Junk

"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.

A Day At The Museum

"... that's how I felt at the art museum,

both safe and elevated."

-- Janet Fitch, White Oleander

Solidarity, Georges Minne (marble) 1898

"I believe in walking out of a museum

before the paintings you've seen begin to run together.

How else can you carry anything away with you in your mind's eye?"

-- Elizabeth Kostova, The Swan Thieves

Leo is on Spring break this week. Spring, sadly, seems not to have heard about this arrangement and is vacationing elsewhere in some far-flung, idyllic locale.

Hey Spring, could you at least send us a postcard? Tweet us a picture? Do something to let us know you're OK and weren't eaten by sharks?

No? Nothing? (sigh of despair)

So while Spring is busy coming in like a lion and going out like a goddamned sonofabitch, we decided to head to the Cleveland Museum of Art.

Before going any further, I want to apologize for the quality of today's photo. I had to shoot it with a cell phone because I was a big stupid head and forgot to put the memory card in my damn camera, which dangled, useless, around my neck all afternoon. This shot was the best I could do under the circumstances. The circumstances being that I am a fucking idiot.

Of course, it being a museum and all, we looked at a lot of art that cut across genres and eras and styles and time. There was a special exhibition of Van Gogh's "repetitions," which I didn't love, but didn't hate. It was interesting, but wasn't necessarily my cup of decaf.

There was also a traveling exhibition of Japanese art from the Tokyo National Museum which was also not my favorite.

I was bummed that the contemporary gallery was temporary closed, and the photography exhibit was still being installed. Grr.

In the permanent galleries I stopped in to visit a couple of my favorite pieces -- Picasso's La Vie, Degas' Frieze of Dancers, Modigliani's Portrait of a Woman, Church's Twilight in the Wilderness. (A few years ago I drove all the way to Cleveland just to see Twilight in the Wilderness when it was first installed. I couldn't find it, so I asked three different helpful museum guides "Where is Twilight in the Wilderness?" They all directed me to the bottom of the basement stairs, where the restrooms are. I finally figured it out. They thought I was asking for toilet in the wilderness. Some of their English is a little shaky.)

I found it interesting how certain pieces always grab my attention -- after multiple viewings they still pull me across a gallery for a closer look -- while others don't speak to me at all. And some, well some just stop me in my tracks and leave me speechless.

That's how I felt when I saw this marble sculpture of two nude boys standing in a little boat, holding onto one another for balance. It's called Solidarity and is the work of Belgian sculptor George Minne. Before reading more about the piece hours later, I allowed my imagination free rein to ask questions and fill in the blanks. (I like to form my own ideas and first impressions before letting the art historians and experts tell me what to think. Call me a rebel.) 

These two skinny boys -- all sharp knees and elbows, ribs, hip bones and scapulas,  holding on tight to one another while their little boat bobs and rocks on the waves --  made me feel something deep inside. Simultaneously they look delicate yet strong, their hold on each other certain, yet tentative. Who is steadying who? Are they lovers? Friends? Brothers? Are they afraid? They seem anxious, yet unusually calm and secure -- protected -- in each other's grasp aboard their storm-tossed boat.

I lingered a long time on this one before reluctantly leaving it behind until my next visit.

At dinner afterwards, I asked Leo if there was anything he'd seen in particular that stuck with him, that he was still thinking about. His phone was full of pictures -- paintings, helmets from the armor room, a bronze eagle from the Japanese exhibit. He said his favorite, though, was Self Portrait With Hat by Karl Schmidt-Rotluff. For my husband, it was a vase with peonies and butterflies.

But for me, it was those two skinny naked boys, who, it turns out, are brothers.

Art for me is like wine. Either I like it or I don't. 

And I liked this one. I hope to visit it again and again. That's the good thing about museums. The art stays there and waits for you to come back, hopefully next time with the memory card in your camera.