Davis never learned to drive a car—he could not have afforded one anyway—but he had come north on a bicycle. That bicycle and its counless successors gave him the mobility to explore the cities, towns, and countryside, and the ability to gather thrown-away materials, mosdy of metal, to be converted into strange assemblage sculptures. Old bicycles, for example, wedded to shopping carts and wrapped in cloth strips, became, essentially, human-powered pickup trucks, spiritual/aesthetic warships for the transcendendy propertyless.
"All my bicycles and carts, they end up here in the yard when I can't use them no more. I decorate them, give them the respect for the work they done for me. I put it out here and just build on it. The cloth strapped to it is stuff that once rode on it."