My Dad’s Work Van
The van was a white 1973 Ford Econoline with many scars of existence on the outside as well as in. I could hear the sound of the van as it warmed up in the morning, and I would watch the smoke from the exhaust pipe work its way across the roof of the vehicle as it continued up and was absorbed into the atmosphere. I would always walk through the exhaust to get into the van, smelling the vapors along the way.
The inside was possibly even more scarred than the outside, and every surface was covered with a variety of items. The center console was full of spare change, trash, toothpicks (new and used), an assortment of papers, and each morning was accented with a cold Dr. Pepper to start out the day. The dash was filled with job receipts, job plans and measurements, blueprints, a variety of companies’ complimentary calendars and ballcaps, and a small collection of stickers - donated by my brother and me - that were assembled around the radio and anywhere else there was still space to finish out the clashing décor.
The windshield had been so battered, it looked like shattered glass. As my father drove, it seemed that the force of the wind could cause the windshield to give out at any moment and send thousands of particles of glass all over us. The main blemish was located in the center of the windshield. Cracks radiated out from the point of origin to form the body of a spider, while other cracks ran across each other and created the illusion of a web. To solidify this analogy, actual bugs on the glass served as the spider’s victims.
The radio was always turned up loud in order for us to hear the announcers and music over the road noise and assorted rattling, metal tools.
The sounds echoed with varying reverberations depending on how much stuff was loaded inside. I usually rode in the passenger seat, which was losing its vinyl covering and foam padding to reveal the metal structure underneath, and my brother would sit in the middle either on an upside down empty glue bucket, a roll of carpet, or carpet padding. There was a plethora of smells that were contained inside the van. The ones that stand out the most are the carpet adhesive, pad glue, and new flooring material that combined with the smell of new fabrics, plastics, and fiberglass.
The old van is a symbol of my childhood, my existence, and my memories. It is a time capsule filled with aesthetic experience. At first glance, one might have not been able to recognize the beauty of the old van and maybe at the time I didn’t either. It was one of those vehicles that you didn’t want your fellow classmates to see you get out of and the kind that made you want your father to drop you off a block or two down the road from the school. But beauty is not only on the outside, it is contained within. I consider the old van to be one of my earliest recollections of beauty in raw form and I will carry it with me eternally.
This is what I look for in art and what I try to convey.
The van was a white 1973 Ford Econoline with many scars of existence on the outside as well as in. I could hear the sound of the van as it warmed up in the morning, and I would watch the smoke from the exhaust pipe work its way across the roof of the vehicle as it continued up and was absorbed into the atmosphere. I would always walk through the exhaust to get into the van, smelling the vapors along the way.
The inside was possibly even more scarred than the outside, and every surface was covered with a variety of items. The center console was full of spare change, trash, toothpicks (new and used), an assortment of papers, and each morning was accented with a cold Dr. Pepper to start out the day. The dash was filled with job receipts, job plans and measurements, blueprints, a variety of companies’ complimentary calendars and ballcaps, and a small collection of stickers - donated by my brother and me - that were assembled around the radio and anywhere else there was still space to finish out the clashing décor.
The windshield had been so battered, it looked like shattered glass. As my father drove, it seemed that the force of the wind could cause the windshield to give out at any moment and send thousands of particles of glass all over us. The main blemish was located in the center of the windshield. Cracks radiated out from the point of origin to form the body of a spider, while other cracks ran across each other and created the illusion of a web. To solidify this analogy, actual bugs on the glass served as the spider’s victims.
The radio was always turned up loud in order for us to hear the announcers and music over the road noise and assorted rattling, metal tools.
The sounds echoed with varying reverberations depending on how much stuff was loaded inside. I usually rode in the passenger seat, which was losing its vinyl covering and foam padding to reveal the metal structure underneath, and my brother would sit in the middle either on an upside down empty glue bucket, a roll of carpet, or carpet padding. There was a plethora of smells that were contained inside the van. The ones that stand out the most are the carpet adhesive, pad glue, and new flooring material that combined with the smell of new fabrics, plastics, and fiberglass.
The old van is a symbol of my childhood, my existence, and my memories. It is a time capsule filled with aesthetic experience. At first glance, one might have not been able to recognize the beauty of the old van and maybe at the time I didn’t either. It was one of those vehicles that you didn’t want your fellow classmates to see you get out of and the kind that made you want your father to drop you off a block or two down the road from the school. But beauty is not only on the outside, it is contained within. I consider the old van to be one of my earliest recollections of beauty in raw form and I will carry it with me eternally.
This is what I look for in art and what I try to convey.