ROBERT KOBAYASHI
Race Car, c. 1990
Tin, rubber, leather, copper, meat thermometer
21 1/2 x 21 1/2 x 41 in.
Pedestal: 6 x 48 x 30 in.
Pedestal: 6 x 48 x 30 in.
Copyright The Estate of Robert Kobayashi
Elizabeth Street gave up its parts for the car: the wheels were recycled from something found on the street, the seats upholstered in leather scraps from a glove manufacturer on...
Elizabeth Street gave up its parts for the car: the wheels were recycled from something found on the street, the seats upholstered in leather scraps from a glove manufacturer on the Lower East Side, its speedometer was a defunct meat thermometer, either from our kitchen or possibly also discarded. It is the ultimate repurposed object. Dad wrapped the steering wheel in electrical tape and rigged a complicated mechanism on the underside of the car that allowed for a surprisingly nuanced turning ratio. I fit inside the driver’s seat at a perfect 90-degree angle with my toes barely brushing the nose. Velocity came from a three-pronged hook that Dad had made and fitted into a corresponding metal bit on the end that he’d welded himself. That way, he could make sure that I wouldn’t pedal furiously ahead of him, and he didn’t have to sacrifice the look of it by having to make holes for my legs. The fiberglass body shape is pure poetry.
Bumps in the cement were pronounced, sometimes launching me ½ of an inch into the air and causing Dad to stop, curse, and untangle the hook. Those sidewalks were still punished by underfunding and the brief possibility that the whole section of the city might be razed to make an inter-boro expressway. Sometimes chasms would form in the middle of Houston Street, and a helpful citizen would jam a construction cone down them to warn the drivers. Mean streets, Dad would say whenever I got too tangled up on the concrete. When the first whiff of gentrification happened and there was a spate of redoing the cement, the wet slabs were immediately descended on by kids who misspelled bad words and drew cartoon genitalia. My dad, caught up in the fervor of mischief, almost goaded me into writing something too, but thought better of it.
So back to the car: it would scrape down the Bowery, Dad jogging lightly behind it. I remember the lines of men standing outside one of the several shelters, all gone now, waving at me and yelling, “Hey, kid,” because this was a routine for us; we became familiar sights to each other. During Christmas, it was Santa Clauses lined up, and one year, a Santa named Angelo gave me a clear paperweight with Styrofoam sand and a singular, tiny starfish suspended in resin right in the middle for a present.
Many things my dad built were as much for him as for me. The car was a challenge, with all of its components and mechanisms, and retooling things when the going got too tough on it. I remember looking back and seeing dad’s knees and hearing myself scream with laughter and a brush of terror. I never got a bicycle because it was too dangerous, but getting pushed as fast as humanly possible in a projectile was allowable. Sometimes we would park it outside the bodega to grab a soda and continue on our way around the Bowery and down Elizabeth Street. To the neighborhood’s credit, it was never stolen.
The car has been moved and sat in by generations of kids now, from my nieces to the kid I babysat for a long time ago. It’s worn and scuffed, with dents and chipped paint. Dad’s copper handle, which he soldered onto the back, remains pristine, as have the cushions on the seats and the nails that hold the leather in place. Art can be difficult to define, but what else can you classify something with such purpose and panache?
- Misa Kobayashi
Bumps in the cement were pronounced, sometimes launching me ½ of an inch into the air and causing Dad to stop, curse, and untangle the hook. Those sidewalks were still punished by underfunding and the brief possibility that the whole section of the city might be razed to make an inter-boro expressway. Sometimes chasms would form in the middle of Houston Street, and a helpful citizen would jam a construction cone down them to warn the drivers. Mean streets, Dad would say whenever I got too tangled up on the concrete. When the first whiff of gentrification happened and there was a spate of redoing the cement, the wet slabs were immediately descended on by kids who misspelled bad words and drew cartoon genitalia. My dad, caught up in the fervor of mischief, almost goaded me into writing something too, but thought better of it.
So back to the car: it would scrape down the Bowery, Dad jogging lightly behind it. I remember the lines of men standing outside one of the several shelters, all gone now, waving at me and yelling, “Hey, kid,” because this was a routine for us; we became familiar sights to each other. During Christmas, it was Santa Clauses lined up, and one year, a Santa named Angelo gave me a clear paperweight with Styrofoam sand and a singular, tiny starfish suspended in resin right in the middle for a present.
Many things my dad built were as much for him as for me. The car was a challenge, with all of its components and mechanisms, and retooling things when the going got too tough on it. I remember looking back and seeing dad’s knees and hearing myself scream with laughter and a brush of terror. I never got a bicycle because it was too dangerous, but getting pushed as fast as humanly possible in a projectile was allowable. Sometimes we would park it outside the bodega to grab a soda and continue on our way around the Bowery and down Elizabeth Street. To the neighborhood’s credit, it was never stolen.
The car has been moved and sat in by generations of kids now, from my nieces to the kid I babysat for a long time ago. It’s worn and scuffed, with dents and chipped paint. Dad’s copper handle, which he soldered onto the back, remains pristine, as have the cushions on the seats and the nails that hold the leather in place. Art can be difficult to define, but what else can you classify something with such purpose and panache?
- Misa Kobayashi
