Sometime ago, I lived in an apartment where every piece of furniture, every device no matter how little or big, everything with no exception, was a time bomb bursting with trouble and waiting for the most inconvenient possible moment to arise in full bloom. The landlords cheapened out in just about every detail, so you never knew when the next nasty surprise was about to pop up. One day, the pipes, tired of all the mistreatment, decided to conspire together with decades worth of grease and hair, and basically stopped working in the direction they were supposed to work. They must have thought that, for a change, it would be nice to do things upwards. Thus, millions of little black particles came back to the light of day where they once have lived. The bathtub was full of them in a matter of seconds. You know, they smelled kind of bad. And I am talking about industrial-watercanal-in-a-very-hot-day kind of bad. But who could blame them? I guess that pleasant fragrances are not in abundance down there. In any case, they came back, they claimed their right for a second chance and at least for a while, they were beautiful. So I grabbed my camera and started shooting endlesly, mesmerized by their dance, their patterns and their commitment. The two pieces down below came from that footage. I called them Bad Landlords.