fringe crop tank, Harley Davidson. denim shorts, boyfriend's DIYed Express jeans. cowboy boots, Nine West. belt, Levi's.
Photography by Jeremy Zerbe
Heavy machinery, grown in lots and shabby abandoned buildings make up the aesthetic of lower Lawrenceville in the residential area under and around the 40th Street Bridge. It was Zerbe's location call which he made before he even knew what I was wearing. "White trash chic," is what he dubbed it, and I gotta say, as an editorial story it worked out pretty damn well...
So this tale is about a girl who grew up playing with her dad's model paints in a garage, which housed his pretty blue 1969 Chevy El Camino. She never really took a serious interest in cars, trucks, or motor vehicles of any kind until she met and fell in love with an auto detailer (but that's another story for another editorial). Her interest in Harley Davidson motorcycles grew from a seed planted by her mother who every time she heard a Harley would go off about how beautiful the sound was, how beautiful the structure was. She spoke about Harley's as if they were Monet's.
The girl’s dad was always cool with taking the sidecar in her mom’s dream bike. The dynamic of soft spoken father and audacious mother led the girl down a teenage path of one part cigarette smoking tongue pierced rebelliousness to one part NPR listening Atlantic Monthly devouring band geek nerd with a strong desire to have a flare for art. Awkwardly bouncing from one interest and professional desire to another…gardener…Olympic gymnast…dolphin trainer…painter…Hare Krishna…actress…drummer…circus clown…lawyer…President of the United States…a cast member on the Real World (but only if it’s in Bangkok)…the list goes on.
Upon making it through those years of restless naïveté she just decided not to decide. Some say Baudrillard made her give up, depleted her rebellious ambition. Though it may also have been Theodore Adorno and his Negative Dialectics. Because honestly when the time for revolution has passed, what’s the point, ya know? Let’s just blame the whole Frankfurt School of thinking.
Regardless of her upbringing, the creative invocation from her father, the brash self-confidence imparted from her mother, the girl turned out to be just another twenty-something hipster: politically apathetic, well read, underpaid, a hopeless creative with a seemingly dead end job. Yet she swears if she accomplishes nothing else in this all too short life of simulacrum, it will be to own a Harley Davidson motorcycle with a side car for that auto detailer she fell in love with.