My Dad was a driver. In my deteriorating childhood photo album is a shot, one of many, out the window of our Buick taken as we moved from Iowa to California in 1948. It is surprisingly close in appearance to the photographs shown here. I’m not sure how wrong I would be to pretend it was the start of this series. Today I find making car window photographs to be a way of maintaining close attention to the world at speed, rather than daydreaming, letting it slip by. And I enjoy resolving formal problems often different from those required for other photographs I take. It is surprising how with practice more control is possible than one might think.