Impressionist paintings, as expressed by Detroit

This blog post I wrote a while ago, but didn't post in a timely manner. Jacob's parents were visiting for the past week, which was great as it afforded me the opportunity to get out and about, but it threw off my organization skills. In other news, I've also applied for school, though the process is on hold as they are still waiting for my old high school to send over my transcript. Anyway, here is what I wrote but never published! Enjoy :)

Jacob and I had a conversation about how newspapers are becoming obsolete, and that lead me to bring up the evolution of paintings in society, relative to photography. I'm not an art major, and I'm probably going to mangle or horribly ruin some dates and details, but I'm trying to express a general idea. I promise, this has something to do with Camaros, so bear with me.

Before the camera was invented, individuals would have themselves painted or drawn for family collections or gifts to loved ones. By an estimate given to me in high school, nearly 1 in 4 persons in Europe considered themselves to be artists in the early 1800s (2/3 of all ratios are b.s., don't forget). After photography started to become mainstream and replaced the purpose painted and hand drawn portraits once served, artists began to experiment and expand paintings away from simply copying what existed. Subject matter became more candid, use of paint and light more expressive, and thus the Impressionist period was born. Later, as photography became more artful in its own right, mainstream paintings became more and more abstract. Without the oppressive nature of expectations, artists were given not only more room to experiment but less competition. By 1930, only 1 in 12 persons in Europe called themselves artists. The Impressionist movement had a revitalization period in the early 1990s, leading to more complete collections being donated to museums and circulated, thus enhancing exposure for the artwork.

I went to a meeting of the Camaro Generations club in Sacramento on Tuesday as a guest, after they kindly published the story of my Camaro in their newsletter. I had a conversation with an older woman who told me her first car was a 1968 Camaro. Her daughter didn't understand why she still owned the car, the woman explained, considering it didn't have modern safety features, radio, seats, etc. The daughter's children (the woman's grandchildren) loved the old Camaro, and didn't like being driven around in her new Corvette (in case you were wondering, this woman is my hero). I find this interesting because I have noticed in my younger brother and my nephew that older muscle cars have become the Impressionist artwork on the verge of a revitalization. It is because of their age, their pre-emissions and pre-airbag simplicity, and in some cases, excessive styling, that makes them so appealing. In the same way that simple "character piece" movies can be awesome, the muscle car is also awesome.

As Jacob and I wandered around the auto auction building where the Camaro club meeting took place, we talked and looked over a light blue 1972 Chevelle SS with white racing strips and more importantly, a blown 454 big block.

The first car my older brother loved was his 1972 Chevelle, a partially complete green muscle car he paid $400 dollars for. Though I couldn't do much more than hold the flashlight or fetch tools for him (being a scrawny eleven year old at this time), I remember hovering over him while he worked on it, watching him pull out dents, tear out the seats and repair the floorpan, and tinker with the never fully complete engine compartment. Once in a while he would ask for my help on it, and I would excitedly try to prove myself to be useful. When I grew up and worked on my own Chevrolet muscle car, I thought of my brother's dedication to his Chevelle. Like many things in my family, it all ended traumatically and suddenly. A drunk driver hit his car at 8 am as he drove to school, screwing up his back for life and totaling the car he loved. All that he had left of the car was the dented front license plate, which he put on my Camaro six months before it to was totaled (we all agree, that license plate has bad juju).

Looking at this blue Chevelle SS almost brought tears to my eyes, thinking of how heartbroken my brother was (and still is), but also because of how beautiful classic muscle cars are. They aren't over engineered and complicated. There isn't a mess of wiring tangled around an ECM (engine controller module), no power seats, no electric locks, no air bags, and no power windows. It is just the driver and the car, where each line and every detail is unadulterated by all the concerns the average driver today focuses on when purchasing a vehicle.

Monet's Lady with a Parasol is my favorite famous painting; his depiction of a faceless woman assailed by gusts of wind who maintains poised control of her parasol atop a grassy hill is, whether it was intended to or not, my symbol of feminine strength (that picture is a print hanging in our apartment). The 60s and 70s Chevy, Dodge, Plymouth, and Ford muscle cars symbolize a similar strength to me as well. They withstood the consumerist push of the practical, family car mentality, the efficiency demands after the 1973 fuel crisis, and foreign invasion of compact cars. It was the era before the 4 cylinder Camaro, before the testing of a front wheel drive Mustang, and before uninterested business men, rather than car enthusiasts, made the decisions within the American automakers.

Muscle cars are rolling metal impressionist paintings. Excessive, vague, and sometimes abstract, but always inspiring for someone like me :)