Did you ever do that when you were a kid -- you saved a drawer of popsicle sticks to build a small house? The power of the stock, "snatching for the world", has been hidden in the hearts of many。
In henan, there's an old man named dachang, who's trying to make it real. Over the past 15 years, nearly 30,000 strangled cans, without entering the recycling site, have become his family's “private convoy” — land cruisers, helicopters, even tanks. Neighbors' children passed through his yard, and their feet couldn't move, and their eyes couldn't stick to those silver flashing models. What's more, this "waste king" can get tens of thousands of dollars a month by selling these metal toys. Who says there's no future for you? They pick up crafts and sell children's hearts。
Not just tai chang, zhejiang has a master tortist chen, who deals with screw hats during the day and becomes an iron magician at night. He took the screwdrivers and threaded steel out of the workshop and welded them into a heavy metal tin man band. The tiny irons are flexible, they play air guitar in their heads, and the internet users call it "damn steel" is opening. And abinbin of yunnan was also weak, and a bunch of mechanical bugs and freckles were pulled out of the iron-coated accelerants, and the metal of the hard-on was drawn from him。
The wind of “derelict to treasure” also stung to the workstation of an old artist. Master cao, 63 years old, looked at a pair of used chopsticks and redwood boxes. Guess what? With thousands of handmade little parts, he built a tiny kowtow that was so smart that he could push the door and window open. And in the 10th century, the other grand tycoon was tougher, saving more than 200,000 one-off chopsticks, one-on-one sticky, and it was the name of a “wanfortah” that was so ambitious. How patient is this to turn past-eating garbage into a work of art that people look around their necks
It's not too busy for us to see it? For wuhan's king to master red, this is the sweet end of the day. He likes to scratch out the scrapwood he picks up, carves a few pieces, or knocks on a small bench, and stuffs it to his neighbors. Neighbors have all said that what is in the hands of master wang carries the smell of wood and warm human taste. There's a god named griming, who played junk and played his own rules -- no cutting, no welding, just a combination of parts as they were. He said every scratch is a story of itself, and you have to follow it。
To put it bluntly, these “breathing artists” are just the ones who picked us up from childhood when they couldn't throw their caps. The saying, “wasn is the resource of the wrong place”, but in their hands, the waste is not garbage at all, it is a joy that has not been unopened. Every screw they've twisted, every stick they've put on, is in the era of whispering to it: the true treasure, not in the window of the store, but in the heart of you who would bow down and reach out and create。
Next time you're going to throw away an empty jar in your hand, you might as well stop -- maybe it's waiting to turn into a little plane in your world。
