A Past That Never Really Was

“Don’t look back. Something might be gaining on you.” ~ Satchel Paige

The other night I was flipping through the channels on the television, bored, but too late in the evening and too lacking in ambition to be productive, looking for something to occupy my mind, when I happened across "American Graffiti," which had just started and which I hadn't seen in years.  I started watching it, nodding at the familiar faces, some of which have been confined to distant memory, when a thought popped in my head - "American Graffiti" is a love letter to a past that never really was…

"A love letter to a past that never really was..."

That thought stuck with me, I uttered it aloud, jotted it down so it wouldn't get lost to the dark of the evening, the glow of the tv...

I like old towns, those found off the Interstate, the ones that cling to life and simpler times despite the endless march of progress.  One such town is Strong City, Kansas, a small town situated alongside Highway 50, a place to stop and get gas and stretch your legs on the way to bigger places like Kansas City that lie to the east.  

I first ran across Strong City last November (which I wrote about here), and on a whim drove down the "main drag" through town, down to the courthouse square at nearby Cottonwood Falls, and back out to the highway, stopping to take a photo or two, but not giving it much thought.  Never a bustling metropolis, this small town now boasts a population of fewer than 500 small town souls, one drive-in malt shop away from being locked in time.

This past July, while in the Kansas again, I took another slow drive through Strong City, this time spotting something new.  New, yet old. A garage, the lot filled with classic cars in various states of repair, disrepair, the dreams of teenagers and grease monkeys and middle-aged men with a little bit of cash and a whole lotta love for the good ole days.

I like old cars and trucks.  I have no interest in working on them, rebuilding them – I’ve twisted a wrench or two in my time, out of necessity, not fun or joy – but I appreciate their lines, their form, their individuality.  I appreciate the nostalgia that comes with looking at an old truck with a flat head 6, a car with a rumble seat, bench seats and a three on the tree tranny.  And this unexpected find on a sleepy road in a quiet town on an overcast, still day was a stop that one didn't have to think twice about making.

I grabbed my camera and chose my wide angle lens, one that would let me capture the whole of the scene from afar, and immerse myself in the world before me as I moved closer.

I started with a shot of the building and the parking lot, centering the shot on the front door while keeping the car on the far left in the shot, giving equal weight to parking lot, with its oil stains and cracks and texture in the foreground, and the sky overhead.

I eventually made my way around the back of the lot, where the rusted shells of several old rigs sat, overgrown with weeds, cast off, waiting their turn in the dreams of restoration and rebirth.

Using a wide angle lens lets you get really close to the subject while still taking it all in, until you become immersed in it.  When I'm photographing old trucks I like to shoot through a side window, capturing the interior of the cab and the world that lies on other side of the windshield and side window.  

With this shot I was maybe a foot from the grill of this old Chrysler.  Wide angle lenses tend to distort objects when you're close to them, to stretch them and make them seem even wider than they are, and that was the look I was shooting for.  Big, wide, sweeping out.  I got close so I could pick up every bit of rust and pitted metal, tarnished chrome and peeling, faded paint that I could, the things that give away the car's age and give it character.  I cropped the final version square because I wanted to fill the frame with the car, to unquestionably make it the focus of the scene.

I saw this old Coke machine, crouched down to get a shot of it, again pushing close while making sure to get the rusting car on the left and the rusting box on the right in the shot, framing the scene.  If there's an old top loading Coca Cola machine, you have to stop and photograph it.  I think it's a law.

 
Finally I walked back out for another wide shot, this time from the side of the building, complete with my own Hitchcockian cameo...   

 
Small town America.  Hot rods and sleepy streets.  Coca cola and the corner diner.  A love letter to a past that never really was.  Or, a love letter to a past that still is...



All photos taken with a Nikon D7000 and Nikkor 10-24 DX lens.


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