Within a decade of becoming famous as the crushed-car sculptor, he grew weary of both the heavy metaphorical baggage usually hung on his pieces — that they represented the wreckage of Manifest Destiny or of the American dream itself — and the endless automotive questions. “What the hell — do you talk to a painter about what kind of paint he’s using?” he bellowed, sounding both menacing and comical, like Warren Oates doing a Walter Brennan impression. “It’s boring.”
No comments:
Post a Comment