Loved
Miranda, my 2008 Ford Escape, longtime workhorse, child mover, kitchen, bed, companion; unexpectedly reached the end of her road just west of Crowheart, Wyoming, in July 2022. She died as she lived, far from home on some adventure, and is survived by Angela and John, along with their two children and dog. There was no accident. Nobody was hurt. It was just her time.
Letting go has not been easy. I was so comfortable in this car that driving felt like walking. She was the third character on our road trips, or packed full of equipment for work, and our choice for all our long trips with the kids. My daughter was worried about how sad I was when we had to let her go.
I think it’s a thing with some photographers, being sentimental about a car. Maybe because we have to think about equipment every time we want to make something. I remember watching an interview with Annie Leibovitz where she was talking about road trips with her family as a kid, and how looking at the country though a car window had her thinking about seeing the world through a frame. I heard a story about how Ansel Adams would only shoot from spots he could get to with his car, or at least most of the way there. No idea how true that is, but probably later in his life. It’s certainly not unique to us, not even all of us. “I am my truck, my truck is me” said Jonathan Gold, the famous L.A. food writer, in one of my favorite documentaries.
“When I think of driving, I think of distances,” wrote Rosecrans Baldwin in an essay on driving. “I think of scenery and precise images. Insects at night swimming up through headlights. The parched planet of West Texas. The dense green canopies of summer Mississippi and summer Vermont.” When I’m out on a long trip, I sometimes think of the places I stop like landing on another planet. I always take care to look around while packing up. I might never be back to that particular spot. Accelerating away feels like taking off.
When you look at a photograph do you think about the tools used to make it? When you think of driving, do you think about the car? Some people do. Some form of “how did they do that?” will always cross my mind. When I think of pictures that I’ve made I think about what I used to make them. Part of that is how I got there. I don’t have a studio, I go to a place to make the picture. Driving is part of my process, also my job.
We drove all over even before I started with TAPPS. That car has been clear across Texas with me and a good chunk of the rest of this country besides. I’ve been offered the use of the company truck, I’ve had offers to car pool. I always drive myself. I do not always make art by myself.
I’ve been working on this post in-between trips for work. The morning after I finish this draft I will be driving south for another assignment in Miranda’s replacement. I wonder if there will be some change, noticeable to me, in the pictures I make now that I am using something new.
These are in no particular order. Sometimes she’s the subject, sometimes she’s the frame, or some other vital part of how that picture was made or how we got to where we were.
Somewhere along HW 287 south of Crowheart, Wyoming, 2022. The last good shot I have of this car.
Somewhere in the woods near New Salem, Massachusetts. 2021
Near Roscoe, Texas. 2020.
Somewhere near the Douglass Lake Dam, Tennessee. 2021.
Starlight, Pennsylvania, 2021.
Balls Eddy, Pennsylvania, 2021.
Along I-20 near Roscoe, Texas.
Somewhere near Abilene, Texas.
Roadside on the way to Midland, Texas. This was Sophie and I’s first solo road trip.
On the road to Houston, Texas.
No idea. Somewhere in the hill country.
Hancock, New York. 2016.
Middle of a hayfield in Hewitt, Texas.
Prada Marfa, outside Valentine, Texas. 2018
Mineral Wells, Texas.
Somewhere in the panhandle north of Amarillo, Texas.
Somewhere in Colorado, east of Denver.
Passing through Oklahoma.
Along the Colorado / Wyoming border.
Near downtown Midland, Texas.
Kerrville, Texas.
Near Woodstock, Virginia.
Near Alpine, Texas. 2018.
Somewhere in northern Colorado.
Along I-20 between Roscoe and Colorado City, Texas.
Date night, hunting Neowise, somewhere west of Roscoe, Texas. 2020.
More from the R. Baldwin essay, which I read before the car died but that I keep coming back to.
In a car you’re always passing things by, but whatever you’re passing, you are still among its order. A car is an open heart. I don’t know what the vastness of death will feel like, but driving gives me an idea of how I will pass through it. - From Meditations in an Emergency by Rosecrans Baldwin, February 26, 2022, Driving.
Note: I’ve deleted what came next. Maybe I’ll put it somewhere someday.