Driving to the Office
The Lodge is a northwest-southeast freeway the runs in and out of Detroit.
Along the way, there are massive walls that run along both sides of the highway and a 3-foot divider cuts through the middle. This is where these unusually common brush strokes exist, combinations of zen calligraphy and sculpture: the car being the brush and ink, the concrete being the canvas. The car, like the brush, is an extension of your arm, and we create spontaneously (via fear) without extraneous thoughts. These marks are stunningly beautiful and deceptively dark.
Once again, it is the automobile turned into art.
These are brush strokes that have been scraped, torn, etched, and rubbed into the concrete by cars and trucks moving at incredible speeds. You see strokes, lines, circles, waves. You see a recently added streak of rubber made at 80MPH like a broken brush stroke of deep black ink, which overlaps a rip in the concrete that was made 10 years ago. You see flashes of car paint on the inside of the deeper cuts. Reds. Blues. Purples. Once a glossy, even coat of spray paint that used to curve around the frame of a car has now been repurposed through sheer force.
People drive fuckin’ crazy in Detroit. Crazy as in speed, and crazy as in “just plain stupid”. Maybe it’s an overinflated sense of confidence because it’s car country, but it leads to a fair amount of accidents. Some accidents lead to the driver being shaken up, some lead to death—and most leave their mark in the concrete.
Their actual size can range in scale and length. From 6' to about 20”. I think about how people remove entire walls to “own” Banksy pieces. I think if it’s a two person crash, you can see what that dance looks like on the wall. I think people should drive much more carefully.
Is there an intended or a “proper” way to view art? Maybe. Some works you’re meant to stand in front of for long periods of time. Some works you’re meant to get close to. Yet these brush strokes, to experience their full effect, should be viewed in same way they’re created: in motion, in a car. At 65MPH, you have a limited window to glimpse each one. There is a phase of anticipation while approaching it, there is the moment you are parallel with it, and just like that, it’s behind you—though still in your mind. And sometimes, you have to pass it by without seeing it.
I had to take a 10-mile stretch of the Lodge to get to my 9-5 job: twice a day, Monday through Friday, for about 3 years (2016-2019). On my first drive to the office, one of these brush strokes caught my attention. You begin to remember where they are: by a specific exit ramp, a pothole on the road, a bridge overhead. You start seeing them everywhere. I’m not the first to notice these brush strokes, and I hope I’m not the last.
There are additional elements of the brush strokes that always seemed to be changing:
· cracks in the wall
· weather: rain, heat waves, snow, clouds
· wild flowers, weeds, grass
· time of today, magic hours, and blue hours
· the pieces of a car and trash resting underneath
These brush stroke represent moments of terror, but also a heightened awareness of being alive.
It is control and chaos. Safety and reality. Speed, motion, and memory. Kline, Chamberlain, de Kooning, and Rauschenberg.
It is a four-wheeled paintbrush that can sculpt stone. A partnership with entropy, decay, time.
It is a reminder of the things we pass by that are terrifying beautiful. A reminder of who we would call if we were in trouble.
It is its own visual language. As expressive as graffiti. Literal street art.
It is minimalism. It is exactly what it is: a mark in concrete.
It is the city’s history and reflection of the times: “Damn. My brand new car is now ruined!”, or “I was barely getting by before. And now this. How am I going to get to work tomorrow?”, and other times, it’s “My daughter is dead.”
It is a raw form of zen calligraphy. Where each symbol ultimately translates to “survival”.