I enter my parents’ dim lit shed. Musty pasteboard boxes, tools, and agricultural items clutter the space. The scent of fertilizer, pesticides, and mold fill my nostrils. Creeping in quietly, I am very young and alone. Pleased to plunder through all things not mine: I begin to open boxes one by one, careful not to disturb the order of things. Outside is sweltering hot, steamy. How pleasant it is to be inside on the cool concrete floor escaping the late July heat. A box containing old 8-tracks is discovered, pillaged and discarded.  Boxes containing army uniforms, files, paperwork, and stinky old 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 this tomb over and over throughout life.  

 “Contemporary Art is Sex,” John Waters.