Not everyone sees cars as a positive force for good. The majority of the billions of motorists around the world view them as no more exciting than a new fridge-freezer, albeit – perhaps – one with a built-in ice and water dispenser.
They are machines of thankless servitude, destined from the day they roll out of the showroom to be given no further thought until a “mysterious orange warning light shaped like an engine” comes on, or a letter arrives about the impending end of the PCP agreement. Meanwhile, governments treat them and their drivers as a cash cow, while conveniently neglecting the infrastructure that was built to serve them.
Yet as you and I know, cars can be about so much more than supermarket runs and daily grind: They are entwined in our lives.
Earlier this month, such fact was recognised by an unlikely group of people – the judges of the Turner Prize. If you’re not up to speed on the intricacies of the Turner Prize, it is one of the art world’s highest accolades, created to champion artists who challenge convention, and who live or predominantly work in Britain. That’s why it was named after JMW Turner, the 18th century English landscape painter whose work was considered controversial in its day but would prove to be influential on art and artists. Over the years, the gong has been handed to Gilbert & George, Antony Gormley, Damien Hirst, Tracey Emin, and Grayson Perry.
This year, the 40th edition of the Turner Prize, the judges grasped what car enthusiasts around the world already know: that, unlike the fridge, the car is woven into the fabric of life.
The winning artist, chosen for her exhibition Alter Altar, was 38-year-old Jasleen Kaur. Alter Altar set out to celebrate the Scottish Sikh community. It won over the judges, who said it “reflects upon everyday objects, animating them through sound and music to summon community and cultural inheritance,” resulting in a “visual and aural experience that suggests both solidarity and joy.”
Amongst the references to her life and culture – family photos, photos of Sikhs and Muslims protesting in solidarity against immigration enforcement officers, an Axminster carpet, kinetic handbells, and objects “like a litter of memories” beamed onto the ceiling above – is the most striking and dominating work of the lot, “Sociomobile,” where beneath a giant crochet doily sits a 1984 Ford Escort. Not any old Escort, either, but an XR3i cabriolet.
The car is a reference to the first car Kaur’s father owned in Britain, after arriving in the country. A huge set of speakers have been installed in the boot – just as Kaur’s brother did – and music fills the room. Kaur’s work thinks about objects, traditions, and cultures, and how these things can define and, perhaps, confine us. (In that case, pity me as I tut-tutted at the non-period-correct wheels that appear to have come from an Escort RS Turbo.)
But it’s that centrepiece that speaks volumes. Here was a family restarting in Britain and making good through hard work, which in turn paved the way for a new life for the children. And one of the most memorable rewards was the family’s car, the Escort XR3i signalling a healthy dose of aspiration and a small touch of frivolity, perhaps driven around Glasgow on a sunny Sunday with the roof down, music playing, and parents and children singing along in the out-of-tune, laughter-filled way families do.
So much stays with you from the cars in your life. I’ll often think back to riding in the back of my grandparents’ Citroen BX as they stepped in to help with the school run, and wondering what on earth was coming out the speakers (Radio 3). Or my dad charging hard at 130mph, not on the school run but holidaying on the continent in our Saab 900 Turbo 16S and in tow with an equally hard-driven Mercedes 500 SEL and smoke-blowing Renault 5 GT Turbo. Passing my driving test and hitting the open road with friends in my Ford Anglia and – by some minor miracle – never getting into trouble. Or sleeping in my mum’s Renault Espace, post-celebrations after finishing A-level exams, and getting a knock on the window from a passing policeman. (I’d removed all the seats and was proving the MPV concept by camping overnight in it.)
There was the first weekend away with my wife-to-be, in a Lotus Esprit GT3, where she tolerated some spirited driving – before informing me at the end of the weekend that she’d like to take things a bit slower on the next date. Or diving in at the deep end and racing in a round of the Porsche Carrera Cup, and appreciating just how quick the professionals are. Driving home with our first-born child in an entirely inappropriate Ford Focus RS Mk1. Buying our first estate car, a Volkswagen Passat, as we struggled to come to terms with the mountain of ruinously expensive clobber than comes with having children.
Cars are companions whether we realise it (hands up who names them) or not. They’re where memories are made and milestones passed. And, for those who return to a classic example of a car from their past, those milestones and the identity we associate with them can be revisited and reaffirmed.
Cars can be sacred spaces, a sanctity from the pressures of the outside world that a train or bus could never be. Their foibles and quirks make them endearing. And as Jasleen Kaur recognises, they say something about the ambitions, culture, and values we hold dear.
