It started with the winter blues: I wanted my small rowhouse garden to be aesthetically pleasing - at least to me - all year, not just during the growing season. One Friday evening I discovered a pile of rusted and beautifully shaped boiler parts in my alley; they became the fencing for my new rust garden.

Although I never was much good at traditional gardening, it turned out that in the artful arrangement of trash I had found my calling. The rest, as they say, is history. I had been raised to consider yards decorated with pink flamingos, elves and gnomes, plastic ducks, shell mosaics and shrines to dead pets to be vulgar.

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