I believe our memories are preserved in the ordinary objects that accompany ordinary lives.
Like this Deluxe Racer Sled. It wasn't particularly deluxe. It was simply built to be used, loved, worn out, and eventually forgotten.
Whether it raced across a newly shoveled hockey rink on the frozen St. Clair River or skimmed behind a snowmobile across freshly fallen powder, every ride carried the possibility of ending in a snow-covered ditch. YIKES!
Those everyday interactions with familiar objects are the essence of what I call American Material Memory. They’re not about the subject, but more about the life the object quietly remembers.
From the Artist
I never owned this particular sled, but I've always been fascinated by its design. They’re wonderfully simple—wood, bent steel, cables, bolts, and bold graphics—but time transforms them into something even better. Rust slowly bleeds around the bolts. The wood darkens from years of wet mittens and melting snow. Every scratch suggests another ride down another Michigan hill or race across the frozen river.
I don't see these as collectibles.
I see them as evidence that childhood happened.
Every worn sled is proof that somewhere, on some snowy afternoon, a kid laughed all the way to the bottom of the hill.
I believe our memories are preserved in the ordinary objects that accompany ordinary lives.
Like this Deluxe Racer Sled. It wasn't particularly deluxe. It was simply built to be used, loved, worn out, and eventually forgotten.
Whether it raced across a newly shoveled hockey rink on the frozen St. Clair River or skimmed behind a snowmobile across freshly fallen powder, every ride carried the possibility of ending in a snow-covered ditch. YIKES!
Those everyday interactions with familiar objects are the essence of what I call American Material Memory. They’re not about the subject, but more about the life the object quietly remembers.
From the Artist
I never owned this particular sled, but I've always been fascinated by its design. They’re wonderfully simple—wood, bent steel, cables, bolts, and bold graphics—but time transforms them into something even better. Rust slowly bleeds around the bolts. The wood darkens from years of wet mittens and melting snow. Every scratch suggests another ride down another Michigan hill or race across the frozen river.
I don't see these as collectibles.
I see them as evidence that childhood happened.
Every worn sled is proof that somewhere, on some snowy afternoon, a kid laughed all the way to the bottom of the hill.
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