Since around 2002, I’ve been running the same small ritual: write “What is your treasure?” by hand on a scrap of paper. Fold it. Tuck it inside a tiny plastic treasure chest — the party-favor kind, the kind a pirate-themed dentist gives out. Close the lid. Leave the chest somewhere in Chicago, and photograph it sitting there, closed.
Someone sees this unusual object on a sidewalk, gets curious, picks it up, opens it, and finds a handwritten question. What is your treasure? It’s a question that can inspire meaningful thoughts. What do you value in life?
Will a person have a deep thought? Or will they just chuck it away? I’d like to think that the person willing to let their curiosity pick up a tiny plastic treasure chest… will also be someone who lets themselves explore what their treasure is.
The message inside asks someone to think about what their treasure is. A valuable question that points to what matters in life.
Upon removing the paper message from the treasure, the chest is empty. The viewer reads the message and symbolically fills up the chest with their own thoughts.
Perhaps they will keep the treasure chest as a memento, in essence making the chest itself a true treasure to be valued. Or maybe they will relocate the treasure chest somewhere else in public or give it to a friend. An action of giving is a true treasure to be admired.
The medium used here, the tiny plastic treasure chest, was originally created to hold a child’s tooth. The original home of the child’s tooth was a mouth, also a pocket (or compartment) much like the treasure chest. With the mouth, we express ourselves, just as this treasure chest asks the viewer to do.
For years I did this here and there. Then in 2010 the series exploded. In April: an order of 288 chests. By June, running low: 576 more.
Somewhere north of eight hundred chests, each with a handwritten note — and yes, I hand-wrote every one, in batches, an assembly line of a single question.
Someone asked where I get so many treasure chests; I explained:
I have this thing called toothopedialooseaologyness. I lose my teeth every year and new ones grow back in. It’s crazy. And so I get all these treasure chests all over the place. JUST KIDDING. Where I buy them varies.
It all depends on if the transport ship from China had them on the deck when they come into my sources. I’m serious. Here’s the lowdown. I once bought them from slambamfun, but the paint would wear off on your fingers. And they are from China. So who knows, maybe the paint had lead in it? Yuck! I threw those away.
My most recent batch of 288 chests came from ShopZeus on Amazon. They currently have none in stock.
Now I see that Big Dog Trading Company on Amazon has 144 for $8.99+$4.99 shipping. amzn.to/xGrnUu
I’ve also bought them from Oriental Trading. But they are WAY pricey. Although they have sold me the best quality ones by far. The best ones are made with this softer plastic. The colors end up being more vibrant.
Now I do suffer from noveltybuyinglotsitis.
The city was pre-built for the series. Chicago’s older light poles have decorative curling leaves near the base — leaves that are just asking for a treasure chest. There’s a lamppost in Lincoln Square, the Lombard Lamp, with a sculpted baby on it; I walked past it every day, and often I would put a treasure chest in the baby’s arms. Construction scaffolding took chests. Bridge towers took chests. Eventually a chest made it onto the little stone ledge at the Tribune Tower — a crossover episode between this chapter and one still to come.
The photographs developed their own rules, and I can date the moment each rule arrived because I wrote them down as they happened. September 2010: a new lens with a wide-open aperture, so the chest sits in focus while the city blurs behind it — “photos like this look more artistic and personal, so I’m gonna start shooting my public artwork more with this lens.” November 2010: an experiment placing the written question outside the box, photographed next to it — rejected almost immediately. I wasn’t a fan, and the reason taught me what the series actually was: the question has to be tucked away inside. A treasure has to be opened. A visible question is a caption; a hidden question is a gift.
And people found them. I know because one online friend said so — a @VivaSapyGirl tweeted about discovering a chest, and I got to reply with the sentence every sidewalk artist waits years to type: “woot! I left that treasure chest there last night.”
One documented finder, out of eight hundred-plus chests. The math sounds bleak but that’s ok. I find great joy in leaving the treasure chests around. And I really get a kick out of thinking about the potential of people picking one up and pondering the question.
As for the question itself — I’ve been asked why that question, and the honest answer runs deeper than street art. Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. The question has that old verse humming behind it, and a question with two thousand years of momentum doesn’t need my help to nudge a rocket. All I did was put it in a box a person would actually open.
Whenever I’m in an art dry spell, I often turn to the treasure chests as the simple first step in producing art again. They are so easy to make. So easy to place somewhere. I find that once I start placing these chests again, it gives me the momentum to start making other art.
In addition to starting my art momentum, they can also do a lot when sitting in a public place. They are small enough to ignore. But also bright enough to notice. (And cheap enough to let it be humble).
