"One man's trash is another man's treasure
is a third man's raw materials for their
planet-buster earthquake machine."
-- Seanan McGuire, Deadline
 |
| Rusted Chevrolet hood 10-5-14 |
"To invent, you need a good imagination
and a pile of junk."
-- Thomas A. Edison
 |
| Rusted Chevrolet hood 10-5-14 |
In my travels hither and thither, I see lots of interesting shit that might be classified as junk.
But to my eye, old junk is often a whole lot more interesting than shiny new, pristine perfection.
Every day I ride my bike past this house that sits alone on a road with nothing else going on but corn and soybeans growing in fields.
There is always something intriguing sitting in the driveway or the front yard of this house -- bits and pieces of dismembered cars, motorcycles, trucks.
But it's not trash.
Whoever lives at this house is a wiz at re-configuring the dismembered members into one-of-a kind hot rods and choppers.
The house is surrounded by huge containers and a couple of out-buildings covered in old rusty fuel station signs and Coke advertisements.
But it's no junkyard. The place is meticulously kept. The yard recently mowed.
This old Chevrolet car hood has been catching my eye for the last little while. So yesterday after my bike ride, I drove back out with my camera.
Not wanting to trespass or draw the attention of the two dogs I've seen rambling around the place, I stayed in the road at the end of the driveway. A few clicks later, a bearded, gruff, not-too friendly sounding guy busted out the back screen door and shouted at me "Hey! Waddaya doin'?"
Aw, shit.
It was really windy, so what I said back got lost in the breeze. I cautiously walked closer and repeated that I was just a curious photographer appreciating the look of this really cool, welded hunk of metal.
He liked that.
After I complimented the piece, I could see the gruffness and suspicion yield. I was no longer a potential intruder, or trespasser. I was a fellow artist. We were on common ground.
Me: I've been admiring this hood for a while and wanted to photograph it.
Him: Yeah?
Me: Yeah. I tried the other day but the shadows were too harsh. The lighting today is perfect. I hope you don't mind.
Him: No. No. That's fine. Take all the pictures you want. You wanna see the rest of it?
Me: Absolutely.
He pulled a tangle of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door to a garage full of carcasses in various stages of dis-assembly and completion. There were tools and parts and signs and dirty calendars with naked girls, the atmosphere suffused with that heady combination of rust and oil and dirt and sweat.
It was the kind of place those two guys on "American Pickers" would jizz themselves over.
The "rest of" the car that went with the hood out front was a low-slung vehicular sculpture-in-progress made from a melange of Chevrolet, Ford and Cadillac parts.
I say sculpture, because I've seen the guys' finished work out in the front yard. He's not just a mechanic or a hobbyist. This guy is an artist who happens to work with fins and fenders and hoods and chassis.
He talked to me about a few of the pieces he was working on, including a truck he'd recently convinced a reluctant seller to sell. He said he'd been trying to buy it since he was 12 years old, which had to be about 40 years' of persuading.
These weren't just cars, they were his soul. And I could see and hear in how he talked about them how much he loves what he does.
We were two strangers, but we were talking like old friends. Art will do that.
As he locked up, we shook hands I thanked him and introduced myself.
Me: I'm Erin, by the way.
Him: I'm Beaver.
And we weren't strangers anymore.
He was Beaver and I was me and we both knew a good thing when we saw one.
But to my eye, old junk is often a whole lot more interesting than shiny new, pristine perfection.
Every day I ride my bike past this house that sits alone on a road with nothing else going on but corn and soybeans growing in fields.
There is always something intriguing sitting in the driveway or the front yard of this house -- bits and pieces of dismembered cars, motorcycles, trucks.
But it's not trash.
Whoever lives at this house is a wiz at re-configuring the dismembered members into one-of-a kind hot rods and choppers.
The house is surrounded by huge containers and a couple of out-buildings covered in old rusty fuel station signs and Coke advertisements.
But it's no junkyard. The place is meticulously kept. The yard recently mowed.
This old Chevrolet car hood has been catching my eye for the last little while. So yesterday after my bike ride, I drove back out with my camera.
Not wanting to trespass or draw the attention of the two dogs I've seen rambling around the place, I stayed in the road at the end of the driveway. A few clicks later, a bearded, gruff, not-too friendly sounding guy busted out the back screen door and shouted at me "Hey! Waddaya doin'?"
Aw, shit.
It was really windy, so what I said back got lost in the breeze. I cautiously walked closer and repeated that I was just a curious photographer appreciating the look of this really cool, welded hunk of metal.
He liked that.
After I complimented the piece, I could see the gruffness and suspicion yield. I was no longer a potential intruder, or trespasser. I was a fellow artist. We were on common ground.
Me: I've been admiring this hood for a while and wanted to photograph it.
Him: Yeah?
Me: Yeah. I tried the other day but the shadows were too harsh. The lighting today is perfect. I hope you don't mind.
Him: No. No. That's fine. Take all the pictures you want. You wanna see the rest of it?
Me: Absolutely.
He pulled a tangle of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door to a garage full of carcasses in various stages of dis-assembly and completion. There were tools and parts and signs and dirty calendars with naked girls, the atmosphere suffused with that heady combination of rust and oil and dirt and sweat.
It was the kind of place those two guys on "American Pickers" would jizz themselves over.
The "rest of" the car that went with the hood out front was a low-slung vehicular sculpture-in-progress made from a melange of Chevrolet, Ford and Cadillac parts.
I say sculpture, because I've seen the guys' finished work out in the front yard. He's not just a mechanic or a hobbyist. This guy is an artist who happens to work with fins and fenders and hoods and chassis.
He talked to me about a few of the pieces he was working on, including a truck he'd recently convinced a reluctant seller to sell. He said he'd been trying to buy it since he was 12 years old, which had to be about 40 years' of persuading.
These weren't just cars, they were his soul. And I could see and hear in how he talked about them how much he loves what he does.
We were two strangers, but we were talking like old friends. Art will do that.
As he locked up, we shook hands I thanked him and introduced myself.
Me: I'm Erin, by the way.
Him: I'm Beaver.
And we weren't strangers anymore.
He was Beaver and I was me and we both knew a good thing when we saw one.
