Larue Alleyway 2014

Beauty Out Back

Trust me, this is not where it all begins—but we’re going to start here to save time.

It wasn’t one of those “I think I’ll put a garden here” moments. It was more like my garden has to go here. Not because it made sense, not because anyone else would have seen potential, but because something in me recognized the space.

The back of the building wasn’t much to look at. Concrete, rust, forgotten things. When I asked the landlord if I could paint the windows black—on a building he didn’t even own yet—he looked at me like I had lost my mind. And maybe I had. Or maybe I had just seen something he hadn’t: the beginning of beauty.

The garden started as a random collection. Nothing matched. Nothing followed a plan. But still, it grew—trailing vines, broken pots, wild color. A kind of beauty that didn’t ask permission. A kind that came from the guts, not the guidebooks.

There’s a certain kind of magic that happens when you give a forgotten place a little attention. The plants don’t care that the walls are cracked. They don’t mind that the sunlight only hits just right for a few hours a day. They just grow. And in doing so, they remind you that beauty shows up where you least expect it—especially when you’re willing to meet it halfway.