The art and faux geometry.

The color combinations.

The makeshift ties that, at times, couldn't be more delicate and nearly unthinkable as a resource.

The extreme delicateness of some of the ties holding down these tarps, looking so strong and sturdy, yet tiny and frail.

Paint on paint, the intended coding and the taggers.

The beauty in the dumpster, the roughness of how they appear to be treated, worn, rusted, dented, with the care of tying the tarp. 

The idea that they can easily be "undone", yet have been knotted and tied with such intension.

The tension of the tarps from the draping, tight, bound, pulled so hard, and then sometimes loose, fluid and blowing. 

One bike ride I spoke out loud when I saw one on Vanderbilt.  I was cheering it basically, for its perfection of color and the symmetry of the ties.  I kept thinking it would be there for a while.  It was gone, quickly.  How it began.  I don't look for them.  I see them, sometimes I have my camera, sometimes I don't.  I make notes of where they are and go back to take the pictures.