As long as I can remember, my life has been surrounded by automobiles. My father started me off as a mere child and the fire of my lifelong obsession was ignited. After 16 years I slowly saved enough hard-earned cash to buy my first car.

Quite rectangular it was; a classic, legendary, “boxy but good,” Volvo station wagon. She was mine all mine and I can truthfully say that despite the many hours of work, I have never wanted anything more.

Some may say that the car has “more right angles than a box filled with right angles.” On her way to the scrap yard I crossed her path. Instantly I fell in love with the anti-curviness of the car. The unattractiveness being emitted from the dirty wheels and the green peeling paint made the car have a strange sort of attractiveness to it. The interior smelled like a box of crayons had just gone to war over a racial disagreement; but it still didn’t stop me from loving her.

Fourteen-hundred dollars and I drove her home with an ear-to-ear smile. Right away I worked with my dad to rebuild the mile-long “rolling green turd.”

Starting with the massive jumble of dirt and grease that the previous owner referred to as an “engine,” I sluggishly worked my way to the exterior of the rectangle-on-wheels. The week before Christmas of 2013 was the week that the car went in for paint. Locked away in my makeshift paint-booth (garage), it transformed from “ew” and “ugly” to “holy cow you did a great job” in a matter of weeks. It was the first of many pieces of art I would ever create. She was beautiful. The sight of the car rolling out of the garage after the paint had dried inflicted a feeling of hot spaghetti on a cold night upon me.

The color was electric blue. The car wore that coat of paint like a young child wears a blanket in the winter time.

Slowly the car started to come together. The ugly plastic trim pieces were painted black, the wheels were painted gunmetal grey; the car was no longer just a Volvo, it was my Volvo. The car wasn’t as much of a car as it was a canvas. I opened my mind to let my thoughts flow onto it. Rebuilding, remodeling, re-vamping, whatever you want to call it, is my form of artwork.

The car reminds me of a blue highlighter when it’s in the sun. Mildly blinding it is. Some have called it the “Smurf mobile.” Little do they know about the meaning of the blue in my family.

My Volvo wasn’t the first car to get the screaming blue paint. My uncle’s 1980 MGB had this color, as well as my father’s 1979 Jeep. A mighty tradition it is. No one will ever understand the meaning of that blue to me.

After 10 long months of waiting, the endless journey came to an end. The car was done. By this time I was almost old enough to take on the biggest achievement of my young life. On March 31st, 2014, I received my driver’s license. I was happier than a woodchuck in the lumber section of Home Depot.

On the road people recognize my iconic Smurf-wagon. I get honked at (in a good way) by friends and by others who recognize my artwork. To me, the car is a masterpiece. The car no longer smells like a crayon-attack, instead the smell of glue and lacquer from the new headliner fills the car. The floor of the back seat is littered with air-fresheners of all sorts. Nothing seems to be able to sweep the iconic smell that has now grown near to my heart.

The peeling green paint that used to embody the car was no longer. Oh what joy it brings to me to drive this car. On the highway the soft rattling from the back of the car sings to you as you try to turn the sad “stereo system” up so you can’t hear the various noises. The smell of exhaust leaks in and tickles your nose; people tell me that it’s an issue; I tell them that it adds to the ambience.

Nothing has ever influenced my life as much as the wide world of automobiles. Just as it was when I was a mere child, car shows are still a weekly destination for my family. Everything I see influences my eye in one way or another, and that’s what makes my car true artwork to me.