The Portland Art Museum started sending notices last winter about this summer's featured show of sixteen interesting automobiles made throughout the Western world from the 1930s to the '60s, an exhibition shown only at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta, where it originated, and in Portland.
The cars were not the only expensive item on the menu: enticement was increased with the promise of an evening with Jay Leno, first set at $35, then at $100, because, I was told when I called for an explanation, Jay had agreed to spend time in the gallery with a limited number of real aficionados for a special "hoods-up" viewing. I bit, bought two tickets, and when Deb was needed in Huntsville, I found a friend also interested in cars. Then I got an email from the Morgan Owners Club that the museum had invited local car clubs to show their best cars on the park blocks each Saturday; this day was reserved for the Brits so we drove up early, found parking around the corner, and wandered the street among some very nice British iron,
including a TC,
a Morgan three-wheeler, and Jags, Rolls, Sprites, four-wheel Morgans, and others.
The real attraction, however, was inside, and in we went where we found spectacular vehicles on pedestals in the main galleries, including the 1957 XK-SS Jaguar once owned by Steve McQueen.
I was taken with the '37 Bugatti 57S Atalante,
but each vehicle was fascinating: the 1930 green Bentley "Blue Train Special,"
the '31 Duesenberg (hood ornament shown here),
the '39 Talbot-Lago.
The crowd inside was not as thick as outside--I was able to get clear shots--and we looked our fill, then left for other errands and Dim Sum at Fong Chong's. We returned for the 6 p.m. hoods-up, and waited outside for the museum to reopen.
We had "Preferred Tickets," but when the gates opened we discovered there were "super-preferred" guests already inside, crowded around Mr Leno.
I had imagined that Leno might go from car to car and say a little about each for our edification; he wandered among the vehicles, all right, primarily posing with people for photos.
He looked tired and perhaps a little harried but was gracious and generous; I doubt he saw much of the cars. The hoods were up--but the "aficionados" were more involved in souvenir photos.
I took a number of engines shots: I found them as lovely and as interesting as the cars.
After studying all the cars again, I broke down and joined the tourists: I bought the catalogue. Ken Gross, the author, and Leno graciously signed it.
We trouped next door to the third floor Kridel Ballroom where our tickets got us seats beyond the first aisle about 30 rows from the stage, not close but closer than the $35 seats that started some 50 rows farther back. After the obligatory back patting and thank yous, Ken Gross and Jay Leno walked on stage, sat in upholstered chairs at a tea table, and with Gross prompting, Leno talked cars for almost an hour and a half, funny story after funny story.
He admitted that he had some 123 cars in his collection [probably not counting motorcycles], but asked the women if they would rather have their husbands come home reeking of transmission fluid or cheap perfume.
He described the Pebble Beach concours as a show where millionaires compete with billionaires and have a chance of winning. He told of driving his McLaren F1 [about $970,000 new in 1992, $4 million at the last auction] to a car show and getting out to go to the bathroom or something, returning to find two LA gang bangers eyeing the car.
They had ratty hair, gang tattoos on their necks, one had tear drops tattooed down from his eyes. Leno said he thought, "Oh, oh, this could be trouble." Then one of them said, "This is Gordon Murray's design, isn't it?" and Leno thought, "They know something about the car, I've prejudged them." They talked about the car, and then, to make up for his first judgment, Leno offered them a ride.
The driver sits in the middle in a McLaren, and after the two bruisers got in, one on each side, Leno began to think that maybe this was not such a good idea. One of them suggested that they drive into the hills where, with less traffic, they could get a better ride. At this point, Leno is beginning to sweat, because there would be fewer people too.
He drives above Malibu on a road with a long tunnel where he opens it up to really hear the exhaust roar. They leave the tunnel doing about 125 and at the other side sits a police car.
Its lights come on and the siren screams. Leno thinks, "Oh no, here I am with two gang bangers; who would believe me when I say I don't know them? The cop's going to run a check on them and they'll turn out to be drug dealers, we'll all be arrested and the McLaren will be towed to the impound lot." He stops the McLaren about half a mile down the road, the squad car pulls in behind, the cop walks up, knocks on the window, and says, "What do you think you're doing?" The two gang bangers pull out police badges and say, "It's all right, we're undercover." Leno sags in relief. He asks, "Why didn't you let me know?" and the cops say, "We don't usually tell people."
An enjoyable afternoon and evening.
We had "Preferred Tickets," but when the gates opened we discovered there were "super-preferred" guests already inside, crowded around Mr Leno.
