Monday, August 26, 2013
Driving roads and highways all over the South, I've pointed cameras at countless falling-down houses and rusted-out cars – many apparently abandoned, left to be covered up and disappeared by kudzu and wisteria. But this vehicle seemed more unusual, mysterious.
The burned-out shell was near a workshop where wood craftsmen were working on bookcases Lyn and I were having made. The vehicle was a mystery to the wood men, too. There was no sign on the lot or fence, no explanation of what had caused the fire, or crash, or why the vehicle was there.
I couldn't help thinking of the possibilities and the questions they raise. Were people inside when it caught fire? Did they escape? Were they on the way to someplace nearby? Was it parked and empty? How long has the vehicle been parked inside this lot. Why here, alone with no attendant for the neatly kept enclosure. I wondered what I might see if I went over the fence and looked inside.
I know it isn't one, but the scene recalls a kind of art of destruction, carefully created, to say . . . something.