By Joel Adas

These are fragments of courier trips that I went on for the Brooklyn Museum from 1999 until 2020, so roughly twenty years. Criss crossing the nation (and sometimes Canada) in this way was amazing. I went to so many cities I had never been in before and saw so many museum collections whose works I remembered in a snapshot or postcard.

These experiences led to a breakthrough painting for me, “Ghost Truck” from 2017.  In it, I tried to capture the eerie feeling of a truck way out there at night, alone and somewhat desolate in an expanse pulsing with its own energy.

The theme of trucks, highways, and road signs has haunted my work since then.  Visually, I find all these element to be stark, arresting, and full of color possibilities.  The rectangular back of a truck feels like the perfect echo of the rectangular canvas, a relationship I continue to draw on to this day.

I wake up, it’s morning, bright sunshine.  The truck is stopped and the driver is not behind the wheel.  I open the passenger door and stumble out.  My feet crunch below me.  Snow? Wrong time of year.  I am standing on a dry bed of salt outside of Salt Lake City.

We are heading to Vancouver in January. Ian is at the wheel. He is a native American driver whose family owns a huge house in Pasadena, California right near the Rosebowl Stadium. I have gone on many trips with him and by now I consider him a good friend. “There are microstorms everywhere Joel but I can see them all on my screen here. Don’t worry, we will drive around them.” For the next few hours in the pitch dark, Ian takes smaller back roads to avoid the storms. I fall asleep at around 1am or so. We pull into Vancouver a day later. “What did I tell you Joel?” Ian grins. “Smooth sailing all the way!”

I look out the window at a line of fire sweeping across an open field near Needles, California.  The last town we passed was Bullhead.  I love these names.  Traveling with two women truckers who are both lovely to chat with. “What is that?” I ask them. “Prarie fire” says one of them.  I look at the outside temperature gauge.  It says 115 degrees.  I ask if it is broken.  “No, that is the correct temperature outside. Don’t open the door.”  That hot at night I think.  Somewhere between Needles and Bullhead, California at dusk in the middle of Summer.

I jump up and into the truck on the passenger side.  The trucker turns to me and grins.  “Playing your song buddy!” The Passenger by Iggy Pop is playing full blast. I laugh and know that this will be a good trip.

I walk into a store at a rest stop in the middle of an Indian reservation.  I am the only white person in the store.  I can tell I am not wanted and quickly get a few things and leave.

Somewhere in the Southwest.  The truck is stopped on a highway at night.  I open the door and step out to a night of many stars.  Stunning.  I never knew so many existed.  I get back in and settle into the seat for the ride ahead.

It’s 4am in Alabama.  We have pulled into a rest area and the truck no longer moving registers in my sleep-heavy mind.  I get my shoes on quickly and head for the bathroom.  My way is blocked by a young cocky looking fellow.  I almost say excuse me but he moves.  There are two young women at either cash register and I think he is trying to impress them.  At this hour?? When I come out of the bathroom he is standing there waiting for me.  At that moment a weight lifter huge black man walks in. “Enoch” I say loudly, yelling over the young man in my way. “You okay Joel?” The young guy turns around, takes one look at Enoch and starts walking backwards.  

I am in a truck stopped near the border between the US and Canada. Midwinter and the snow is coming down in the predawn stillness.  We are waiting to get the word that we can go through the customs checkpoint.  It is a desolate small town on the US side blanketed in white snow.  I have to go to the bathroom and open the truck door.  I trudge through the snow towards a supermart that I am guessing will have a bathroom.  The snow is falling everywhere making the town seem like a ghost.  As I hear my footstep crunching loudly through the preternatural pre-dawn quiet, I think to myself “What if I can’t find my way back to the truck? What then? Where am I?”

Joel Adas divides his time between Brooklyn and Cape May, NJ. He works in a free-flowing style that relies heavily on improvisation and reacting in the moment to what the image might be or become. Landscape is his favorite genre but people and objects sometimes populate his paintings. Adas is a particularly drawn to coastal and urban areas where there is evidence of decay and of structures once used now defunct. The conjunction of nature and human constructions figures prominently in his work. You can see more of his work at joeladas.com and on Instagram @joelwaves.