by ©Bruce Berman
Text/Photography by Bruce Berman
Music Video by Bob Dylan
The funk is almost gone.
The generation that lived it is going down, too.
The 1930s (like this truck), 40s, 50s, 60s and even 70s is just about disappeared (desesparado).
I watch it go.
I watch parts of me go with it.
No energy actually vanishes. It reappears, new, in another form. Life ongoing… just not how we expected.
Is that the lesson of history, of photography of things from the past, of this image, Funk #731?
This truck could be rehabbed. Buffed up. Sprayed new. But it won’t be new. Glossier than it ever was. But it won’t be new. It could be stripped down to its individual pieces and bits, item by item, pump by pump, ball joint by ball joint, reassembled.
But it won’t be new.
Can I be?
This old Chevy truck is handsome in its own way, now. It never had that texture before. It comes with everything it encountered, having lived and survived. It comes with age… and experiences. Nothing to do about that. Do we really want this texture or is it something one has to “accept?”
Do we want this relic or do we want everything shaved down to a flat cleanliness, baby surfaces, flawless? Will this truck ever be new again? No. It will be a version of “fresh,” but it will never be new. Am I getting to be this truck? Do I sit, wither, or do I go down the life path, taking each busted part piece by piece, restoring its function so I can tool down the road some more?
Another crossroad looms. I see it coming. My headlights slice through the mist. There are decisions to be made, ruthless interlopers that demand attention.
I’ve made my mistakes. I’ve got dents. My repairs even have repairs. The original color has faded in the sun, the universe has created patina.
Do I morph into another energy another place, a light switch turned off but then a rheostat slowly turning on the light again, the bulb having just a little less wattage?
I have three to four surgeries ahead.
I see the road ahead.
I can try.
I will try.