One of the more annoying questions that I started using in interviews with students over the last few years was some variation on “why do you like what you like?” Often, it’s a maddeningly difficult question to answer. Sometimes, when it comes to certain hobbies or activities, there’s a simple (if somewhat disheartening) answer–simply because we’re good at it. But try pinning down why a song or movie or show works for you, and then go a step further and articulate why that specific thing clicks when all sorts of analogous or derivative creative pieces don’t. I’ll wait.
Today, though, I was coming at this from the other angle–what causes me to be apathetic about so many different things? Out of all the hundreds or thousands of niche passions I might pursue, the actual list is staggeringly short. Is this a matter of prioritization and self-preservation, choosing to invest maximally in a few things, instead of spreading my focus too thin? Am I too judgmental, being too quick to dismiss things without giving them a chance?
I had the luxury of time to explore this, given that I only had eight or so miles to cover from East to West Lincoln. I disregarded the ADT’s trajectory, instead plotting my course around three key landmarks–the International Quilting Museum, the Museum of American Speed, and the University of Nebraska. There were some other interesting sites out there, but I picked the two museums for two reasons. First, because quilts and cars sit prominently on the list of topics about which I’ve never had the slightest bit of interest. And second, because I enjoyed the idea of juxtaposing something quintessentially slow with something heart-stoppingly fast.
Both museums shine in their core function–exhibiting outstanding artifacts of quilting and racing. That said, it’s almost unfair to compare them. Despite the lofty name, the IQM is relatively modest in size, especially at the moment with one of its galleries closed for an installation. Most of the collection is devoted to three quilters, all of them contemporary, and the works are either quite abstract, colorful animal and nature scenes, or geometrical patterns. By contrast, the MAS ranks among the most impressive and expansive collections I’ve ever seen. It wore me out. The entire third floor is devoted to pedal cars–the largest such collection in the world. One wall of the second floor is lined with the largest collection of flatheads in the world. They probably have the most extensive collection of Model T parts in the world. You get the idea.
Nonetheless, neither satisfyingly answered the question that I really wanted to see addressed. What compels people to have quilts or cars become subjects of passionate investment? I gleaned some insight at last from a minor exhibit by the restroom in the quilting museum. It noted that quilts have historically provided an important way for people to share their lives or beliefs with their communities. It noted that quilts at different points have been employed to support activist initiatives, to commemorate meaningful events, to support war efforts, and to assist charitable endeavors. There’s also, of course, the much more practical goal of providing warmth. I kept thinking, though, about how people continued to engage in quilting–continue to do so today–despite technological advances that allow for much speedier approaches to textile production.
Of course, the same could be said for walking across the US when we have cars!
Acknowledging the practical benefits of automobiles, then, what hooks people here? For all its overwhelming collection of vehicles, the MAS didn’t offer much insight into this question. One letter preserved from a company in the mid-1900s, acknowledging its victory in a race, noted that it competes in these design challenges to push forward safety initiatives. When working on the margins–high speed, sharp turns, close competition–every innovation has a potential trickle-down effect, moving from the high-end racecar to the run-of-the-mill commuter vehicle.
That’s not why thousands and thousands (millions?) of Americans over the years have tinkered away in their own garages, trying to coax just a few more miles-per-hour out of their cars. It feels analogous in some ways to what Olympic athletes are striving for–working relentlessly to just shave a little time, to go just a little faster, to push the limits of what’s possible.
There’s something undeniably invigorating about creating something–something useful, something beautiful, something impactful–out of nothing, with your own two hands. Maybe it’s as simple as that. My visits today didn’t spark a fire in me; I’m not going to become a quilter or a NASCAR enthusiast now. I can’t explain why. It’s a richer world, though, for all the people who carry these passions that diverge from mine.
