It's been six years since Lily Cox-Richard has used any trucker lingo, and as she struggles to remember some of the more common phrases, her feminine voice stands in stark contrast to the words usually heard crackling out of a CB. "Breaker one-nine for a radio check," she quickly recalls. Cox-Richard is taking a break at her home inside her family's barn in Centreville, Virginia, where she's building pedestals to ship to Las Vegas' Archinofsky Gallery for the June show, Right of Way. She tries to think of more trucker lingo to share, and when nothing comes to mind she reminds herself with a laugh that she'll have to brush up on that before she arrives in the Arts District to show the series of belt buckles inspired by a year on a big rig, coursing through the veins of our country.
"[Belt buckles] are so interesting to me that they're this moniker for identity but they're also right between your gut and your groin," she says. "So it's not only drawing attention to that area but also saying this is the place that I'm going to tell you about myself. This is my billboard for me."
Her interest in the trucking life began about the same time that she started dating a trucker. Receiving postcards from him as he traveled across the country struck the then- 19-year old as a romantic, extended road trip. It seemed an adventure peered at through the eyes of the nation's last vestige of cowboys, whose lives of solitude and adventure quietly keep our economy flowing. So she took a year off from California College of Arts, and, as they say in the industry, drove truck. Or, more accurately, rode truck, as she was too young to get her commercial driver's license. Referred to by those in the business as a "seat cover" (since she couldn't drive), she made it to every state except North Dakota, subsisting on chicken-fried truck-stop fare (until she wised up and started preparing her own food) and sharing a twin bed in the cab of the truck with her trucker boyfriend.
It didn't take long, Cox-Richard says, to debunk the notion of the freewheeling, unencumbered nomad. Reality portrayed the trucker less as a mythological creature of independence, and more of a solitary man on the road who relies heavily on his dispatchers, 10-hour driving limits, and a lonely home that changes with each mile mark.
Though truckers may boast that they're incapable of being tied down to any—scoff—office job, Cox-Richard soon began questioning just how free they truly are. "You start talking and they say, 'I drive when I want to and I sleep when want to,' but that's about all you can do. Those are your two choices."
Truck drivers are a culture unto themselves, and perhaps one that spends more time in society's blind spot than consciousness, despite the vital role they play in virtually every American industry. Run-away truck ramps and trucker hats are occasionally noted for their novelty value, but the trucker himself is rarely given a second thought—other than those of disdain and occasionally fear. Cox-Richard wanted to create something reflective of the true truck driver, and not just the public's perception of him.
Rather than simply placing her buckles in a display case, she capitalizes on the awkward placement of the trucker's proclaimed identity. She had mannequins made to look like real people—as opposed to the emaciated ones in department stores that don't quite fit with the trucker image—and places them on pedestals, so that viewers are immediately confronted at eye level with the crotch of the display, and above it, the belt.
While on the road, Cox-Richard developed an admiration for its warriors, and the sentiments comes through in her stories. She fondly recalls the different handles that truckers used. One went by "Bedspread" because he was always turned down. She enjoyed the gritty jokes that would come on over the CB, and then the apologies that would follow when the jokester realized there was a woman on board, apologizing when he'd discover "Mama's on the truck." And there's the Samaritans she discovered hiding under the thick skin of these perceived outlaws. Her belt buckle, "Highway Hero," communicates that respect. On it, a blue car has smashed on top of a truck. The back is engraved in memory of a friend's story, who came upon two men who'd been thrown from a car. He called 911, but it took hours for them to arrive. So he sat with the victims, waiting. "By the time the chopper touched down, that man was as close to dead as I've ever seen," he later told Cox-Richard. The phrase is engraved on the back of the buckle.
Another buckle pays a kind of tribute to the "No Lot Lizard" stickers sold in truck stops. Placing this sticker on the window of a rig is a way of telling the prostitutes (lot lizards) that their services aren't needed. On the back is a story she picked up along the way, which could be an urban legend. Or not. "The officers were telling me about one lot lizard in particular that was always on the radio looking for dates. She went by the handle 'Fragile.' She tested positive (for HIV) in 1985 and I was having this conversation in 1991 and she was still working the lot then. The way we figured it, she was doing about 10-20 tricks a day, six days a week for at least the entire time."
The show mixes desolation with humor, a fitting parallel with the world of trucking that Cox-Richard beheld. She hopes to someday have a display case that travels among truck stops, sharing her experience with the pros. Until then, she tours the country with her works, posting photos and anecdotes amid the belt buckles and pedestals.
And even though it's a show inspired by and dedicated to truckers, the artist has yet to find a way to ship the show for free.
Right of Way opens at Archinofsky Gallery (1551 S. Commerce St.) June 3, during First Friday, and will be shown in conjunction with the photography of local artist Danny Mollohan, inspired by two months spent on the road. The show will run through July 8. For more information: www.archinofsky.com.