The great city makes us get lost. São Paulo hinders any location, to retrace the traveled itinerary. Asphalt erases any trace, it does so that there are no more traces. There is no way to track one who long ago got lost in the crowd.

The wandering of the contemporary metropolis' inhabitant, the continuous walking to work, in the survival quest, was printed only in his own shoes. Hélio Melo amassed hundreds of shoes that were thrown in the streets. Worn-out, dirty shoes, stamped by the seemingly restless march. Everything is printed there: the filthy streets, the soil passageway, the mortar stairs. Even the aimlessness, the addresses not found, the successive returns to the same places seem to be registered in them.

Van Gogh one day painted a peasant's worn shoes. Here they don't have more their pairs, multiplied to the infinite, hauntingly omnipresent, covering the whole space. It is no more possible the observing distance, which allowed the painter's aesthetic gesture. The evidence of straying and of poverty leaves room only to the maniac indifference of the losses' collector.