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by Owl-EyEs The Guggenheim's "Art of the Motorcycle" Exhibit: A Review
Among motorcyclists 1998 will be remembered as the moment when High Culture came knocking. For you see that was the year various big-wigs at the Guggenheim decided to decorate Frank Lloyd Wright's famous spiral ramp with motorcycles.
And so thanks to funding from BMW, they formed a selection committee who put out a call, one answered mostly by other museums (notably the Otis Chandler Museum in California and the Barber Museum in Alabama). The fact that the show opened in the summer was enough to discourage many a private owner of choice machinery from offering his (or her) bike as that meant forgoing a riding season. Moreover, the duration of the show must have been an even greater deterrent as it will run for two years. After New York, the exhibit moved to Chicago, and now the bikes are making their way to Bilbao, Spain where the show will reopen in November 1999 and run through March 2000.
Despite such constraints, the Guggenheim staff managed to bring together a display of over 100 marvelous examples of the breed, ranging from the 1885 Daimler-built Reitwagen, acknowledged as the first motorcycle, to the latest Italian drop-dead stunner, the 1998 MV Augusta F4. (The example on display, one of about 30 made so far, was graciously provided by the King of Spain.) Almost without exception, the machines selected were as close to factory specs as possible; indeed I suspect many had gone quite literally from the crate to a spot under indoor lights. Certainly, as I had learned from a friend who had the enviable task of uncrating and rolling the bikes into place, few needed to have their gastanks emptied or even smelled of petrol.
When the show opened last June, it drew record crowds and an orgy of media coverage. CNN's Jeannie Most did her usual light-hearted oddball schtick, arriving in a sidecar with a group of BMW riders, and New York Times art critics opined that it was not true art and mainstream US motorcycle magazines declared that the show's success signaled a major cultural shift and all was at last right with the world because they could feel the love and acceptance.
When the show moved to Chicago's Field Museum, its new hosts felt thrust a little too deeply into the shadow of the Guggenheim and so they decided to do something different. The result was a two day symposium entitled "The Motorcycle as Icon," and, as it so happened, your faithful Mining Co. Guide was kindly asked to come and chat about bikes and the meaning of it all. Other attendees included Eric Buell, the man behind Harley's current sport bike line, and designer Craig Vetter, the visionary responsible for the large fairings that drape most serious tourers as well as the unique and now coveted Triumph X-75 Hurricane. And kicking off the event was Peter Fonda.
Fonda, of course, will always be identified with his performance as "Captain America" in Easyrider (1969). The hall has standing room only for his talk. He emerged in a handsome leather trenchcoat which he doffed dramatically to reveal a dapper suit. This display of wealth and fine grooming was greeted by thunderous applause and from a crowd whose collective dress could best be described as a study in hippie-dom. Very odd. In any case, Fonda then sustained the crowd's interest, tacking back and forth between providing details concerning the making of Easyrider and offering stories of his own off-camera riding.
While the crowds lingered after the talk, and Fonda graciously allowed himself to be photographed with strangers, I snuck off into the exhibit and wandered among the bikes. I looked them over while the room began to fill with more human flesh. Soon the crowd had created a tomb like feel; sure the bikes were beautiful, but it was a deeply unsettling beauty. Even if they had been ridden, the show had the effect of erasing any trace of human touch. The result is a vision of perfection, but it is accompanied with a profound sense of loss and emptiness.
The following evening, after my talk, I met up with an old motorcycling buddy for dinner. He hadn't bothered to attend the symposium as he had already participated in the group ride that had kicked off the show's run. On the way to the restaurant, he had arranged to take me to a warehouse which serves as a private garage for a large group of Chicago riders. Inside I met U., the local wrench used by most of these fellows, and he gave me the grand tour, stopping off of course before those disassembled bikes he was working on. Responding warmly to my praise for a particular rebuild, U. admitted, "now that guy doesn't care about cost so there I really got to do some work--most of the other guys, you know its always 'money's tight' . . ." "Oh I can see," I said, "You do real fine work!" To which he smiled, then chewed a little on his nub of a cigar, whilst we stood amidst the scattered refuge of a living workshop taking in a truly unbelievable array, everything from a slew of current Ducati superbikes to choice golden-age iron. And the ones that were being ridden or worked on with an eye to getting on the road we pronounced healthy and the ones that were sitting in a state of neglect we stared at, examples of the mysterious perversity of man, while I breathed in the smells of life--gas, and oil and smoke--feeling a keen happiness. This piece originally appeared in Swang, a men's retro e-zine. A writer, publisher,
and avid rider, "Owl-Eyes" publishes often on motorcycling. E-mail him
via his good friend bigsid@mindspring.com |
