large coffee. Take a brisk stroll around the parking lot instead.
In my usual quest for odd and unloved plants, I poke around the edges of the lot, potter in the corners, mosey through the knee-deep weeds that fringe the cars. Finally I happen to glance at a spot where no one ever looks—behind the dumpster.
No one, that is, except an artist searching for a canvas.
This was painted on the back of the dumpster wall. Unsigned.
It makes me think of petroglyphs I’ve seen, carved on walls of red rock in Utah or Arizona.
Someone put it here—created it here—in this unlikely place where no one except an insane botanist like me would ever think to look. Completely hidden in the shade of the scraggly box elder trees that cluster behind the dumpster.
What is the purpose of art if not to be seen?
The mysterious face keeps its secrets.
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