So in less than a month I am taking my first ever trip to the US. Part work and part holiday, my wife and I are making the most of the time by “road tripping” to see the real America behind the typical tourist routes.
This trip is only a little longer than two weeks, but it is something I have wanted to do for years. You see, even before restoration, storage container auction and renovation shows became popular, my wife and I have talked about antiquing and just shopping around for Americana (or Europana(sp!)) and taking it back to little old New Zealand.
I love New Zealand, but one can never get over the feeling you are right at the edge of the world. For all the culture you can siphon from an internet connection, sitting and looking at famous art, historical locations and youtube videos of famous writers only adds to the feeling of disconnect from history. Nothing compares with the visceral experience of being in a world-class city, where even if you’re a cab driver or a waiter, at least you’re a cab driver or waiter in a place where the world, where history is “happening”. You either get it or you don’t.
But the older I get the more I realise it’s either move overseas, or bring what I want from that world to me. For the latter, there’s nothing better, I think, than the written word. Compact, portable, I have a vision of sifting through car boot sales and collectors fairs in the Deep South, filling box-loads of books into a container, one that grows with out-of-print texts, musty tomes rescued from the bottom of a second-hand store shelf. Some even have yellowing scraps of local newspapers between the leaves, to serve as bookmarks. Neatly hand-written dedications on the inside cover, or, most prized of all, marginalia in tight script, a running commentary on the book itself, straight from the mind of someone from that period.
Interspersed in the container is other Americana. Dented and worn nineteenth century furniture, tarnished metal fittings, mountains of old relics crying out for some repairs and a coat of lacquer. And on top, boxes with the latest artists from whichever pocket of Manhatten or San Francisco is the most teeth-achingly “cool” at this moment. One off prints, new t-shirt designs, hand-crafted and 3D printed jewellery, sculptures, carefully hand-made notebooks and stacks of original stencil and multimedia art.
Not this trip, but someday.
Exporting US culture to the world has become a cliche since the 90s, but I think there’s still a huge opportunity. And who says US cultural exports need to be synonymous with Starbucks, Coke or Michael Bay films? That’s not the real America, is it? I’ve never been there so I wouldn’t know, but I’m going there to begin to scratch below that glossy surface.
I can’t wait.