No one, I imagine,
escapes the authentic involvement with this gathering symbol of our pervasive
materialism. But the 50th annual Auto Show, it seems to me, gives
the lie to surveys . . . and to motivation researchers who
suggest that at the root of America’s disproportionate reverence for
automobility there is something profoundly sexual. Few people give ultimate
devotion to sex; their really ultimate devotion goes to religions like this
one.1
In
his essay “The Altar of Automobility,” a young Martin Marty, later destined to
be one of America’s preeminent theologians, recorded his observations after
visiting the 1958 Chicago Automobile Show. Marty argued that the enthusiasm and
passions surrounding the automobile had created a true, universal, and
practical religion that was directed towards the “dinosaur in the driveway.”
For Marty, passions for automobiles in America were fueled by more than just
sex; rather, the automobile was worshiped by true believers. And during the
1950s the church of the automobile, like the Protestant Church in America, had
an unprecedented number of followers. Only later would allegiances begin to
wane.
The
1950s proved to be a golden era for the automobile in America.2
Particularly after 1955, it was a time characterized by cars featuring tailfins
and chrome, high horsepower V-8 engines, and numerous accessories. The car
influenced culture as no other technology of the day.3 Yet was it
really a golden age, or an era so complex that it defies any simple
characterization?
This
complex interaction between human beings and this machine was reflected in
contemporary literature, music, and film. While these cultural manifestations
of automobility – or at least the ones scholars tend to focus on – often dealt
with troubling matters like alienation and rebellion, the average family
preferred to drive on without much thought concerning the larger issues raised
by concerned observers, the Beats, and critics of the new lascivious rock and
roll music. Despite the uncertainty and anxiety of the period, for many it was
an era of smooth rides and good times.4 Or so our faded memories
want us to believe.5
During
the 1950s, and indeed in previous decades as well, the family car was more than
transportation. It was part of the family, and like children in the family,
nurtured and cherished. Perhaps it was a substitute for a lover or girlfriend,
as in the case of the tale Stephen King spins in Christine, where a 1957 Plymouth Fury both is loved and loves (to the death). This passion between
person and machine was well expressed in Henry Gregor Felsen’s Hot Rod, published in 1950. The book’s
key character is Bud Crayne, a 17-year old high school student. Crane is a
loner and often alone, as his parents died long ago. Only a fickle girlfriend,
approval from school mates, and especially a car he built from the ground up,
keep Bud going.
No matter what his mood or his feeling,
his trouble or his joy, it made everything right and good to be guiding his
car, the car he had built, that belonged to him, that owed everything it was to
him. Not a day passed without Bud’s taking time for a spin. It was more than a
ride; it was more than speeding; more than killing time. In some ways these
daily sessions on the road were his hours of meditation, of true expression,
the balm for his soul and the boast of his spirit. In these flying hours he had
sought himself out, molded himself into what he was, and found his creed.
Bud’s car, variously called his
baby, hop-up, strip down, roadster, heap, hot rod, jalopy or set of wheels, was
like Bud himself. In a way he had built a mechanical representation of his
life, and its oddly-assorted parts could be likened to his patch-work past.6
There
were many Buds in America during the 1950s. The typical family car (perhaps
like my own family’s 1954 blue and white Chevrolet Belair) often had its
exterior lovingly waxed for protection with Simonize, and its interior
protected with plastic seat covers. More than occasionally the car was
accessorized with steering wheel spinners, fender skirts, and continental kits.
Interestingly enough, when in 1958 Life
featured a young man living in Wichita, Kansas, purchasing his first car, the
things done after bring the 1951 “Merc” home were: 1) remove chrome on the
front and hood, and 2) buy an imitation shrunken head to hang from the rear
view mirror!7 Thus for a large number of young men (I have no idea
how many women), this interest in care and the improvement of looks and
performance became a hobby. Hot rods, sports cars, or customs captivated many
who during this prosperity decade had increased leisure time and disposable
incomes. In a world of increasing conformity (punch cards and time cards, for
example, were prevalent) brought on by the stresses of the Cold War and
competition with the Soviets, these vehicles gave their owners a distinctive
individuality, and, if desired, entrance into a subculture of fellow
enthusiasts. It was also a sexy hobby, unlike like that of another hobby
popular during that day, stamp collecting. Cars were sex objects, and it was
perceived that working and riding in cars enhanced one’s sexiness. A piece of
colored paper could never be loved quite like a car. As social critic John
Keats argued in 1958, “automobiles were love objects from the start. Venerated,
called friends, lovingly polished and assigned the virtues of ponies, veterans,
and dogs.”8
Despite
critiques concerning the automobile and its design, place, and purpose in
American society, this intense love affair with the car was unparalleled.
Perhaps, as David Gartman has suggested, the two-toned, V-8 powered car of the
era was nothing more than an opiate for hard-working Americans during the Cold
War era. According to Gartman, the automobile, no matter what model, was
essentially the same. It served to lessen the rather harsh realities of a
competitive capitalist system with its class structure, repetition,
dehumanization, and repressive impulses. In sum, it was at the heart of a
“contradictory system.”
9 Therefore, during the 1950s, the car was a
symbol and an expression of freedom at a time in American life when autonomy
was in retreat.
