Interior, '27 Nash roadster
I don't get the
chance to philosophize much in my line of work. We're far more concerned with
paint curing times and combustion chamber shapes than the effect of the car on
the psyche, or its place in art. But last week, I shot a 1927 Nash roadster that
hasn't run since the fall of 1951; it is, literally, in a hundred
pieces.
My editor tells me
I'm overthinking this, but I don't think you can call this a car as a physical object. Inarguably, though, it's still a car
in Bob's mind: This is my car; it doesn't look like one to you, outsider; but
just because it is no longer car shaped doesn't mean it is no longer a car. It
doesn't matter to me if it's on the road in a recognizably carlike form; or
disassembled and scattered across the world. If it can still be made into a car,
it is one.
I think that's one of the things that differentiates car people from
non car people. To us, a car is, literally a state of mind: I believe this is a
car; therefor it's a car. To a casual user, a car is an appliance: That's a pile
of parts, thus it is not a car. But we're seeing different things. I was not
looking at what was in front of me last week; I was looking at the past and the
future, on both a philosophical level (Bob's wonderful story; what will happen
next) and a practical level (hey,
this wood is really solid; almost no rust; wow, an extra fender). "Now" only
existed inasmuch as I was also in that same moment of time, and it allowed me to
take pictures. But none of us there on Thursday were thinking about now. Bob was
thinking about when he was 17; Mark, the restorer, was thinking about what he
would do with wood and metal; and I was thinking about what story I would
tell.
The car is a process. It isn't now, it's the voyage of it carrying us
through time, the past, present and future all at
once.
Bob, with '27 Nash carburetor
