“Contemporary Art is Sex.”
-John Waters

I enter my parents’ shed. Musty pasteboard boxes, tools, and agricultural items clutter the space. The scent of fertilizer and pesticides fill my nostrils. Creeping in, I am very young and alone. Pleased to plunder through all things not mine: I begin to open boxes, careful not to disturb the order of things. Inside on the cool, concrete floor I am escaping the steamy mid-July heat. A box containing 8-tracks is discovered, pillaged, and discarded. Boxes containing army uniforms, paperwork, and paperbacks are ransacked. Photographs, unprotected and yellowed, swirl in my head, remnants of a time before I existed. Opening the next box I discover something so titillating and perplexing that I would continue to revisit these precious relics throughout life.