Carniverse

I saw the most extraordinary thing in the parking lot at Whole Foods.  When I came out it was right next to my car.  It was an ordinary car on the outside, an older model two door Honda Civic of some kind, maybe dark green.  The extraordinary part was its interior.  “Wow,” I said out loud.  I couldn’t help myself.

The car’s owner had decorated the entire dashboard, console, steering wheel, door panel and ceiling with miniature trinkets.  There were myriad little figurines with smiling faces-- most of them plastic-- all standing up right and packed in tight like a crowd scene in a big-budget action movie.  There was a delicate wire tree with a watch face hanging at the end of each of its branches.  There were beads and goddesses, planets and birds, crystals, stars and flowers—all of them co-mingling, as if at a sunny, crowded day at the fair.  The ceiling alone was impressive on it’s own merit.  Hanging from every available inch of real estate were earrings and key chains, more planets and pearls-- a dangling canopy of its own constellation.  All the stars hung within reach, just above the driver’s head, just grazing his or her thoughts.  I imagined the enchanting sound they made every time the car lurched to go or came to a stop.

A love of tchotchkes and an exacting way with a glue gun had figured prominently into this fanciful auto escapade but so had something else—permission.  The owner of this car had given him or herself permission to turn his car into a canvas.  She had given herself license to buck social convention in order to create a fantasy universe of whack-a-doo whimsy right inside her car.  This was one brave artist whose passion had a total disregard for social criticism or external judgment.  How freeing that must be.

I stood outside the car, peering in.  I longed to sit in the driver’s seat of this mobile museum, to sweep my fingers gently overhead, a tinkling of tin and plastic in my fingers’ wake.  A few folks passed by with their groceries in hand.  I invited them to stare with me.  “Check this out,” I said, “Have you ever seen anything so wild?”  Apparently they had because they didn’t take the time to look.  Fools! I thought.  If this car were in an art gallery you’d look.  If some big museum anointed this car with the label of American Folk Art, you’d pay admission to look.  Don’t wait to be told!  I thought, see art everywhere!  Find it for yourself!  This is your chance.  But they didn’t take it.

I stood for a while longer then went back inside to eat my soup at the window counter.  Surely the owner would be easy to spot.  A woman, maybe, in her sixties, with a multi-colored boiled-wool cape and big red glasses frames with chunky jewelry.  I expected lime green leather shoes and dread locks.  Maybe a turban, if I was lucky.

I watched people approach their cars and drive away—none of them fit my profile.  Then a woman walked by my window.  She looked to be in her late thirties with mousy brown hair pulled into a low ponytail.  Her glasses frames were no-nonsense, as were her clothes: dark winter solids with clean, simple  lines.  I would have ruled her out immediately, but something told me to hold my gaze.  Incredibly, she weaved closer and closer to my car and then—voila—her key went into the ignition of That Car!

Was this the mad, passionate artist?  The glue-gun maestro?  I wanted to talk to her, but I was too slow.  I wanted to ask her how it began and have her point to the piece that started the whole thing.  I was curious about the progression, how long did all of this take?  I wanted to ask her what else in her life she’d rendered dazzled and what was her house like.  But mostly I wanted to find out what else she’d given herself permission to do.  Had she ever been a stowaway?  Had she taught herself how to snake charm or mastered the hula dance?  In what other segments of her life did she throw caution to the wind—convention be damned?  Because once you’ve created the entire universe inside your car, the sky’s the limit.