The road is bleak and punishing, filled with people who are forced onto it or left there by forces bigger than themselves. But it also has a seductive draw. Garry Winogrand, driving out of New York in a 1957 Ford Fairlane, went in search of America and found a vast emptiness, even when people filled the frame. The residents of the towns he passes through are as uprooted as he is, held tenuously to the earth by plastic and false faith.
Cars swim this road like great, graceful sharks – lethal, amoral, consuming one kind of poison and spitting out another. It’s their road, not ours; they just need us to buy the gas.”