There are many ways in which automobiles have inspired people. One need only look at the history of car design to see how the melding of art, engineering, and technology continues to produce vehicles for virtually every desire, budget and/or need. But here I am exploring an alternate theme by honing in artists that use cars to make art.
That may generate thoughts of cars being jazzed up through the addition of racing stripes, clip-on antlers, airbrushed panorama’s of Arcadia scaled to the sides of cargo vans, or heaps of bling. Such touches, which offer a fusion of humour and kitsch, may be admirable, produce giggles, look great in a parade, rarely embody a high degree of craftsmanship or culminate in something considered to be a work of art.
Perhaps some of the earliest artworks that involve using cars—car parts in this case—were created by John Chamberlain. Following World War II, cars had become a readily available conveyance and a commodity. They, like Warhol’s Campbell’s soup cans, Lichtenstein’s comics and Oldenburg’s hamburger, represented just a few things that had come to pervade American society—things which combined convenience and excess. So, why not focus on what’s banal and use it as the subject or the material for art?
It didn’t take too long before artists found an abundance of ways of doing things with cars. One of the most iconic automobile artworks is Cadillac Ranch (1974), an installation realized by Ant Farm (Chip Lord, Hudson Marquez and Duane Michels) near Amarillo, Texas. The work comprises ten Cadillacs, which date from 1949 to 1964. Buried nose first to highlight the Cadillacs’ evolving tail fin, the angle at which they were place also parallels that of Egypt’s Great Pyramid of Giza.
It didn’t take long for Cadillac Ranch to become a graffiti magnet, despite being repainted many times. Not to recreate the original colours, mind you, but to draw them together and highlight their forms using single colours. Though a spate of hues—an glowing pink proved most popular— plus various shades of grey were used, the influx of graffiti always reappeared. Then in 1997, due to Amarillo’s growth and the site’s increasing real estate value, Cadillac Ranch also had to be relocated a couple of miles from its original location. (Note: Sonia Smith’s Forty Years of the Cadillac Ranch offers a wonderful review.)
To visit an even larger and more varied collection of car-sculptures, head to CARHENGE near Alliance, Nebraska. CARHENGE is exactly what the name implies—a life-size replica of Britain’s famous Stonehenge made of cars. Though it was a dream of artist of Jim Reinders, it only came to fruition in 1987, several years after he died. Moreover, several additional works have been added to the site. In my view, the Fourd Seasons (no date) is the exhibit’s most poetic composition.
While obvious similarities—cars sticking out of the ground and monochrome treatments—link Cadillac Ranch, CARHENGE and the Fourd Seasons, the automobile serves multiple artistic purposes. Cars have been been interpreted as a ritual instrument, a dressmaker’s dummy, or an exhibition prop, a refrigeration unit—even a piñada.
Consider John Scott’s Trans Am Apocalypse works. They too rely on a monochrome ground, but, in this case, it sustains an intriguing text. Having seen Trans Am Apocalypse No.1 (1984-1988) in Enchantment/Disturbance, at Toronto’s Powerplant, I recall how that object stopped me in my tracks. What to make of its threatening countenance and the fact that the entire Book of Revelation had been scratched into that black surface? On one level, it seems to be an eerie campaign car advancing an end-is-near proclamation. On another level, it urges viewers to consider the corrosive effects of industrial capitalism.
Then we jump to the self-centred approach of the martyr, who is willing to be tortured and/or die… for what? Martyrdom, after all, is a spectacle that follows certain protocols to provide viewers with what they expect to see. But Chris Burden flips this idea by providing something unexpected in his peformanceTrans-fixed (1974). The word play of his title equates the state of enrapture with being riveted (nailed) to a substrate, in this case, an inexpensive mode of transportation. But it is also gruesome, as this is a horrendous take on car ornaments. Moreover, his attorney did affixe him to the VW Beetle by hammering nails through the artist’s hands!
Though it is also a contradictory piece, Kaija Papu‘s P I 5 4 1 clearly diverges from the grimness of Scott’s motor-powered messenger and the Burden’s strangely brutal performance. The knitted outer shell of her surrogate squad car not only strikes me as a novelty item—much like gaudy Christmas sweaters—but also sabotages the machine’s intimidating aura. Made of yarn laboriously assembled by hand, that one-of-a-kind fabric opposes the traditional metal skin manufactured by industrial processes that permit boundless replication. Moreover, the knitting, which conveys impressions of warmth, softness, and flexibility, elicits a cuddly congeniality that is arresting.
Vehicles that are imaginary, non-functional and deliciously odd appeal to those who can appreciate tactile experiences and intentionally playful and slapdash forms of engineering. That’s what makes Rinus van de Velde’s flimsy, box-like and battered Prop, Car so great. Assembled out of a mishmash of materials that are grimy, fatigued, abraded and don’t fit together very well, this awkward roadster roars to life in the mind. This beauty in the rough ably traverses any kind of terrain the adventure dreamer wants to imagine.
Another imaginary car design—Erwin Wurm’s Fat Convertible (2019)—is simultaneously flashy and disappointing, mainly because it forbids travellers from travelling in practice or by way of the imagination. That view hinges on the fact that people can’t imagine themselves in its seats. This is because its interior is crammed with some strange baby-blue gloop. But maybe driving this thing is not the point of the work.
The erratic, bulbous and chromed-plated cloud is comically absurd—certainly more overproofed yeast dough than liquid metal Terminator. A one-liner made to catch viewers off-guard and bemuse them. Is it a dough waiting to be punched down or a thing of joy? A cloud that’s all silver lining.
Cai Guo-Qiang’s Inopportune: Stage One (2004), nine cars and sequenced multichannel light tubes. Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation, New York. Photo David Heald
The photograph of Cai Guo-Qiang’s installation, in which American automobiles fitted with rods that flash light cascade from the museum’s ceiling, presents another type of imaginary scenario—one said to exemplify the use American technology in a terrorist act. That is the view expressed by Aihwa Ong in “What Marco Polo Forgot”: Contemporary Chinese Art Reconfigures the Global. This text can be found in the August 2012 issue of Contemporary Anthropology At first, this work looks stupendous; then questions arise. For example, its structure begins to look contrived. Though that impression is based on this single, static point of view, other aspects seem muddled. The ‘inopportune’ of the title strikes me as hackneyed and insincere. Perhaps it’s meant to convey the terrorist’s perspective? If delivered in a suitably caustic tone, it denigrates. But that’s not the case here. The characteristics that undercut this work suggest it’s not as consequential as Ong suggests.
In the late 1970s and the 1980s, a great deal of press hyped the Plasmatics. The band, which became well known for their outrageous—yet carefully controlled—violent stage antics, turned exploding automobiles into their hallmark. Documented episodes of these explosions offer a true taste of destruction with all the attendant smoke, fire and parts flying through the air one might expect. In 2016, when Rock City Magazine asked band members how many cars they’d demolished, the answer they got was: “Quite a few.” While these actions—much like Chris Burden’s self-hurting exploits—remain controversial, they also speak about then contemporary trends in art, music and performance, and cannot, I think, be isolated from the currents of the times.
The mysterious silence, austerity, and, ultimately, threatening presence exhibited by Robin Collyer’s The Zulu (European Version) is something that is more powerful and, in terms of its residual impact, far more enduring than either of Burden or the Plasmatics’ performances. It just sits there staring, as it were, which is distressing.
I recall wondering what it could be: a mobile residence, a surveillance vehicle, a laboratory, some sort of prototype, a hollow shell? I think Philip Monk touched on the truth in Robin Collyer: Integration and Difference (1989), where he addressed Collyer’s choice of materials. He wrote: “Thus, instead of taking the fragments of an industrial-commercial culture and recombining them in new meanings, The Zulu integrates itself as a whole into the environment while being absolutely different from it at the same time.” It’s that perceived difference that gets under my skin.
Taking an alternate tack is Anitra Hamilton, whose radically chromatic clunker conveys its purpose by way of its title. She has not only beautified Beater by cloaking it in a dense carpet of tissue paper flowers, but also turned it into a giant piñata (fragile pot). Though assigned to Seducing Down The Door, Mercer Union’s group exhibition, it was liberated for the exciting purpose piñatas are meant to serve. Hauled outside and suspended for just a single afternoon, blindfolded participants could take turns to beat the hell out of that suspended wreck. What fun!
Acts of suspension and destructiveness—though in Damián Ortega’s case, the latter amounts to a very controlled form of dismemberment—are united in his Cosmic Thing. The arrangement of its floating parts is ordered in a manner that is so precise, one can forego the presence of all the cables and imagine the parts are being held in place by some powerful magnetic forces. That ordering, which is mysteriously locked in to following the X, Y and Z axes, also denies the car’s assembly sequence. It’s not how assembly lines are structured. Consider it as an image, though, I can imagine these pieces carefully being into position by Harry Potter or one of his wizard friends.
For more than 30 years, Rirkrit Tiravanija has been producing multi-layered projects that defy categorisation. Variously made up of workshops, performances, traditional object making, food and drink, this brief look at untitled 2018 (icebox 204) (2018) provides a pertinent example of how things can play out.
Seeing untitled 2018 (icebox 204) at CC Strombeek introduced me to the work’s short history that began at Tommy Simeons Gallery in Antwerp, Belgium. Here it formed part of Antwerp Roast, the opening of which included an outdoor pig roast and an unveiling that literally involved a protracted dismantling of the gallery’s bricked up door and windows. The provocative act of sealing the gallery not only worried the community, but also astonished viewers at the unbricking by revealing the Peugeot and the murals graffitied across the gallery’s walls.
The Peugeot then made its way to the Glenstone Museum in the United States for Fear Eats The Soul (September 2019 — March 2020). There, though, the car was put in a closed-off space, where it stayed for the whole show.
Curiously, evidence of that fact featured in CC Strombeek’s presentation of Another Sunny Day . There, set in a pair of showcases, was the Glenstone Museum’s report and photos that document the Peugeot’s condition—and a note addressed to gallerist Tommy (Simeons), saying that this condition report could be used any way desired. Adapted to function as a portable refrigeration unit, it not only provided cold beer for the show’s run, but, with wheels attached, was driven to a nearby park to celebrate the May 1st holiday.
There is something intriguingly strange about Peter De Cupere‘s Earth Car. Has he taken that DIY idea of converting an old tire into a flower pot and applied it to the whole car? Or is it more about finding some round about way of returning all that rubber, metal and the vehicle’s many other petroleum-derived materials to the earth? In fact, much of De Cupere’s works deal with scents. Producing olfactory installations, videos, sculptures, performances, and even painting with scents, these smells force viewers to deal with their unconscious responses to various past experiences.
Vormidable‘s catalogue entry on De Cupere’s Earth Car states one cannot assume that this old Renault 4 will smell a particular way. The abundance of Mediterranean plants, garden tools and a Chianti bottle may conjure particular images—Tuscany, for example—but are the scents one senses indicative of that location?
What kind of monstrous world—or should one say worlds?—have sprouted in, on and around this relic of a VW transporter? This intensely arresting mash-up comprising increasingly diverse objects and materials is simultaneously visually cacophonous, a tad nightmarish and effervescent. If this be the apocalypse, it’s a thoroughly modern one. Deviating sharply from John Scott Adams’ hulking black specter, Adams’ jam-packed assemblage evokes the ravages of noise, congestion and pollution that exemplify so many of today’s urban centres.
Here, the horrific and burdensome mixture of crusty foulers is slowly choking off what one can see of the VW bus. Since this vehicle used to be a very popular symbol, this crazy conglomerate will resonate with viewers in different ways. Most of the younger set likely doesn’t know that this rusty and banged up conveyance repudiated the move to monstrous gas guzzlers, increased consumerism, and greater dependence on nuclear power. Not only was it favoured by the 1960s counterculture movement, it was also massively cool. ‘Beware!’ seems to be the underlying message of this crazy conglomerate. The environmental, technological and commercial concerns this endearing and unpretentious—you might recall its 1960’s Disney cousin Herbie, aka The Love Bug—was used to advance are still very prescient these days in our time.
But the prognostication’s not all bad. More recently, Adams has turned to using materials that are sustainable, broadening his palette—some items are green—adding elements that convey humour. These changes, he’s said, have been determined by the bus. It’s what the bus has been telling him what to do. To learn more, read: The Longest-Ever Work-In-Progress: Kim Adams and Breugel-Bosch Bus.
The colourful and provocative The Never Never (2022-2023) was triggered by a snippet of fake news that passed between artist Jeremy Hutchison and his father in a phone conversation: “Did you know, there are more Porsches in Athens than anywhere in Europe?” Produced in Athens by artist Jeremy Hutchison and curator Evelyn Simons in collaboration with the Nova Melancholia, an Athenian performance troupe, it comprises a series of photographs, collage paintings, performance, sculpture and a short film—all of which hinge on the clever and eclectic deployment of parts from a dismembered Porsche 911’s car body. The project—it’s title refers to illusory things and is slang for ‘debt’—explores contemporary myths spread via luxury branding, marketing strategies and stereotypes.
Thus the Porsche’s body parts become fashionable clothing, the images of which appear on billboards in a Hamburg train station—where Kunstverein Harburger Bahnhoff is located—and on various kinds of digital advertising boards. Barefoot performers clothed in car parts are shown spending time on a beach, hiking through Greece’s arid hill country and posing with farmers, in one image, and a flock of sheep in another one. The Porsche’s deep orange hue is the subject of posters linking it with food stuffs, luxury products and ancient Greek emblems. The pieces are also presented as objets d’art—or are they archeologically specimen! How I would have liked to have witnessed this sharp and witty project in person!
A final note: Fascinating how The Never Never has, in essence, transformed scrap metal—John Chamberlain’s material of choice—and, via this ploy, created something that resonates with so much meaning.
Eyeballing art 
