In New York City, the plastic we discard has a way of remaining in plain sight. There are few alleys to hide residents’ refuse, and the clear recycling bags leave their contents on full display. In a city built on a dense grid, lightweight wrappers, bags and bottles spill from overflowing bins and skitter down sidewalks, collecting in gutters and corners before the wind carries them on.
All that plastic is a layer of the urban landscape, as familiar as subway grates and fire escapes, revealing a messy and unflattering aspect of city life. “Garbage is not what we cast out, but the prime locus of meaning in our lives,” the character Nick Shay says in Don DeLillo’s Underworld.
