Sex With Cars
MTM used to race cars. With people who went on to become actual NASCAR drivers. He worked as a mechanic through high school and college, when his prized possession was a 1969 Oldsmobile Cutlass W-31.
(I had to google it too, Dear Reader.)
Why did I find myself in a museum exhibit called “Dream Cars” last week?
Snapping photographs of sexy rear fenders and cone bra headlights and phallic rocket rides?
I still don’t know.
Maybe it was to understand my favorite photograph of my husband. Leaning on the back end of a race car. The words “We Ain’t Afraid” painted on the tail, clashing with his Greg Brady permanent-waved hair. MTM in polyester, holding a trophy, while lightning flashes in the background.
I keep it in my desk drawer. Sometimes I drag it out and whisper, “Who are you?”
He forbids me to show you that picture, Dear Reader. You’ll just have to imagine it from my description.
I visited the High Museum of Art in Atlanta to view an exhibit of works by a forgotten photographer, and I found an orgy of engine and chrome, rubber and wood, leather and steel.
It was the music of vroomvroomvroom.
I thought I would despise it.
And still I came. Or went. Or whatever.
To view my photographs of Dream Cars from the High Museum of Art in Atlanta, click here: Andra Watkins Tumblr
This post is part of a series. To read the first post, click here: Desperately Seeking a Shepherd; to read the second post, click here: College Football? What a Waste of Time!; to read the third post, click here: Promiscuous Read: The Plover by Brian Doyle.