La Macchina Fotografica

I walk around the neighborhood a lot, usually with my camera. Sometimes I catch myself wishing I were in a more exotic place but often I’m just happy to be outside with my camera. Some of my most cherished photos were found within blocks of home. The ritual of regularly making images in the neighborhood is a good reminder that familiarity can dull the senses. Every exotic place can become mundane if you’ve been there long enough.

On my regular routes there are several old cars. About six of them. They are always parked in the exact-same spots. Either their owners lover their routines as much as I do or the cars haven’t been started up in awhile. This has me thinking.

I want to know more about these lovely old machines and their owners. The cars, even when in decay, have so much proud character. They defy aging, laugh in the face of rust and the old leaves that are attempting to render them into compost. These old cars are now dear friends to me. I stop, say hello, and photograph them. I want them to know that I care.

One car has a chrome-plated jet as its hood ornament. Another always has golden leaves stuffed up in its windshield wipers. A green Impala seems to be forever waiting for its owner outside the post office. I suspect its driver works inside. There is an old emerald truck with almost-flat tires, its rust ever invading the old, faded paint. It grows lovelier with every storm, its tired finish renewed to a glisten with every raindrop.

I see these cars as living sculpture, art pieces that have seen many miles and are now tired yet still alive. I’ve never seen one of them actually move, yet I’d recognize them instantly if I saw them around town. I hope they are here as long as I am.

I often wonder what the neighbors think as I stop and photograph the old beauties. Do they see the cars as eyesores? Do they wonder who I am and if I’m some kind of nut? Maybe they love them as much as I do which is why the old cars are still on the street despite their condition. Maybe they say, “There’s that old photographer again—I wonder who’ll go first, him or that old car.” I figure I have a lot of miles left so they shouldn’t hold their breathe.

Related posts:

1. Reflection in a Blue Car Like a snapshot, my reflection catches me in a moment of my life. There was a time when I looked forward to a surprise reflection of myself. These days it merely shocks me to see how much I’ve aged since the last reflection. I shake it off and tell myself to stand up straight. It’s [...]...
2. Into the Shadow Along my daily walk I stop. There is this wall in the park where people practice their tennis. I stare into my shadow. I squint to try to see what is there. It looks like me. I can always tell my shadow from others. My shadow has a certain hunch. “Posture!” I admonish myself. [...]...
3. Mapping the Neighborhood A walk around the block—we tend to think of it as a numbing experience. It’s just a walk around the block. It’s the same block with the same cars and the same people and the very same smells and sights and sounds. Like some swinging pocket watch of a stage hypnotist, the sameness lulls us [...]...
4. Old Cars Revisited Old cars share a sadness. They speak in faded shades of worn patina. Old hopes reflect back to me in their marred paint. Long after fat ties and worn suites are rounded up into Goodwill bags, certain old cars hang around the neighborhood. I have written of them in past blogs. I still see most of [...]...
5. Cars to Somewhere (Else) If you walk around your neighborhood long enough you begin to see things that casual observers cannot. There are boundaries and borders that are invisible to most, but can be clearly sensed on daily walks. Friendly milestones are everywhere; old parked cars, favorite trees, crooked telephone poles. The familiar is everywhere until you get to [...]...
6. A Reflection of Me, A Reflection of You The camera makes me feel like a skulking voyeur. Pointing the damned thing at people makes them nervous. Therefore, I oftern walk around with my camera as if I were a cat tiptoeing on a sheet of aluminum foil. Cat owners who have actually seen their feline doing this will appreciate what I mean. More [...]...
7. A Sniff of Danger “Mark!” my father always bellowed my name. “You could get run over by a car crossing the street. When your number is up, it’s up.” He was one of the few people I’ve ever known who could be a fatalist and optimist at the same time. In this case, despite his lecturing tone, he was [...]...
8. A Bovine Tale Every hike introduces one to new friends. Yesterday, on a hike at Point Reyes National Seashore there were few people to be found, only a cold fog that had settled in the night before. Our hike took us to a high mound of hill where we were to meet our only companions of the day; [...]...