Its 8:46am in a cold, cold New York. I’m on my way to work. Yesterday was very wet indeed. A walk that I must have taken 100 times, today feels different. There’s a new presence on the street. There’s something in the air. I realise that a mass murder has taken place.

As I walk on it becomes apparent. A picture of the previous evenings events; a story presents itself. That which was previously indispensable has been disposed of. The evidence is all around. On this one day, on this one short, straight walk, I see a plethora of dead umbrellas, all with their own story.

Some of these umbrellas failed in the course of duty, some were done-away with, most likely by those closest to them. These stories however, seem to point in the same direction, cover the same ground. Perhaps closer inspection will shed some crisp morning light.

A skeleton stripped of its flesh reveals evidence of a serious wind the night before, exposing a floor in the thinking behind the design this object. Nature is cruel. Another, an arm this time, alerts me to an otherwise overlooked addition to this mornings phenomenon. This one wont let go. Probably still useable, from underneath all the “trash”, it attempts to claw its way out. Perhaps it hopes to be saved. Alas, to no avail. Another, at the next “trash can”, seems to be optimistically waving for help. Soon it will be collected but not saved.

I start to think to myself that maybe something could have been done to save these things. Maybe, somehow they could have survived New York and its New Yorkers. No, perhaps that is too harsh - this must be happening elsewhere as well. This design of umbrella is all over the world. That’s a lot of waste.

Something must be done! I think. I must use my powers of design to stop this happening!

As I walk on, I see more. Quickly I record these incidents visually, via the use of my camera, all the time wondering, thinking it through.

Time of death 8:54am, I mutter under my cloudy breath.

This was a nasty one. Completely flattened by traffic. It may have been beyond saving beforehand but there is no way of knowing for sure. Its body is frozen in a fixed state of surprise, arms flailing in last nights freezing wind and rain, yet another casualty of its own design.

At this point my face is screwed up with questions and frenzied thought. Passers by notice this and pretend to look at something else. I can’t help but thrash this out in my head as I walk. It’s eating at me now. I think of the waste. I think of the sheer scale of it. If this is 23rd street, how many are all over the city!

I pass more and more. I start to pass them by without stopping. It feels like taking photos of trees in a forest. Nobody else bats an eyelid. I feel self-conscious for having stopped before. Is it the city or is it the umbrellas? Even though I no longer stop for them, I still see them and my mind still flicks through the possible reasons.

It seems that two there are two main contenders for the truth. Either New Yorkers represent a wasteful America and on a larger scale, a wasteful world or these umbrellas just don’t cut it when it really counts. Yet, to contend with the latter of those two suppositions, I picture the manufactures shrugging, saying you can’t expect our products to stand up to such extreme conditions. I think for a minute that perhaps I am questioning too much, seeing issues where there really aren’t any. But should New York weather really classed as extreme? I think not. .

Its extremely cold here but I think not, I mutter as I pass through the revolving doors and into the building that is home to, amongst many others, Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger and more importantly for me, Smart Design. .

So then it must be the design, too easily disposable and cheap. Perhaps knowingly so, in order to keep people buying for lack of a better option. However, I know that better options are available, so it must be a price issue. People wont pay for something they may not use so very often. Its that age-old debate over short-term economy versus the long-term implications. You get a cheap product but the landfills get it soon after. And there it stays.

In the elevator I think about letting people know. I think about changing things. I think about never seeing so many dead and dumped umbrellas on one short stretch of street again. Upon reaching the 18th floor, I realise that they’re a metaphor.

Then I get into work.

(Taken from Original babydes site, posted Feb 07)